Jo

It came up because of some random joke text in the group chat, and then Ricky messaged me individually: When are you getting home today? It was a very stalker question, but I told him I was already there, and he showed up to ask some more, starting with “Are you good at keeping a secret?”

I snorted. It was the most honest answer.

“Okay, well whatever that is, you need to tell Jamie right away,” he lectured me before shifting to his main point: I’d said something about line dancing. Was I any good? Could I teach him?

Would I be willing to do it with him up on stage?

So first, the point of line dancing is that you don’t need a partner. It’s you and anyone else who wants to join in, doing it all together, turning and repeating it over and over until the song ends. You need a sense of rhythm, which Ricky has since he can sing, but otherwise it’s not all that complicated.

When you try to make two people do it together, on a stage, it becomes complicated.

His songs were locked down for months, including the order, so we just went for the last one. It made the most sense, especially since I’m still not completely sure it’s within the rules to have more people on stage than you mentioned in your application. I didn’t even audition, and he had to upload a video of one of his performances so they’d accept him. If it were a competition, they’d probably disqualify him, but as it stands he gets a flat fee, so I guess it’s my own fault if I expect an honorarium and we didn’t negotiate beforehand.

I am not the sort of person who wants to be on stage, and now I’m probably clinging to Jamie a bit desperately out of relief, but here we are. Ricky and I had a surprise, which is a secret with a deadline—his parents must’ve had some careful conversations with him when he was a kid—and he knows I’ve got some sort of story I haven’t told Jamie.

I mean, he’s right. Jamie has a lot more of me than I anticipated when I first went to his house, and I have a lot of him, but there’s some nitty-gritty we haven’t covered. He’s even got enough information that he should ask about it, like maybe I’m trying to force him to be the one to confront me about it so I don’t have to be the one to bring it up, but he hasn’t yet. He’s too nice, or too awkward, or too ace, or a little of each. Jamie won’t put me on the spot because we’re still negotiating whether he has the right to do that at all.

Finally I loosen my grip on him and lower myself back down to my heels. It’s a drag show, so maybe my jeans count, but I didn’t bind my chest or try to do something with my hair or makeup or contouring or anything like that. I’m in sneakers, and now they’re flat on the ground again.

Jamie chuckles in my ear. “So, you’re awesome.”

I shiver, and it’s not just because his breath tickles. “I was basically terrified.” It’s so much easier to confess now, when it’s over and everyone’s already responded so well.

He pulls back enough that I can see his lopsided grin. “You couldn’t pay me to do it.”

“Once it got started, it wasn’t actually that bad.” I shrug, which is okay, because his arms are around my waist. I’m not going to dislodge them. “But for a second there I thought I might pass out.”

We both jump when Ricky joins in, one arm around each of us, and yeah, okay, I guess I had a bit of tunnel vision. It’s dim, and I was still stuck on Jamie’s blue eyes. “You’re wasted as a researcher,” Ricky declares, and it’s hard to say if he’s more dramatic than usual or if I just think he is because of the makeup and padding. “Broadway missed its brightest star.”

That makes me roll my eyes. “I’m not even a big fish in a small pond.”

Ricky clucks his tongue. “Jamie, are you going to let someone say that about your girlfriend?”

I blink, but I can’t pull back because there are too many arms keeping me in place. Isn’t that something a couple’s supposed to decide? What if I don’t do labels?

What if Jamie doesn’t actually want a relationship?

He just shrugs. “She’s allowed to be wrong.”

That doesn’t answer the girlfriend question. The fact that I want an answer so badly means that yes, thank you, I’d like to be Jamie’s girlfriend. If he doesn’t want that, I’ll get by knowing nobody else is, but if I’m being honest with myself …

Shit. If I’m being honest with myself, then Ricky’s right: I need to tell Jamie. Before we get down to a discussion of whether he’s touch-averse and how he feels about running the bases, I need to tell Jamie.

Ricky clucks his tongue and I’m pretty sure winks at Jamie. “Give me your keys. I’ll bring the truck back up when we’re allowed to drive it.”

“You sure?” He still gives Ricky a moment to change his mind, but it’s not an outright dismissal.

Nodding, Ricky releases him to hold out his hand, palm up. “I’ll put it away.”

Jamie gives me a little squeeze before stepping back enough to dig in his pocket for his keys, and then he pulls my hoodie off his arm so he can hold it open and help me into it.

Ricky fist-bumps him while I’m zipping it up. Jamie looks like he responds reluctantly, but doesn’t leave him hanging. Then he holds out my purse, and there’s maybe a slight hesitation before he offers me his hand. I take both and we have to turn to walk away from my apartment to get to the exit, past the row of now-dark food trucks, and I can’t think of a single thing to say. Everything seems to be a no. This isn’t happening tonight, except then I’d have to explain why it’s not happening, which totally defeats the purpose of not wanting—and not knowing how—to tell him tonight.

“I can’t promise you a kiss on your doorstep,” Jamie finally says once we’ve rounded the plastic fencing and we start back up along the waterfront. “I figure at this point you probably know why.”

Okay, that helps a lot, especially because this sounds like walking me home and nothing else. I shake our hands a little. “Is this brand new for you?”

The way he ducks his head makes me think he’s blushing, which I didn’t intend, but then he shrugs and nods. “I’ve never dated anyone. No high school dances. You, uh …”

I wait, because even if I can’t come right out and say certain things to Jamie, I can draw out the silence and force him to say things to me. It’s not fair, but I’m too exhausted—too exhilarated—to make it fair tonight.

“You make me think things I’ve never thought about anyone before,” he finally concludes.

I want to tug on his hand to get him to stop walking and turn and face me, but then I’d kiss him. He just told me he’s not going to do that, and I don’t even know if he’ll ever want to do that, but I know I do. I squeeze his hand instead, and the next part kind of sucks because it’s a buzzkill. It’s not the really big thing, though, even if it’s something Jamie needs to know. “I’ve only ever dated Jake.”

He lets the silence hang, but only for so long before he prods: “Nobody since then?”

I shake my head slowly. “Haven’t even tried. Mom and Dad are worried.”

Jamie turns his head briefly to give me his crooked grin. “Are they going to be more or less worried when you tell them it’s me?”

“They’ll be less, but you might be more, because Mom thinks you’re cute,” I inform him.

The grin turns into a laugh and he squeezes my hand. “Yeah, okay, that is a bit weird.” And my apartment isn’t far from the harbor, so here we are. He turns to face me at my door, a thoughtful expression illuminated by the lamp above it, and leans in to kiss my cheek. “Goodnight, Jo.”

I’m grinning like a fool. “Goodnight, Jamie.”

---

Chapter Twenty-Two – coming October 22

Jamie

It was crowded in the drag show tent, and Jamie didn’t have to wonder whether he should maneuver around to be near Jo. He was all but pushed into her. When she caught him around the waist, laughing, to steady him, he was sure she could feel his heart pounding and probably the slight hesitation as he shifted his own grasp from save me to a hug and then—seriously, the bravest thing he’d ever done—one arm around her shoulders as they turned to face the stage.

She smiled up at him, and leaned into him, and kept one arm around him, too, so the nerves that she’d find an excuse to duck away turned into butterflies because she hadn’t.

It was nothing. Other couples around them were kissing or making out or grinding on each other. But it was also everything, because it was the first time.

The first time Jamie kept his arm around someone for longer than a hug. The first time someone actually wanted to engage with him for longer than a hug.

And in public. Maybe that part of it shouldn’t seem like such a big deal, but he couldn’t shake it. Anyone could just look over—well, try to look over, considering the crowding and the dim light—and see they were together. She didn’t mind being seen with him, even after he’d spent so many hours in the food truck, his clothes were limp and sweaty, and his hair was disheveled. It was the sort of thing where his own mother would cluck her tongue in despair that anyone would see her son looking like this and recognize him, much less be anywhere near him.

The music was turned up too loud for conversation, and the cheers and wolf whistles just added on top of that and filled up the space between the songs, so all they had were looks and winks and smiles, and it was weird and strange and electric. Each performer had three songs, and they laughed and cheered through Ricky’s first two when Jo tugged Jamie’s sleeve to get him to lean down. “Hold onto these for me,” she told him directly in his ear, passing over her small purse and her hoodie.

Uh. He took them, but she couldn’t just walk out at the start of Ricky’s third song. Jamie turned to Chase, but he was frowning and it looked like he tried to call Jo’s name.

She didn’t take off for the exit, though. Well, why would she, if she just gave Jamie her stuff? Jo worked her way up toward the stage where Ricky, oddly not nearly as ostentatious as some of the other performers, lip-synched to the opening of Dasha’s “Not at this Party.” It was his third country song, because Ricky made thematic choices, and he turned up his nose at anything that actually referenced gender, but that might have been because he’d been rejected the time he’d submitted “Man, I Feel Like a Woman.” So Ricky lip-synced, and danced how he usually did—with rhythm, but in a way that made it clear even to Jamie that dancing wasn’t the strongest part of his triple threat—and Jo … what, hesitated?

Jamie blinked when Jo jumped up on the stage as the chorus started, because she wasn’t hesitating. She’d been waiting for her cue, and she must have been the choreographer for this part, too. They went into a complicated stomping and clapping routine that seemed sort of like line dancing, but not quite, before they parted again for the next verse. Jo morphed what they’d been doing into a line dance, upstage and off to the side while Ricky went back to his usual style, because the verses were about trying to move on from a breakup. Then, yep, at the chorus where the singer was thrown back to memories of their time together, Jo caught Ricky’s hand and literally pulled him back into her dance.

When the applause exploded at the end, Trevor leaned in, clapping, to shout, “Did you have any idea they were doing that?”

“No!” Chase told him from Jamie’s other side, which was good, because Jamie wasn’t sure he could answer. Onstage Jo laughed, and bowed again when Ricky gestured, and seriously, Jamie was floored. Ricky was usually good, but adding Jo like that made the performance great. Chase elbowed Jamie. “They’ve been sneaking around on us!”

Uh. That was one way of putting it. Jamie tore his eyes away from the stage to see Chase laughing as he applauded. Chase and Ricky hadn’t had a dance floor at their reception, so Jamie wasn’t sure if there was some amount of envy, but then Chase stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled so it was all good.

Talon jostled his way toward Jamie’s ear. “Dude, your girlfriend does drag shows.”

His girlfriend. All he could do was blink again.

Chase was at least paying enough attention to grab Jamie’s arm. “Around back!” The words were almost lost in the opening bars of the next song, but his grip was strong. Jamie held fast to Jo’s hoodie and purse as the two of them wormed their way out of the crowd and circled the tent to the backstage area that was, in fact, just outside. It was closer to the speakers, but behind him, and two of the other performers were in highly animated discussion with Jo. Ricky stood back, arms crossed, but there was enough light for Jamie to see his smirk was smugly satisfied. There weren’t awards for first place or fan favorite or anything like that, but Ricky knew he’d won them all the same.

When Jo saw him, she broke away, almost bouncing on her feet to fling her around his neck. Her purse swung around and maybe collided with her, but it stayed on his arm, and he held her tightly in this intentional full-body contact when she was all but thrumming with excitement and adrenaline, determined not to be the first to let go.

---

Chapter Twenty-One

Jo

Part of the problem is how I want a shower, but I’d already put on the clothes I was going to wear tonight. I’ve got enough time, I think, to strip and throw things in the washing machine for a quick cycle while I eat, then the most important stuff in the dryer while I lie down, and I should still have time to check it and make sure before the drag show starts.

Ricky’s been doing it for years. The way he tells it, he shouldn’t even have to keep putting his application in, but those are the rules. They know all the way back in March if they’re performing, and what three songs, and it’s even a paid gig. That’s on top of the tips, which Chase warned me about, so I made sure to change a twenty into a roll of ones.

I didn’t ask him what would happen if I showed up with a wad of Monopoly money. It would be risky, since I’d have no idea what I was buying, but the fifty dollar one can’t be too scandalous. Right?

Ricky’s the one who called me instead of Jamie, but I can’t say I’m all that surprised. I’ve had limited time to study Helen, but she seems to be one of those who think asking for help is admitting weakness, and admitting weakness is the greatest sin. Helen’s always right, and she’s the epitome of Mother knows best. I’m not sure how that worked when Elias was still alive, especially because he was a college professor and the reason they moved to Marquette in the first place, but she’s very firm about that now.

I think half the reason the group adopted the one of today’s lucky ten thousand is to reframe it for Jamie. Helen would never admit she’d learned something new, although she’d totally toss some fact off after to make sure you learned something new. The problem, though, is that she’s about as accurate as Buzzfeed’s clickbait, but she’d never lower herself to Googling.

Her first comment about my odd choice of library books was par for the course. She’s not a nonfiction reader because nonfiction means learning, and she’s just utterly incurious. She knows what she knows, and anything beyond that is unnecessary. She’s been fine without it so far, so why worry now?

Does she know Jamie’s ace? The shirt’s pretty subtle, which is why I chose mine. The people who know will get it, but it’s also the kind of generic message that means the broader population might laugh or simply accept the maxim and then dismiss it. Ace is a hard one because there aren’t any standard tells, the way Ricky plays up his affectations or the other guys signal their identity on a frequency not everyone can hear. I mean, they probably picked up on the fact that I’m comfortable in a queer group of friends, but they’re also cool enough that nobody cornered me on it to ask me directly.

Okay and now my brain is whirling, so I check the time left on the washing machine—it’s more reliable than the dryer, at least—and get into the shower. I don’t need to wash my hair again, necessarily, especially since the latest my hairdresser told me is that you shouldn’t do that more than once a day, but I can scrub the rest of me. It’s not super gross, but yeah, it was close and warm in the food truck, and I do need a break before tonight. At least the shower takes up time, so the washing machine’s done when I get out and I transfer things to the dryer and get that started.

Do I need to set an alarm if the dryer’s also going to beep at me? Probably, because otherwise I’ll lie here too anxious to actually fall asleep, worried I’ll miss it. I’m not sure how late the other food trucks are serving, but Jamie’s will stop at six—if they haven’t run out before then—so nobody has to be working or cleaning up during the drag show. I’m not sure when he’s actually going to be able to move the truck, but we’ve all been given strict orders to report to the tent at least fifteen minutes before Ricky goes onstage. I’m not sure if he’ll be peeking or if Chase will text him or what, but that’s the request—almost a demand—and I’ll honor it.

I set the alarm, lie down, and close my eyes, and apparently it works because even though I don’t really think I fell asleep, I’m waking up, and rubbing my eyes, and heading into the bathroom to splash cold water on my face before I check the dryer. That’s good to go, so I debate, conclude I can get some caffeine at PrideFest, and get dressed again so I can head out. This time I’m walking, and I make sure to still bring along a hoodie, since I’m not sure how late I’ll be expected to be out.

This time I also pay at the entrance. It’s not the same person as the one who let me through with my giant totes of rolls, and I would’ve avoided them anyway because I’m committed to paying and doing my part, but I’m in and veering left to the craft vendors instead of right to the food trucks this time. There’s a short line at Jamie’s, and Talon looks busy, so I keep enough of an eye out in case he waves but otherwise I’m determined to ignore them for now, thanks.

Chase isn’t showing up until later, and Mitch and Trevor are helping out at one of the stalls. I’m not sure what Dune’s up to, so I might still run into someone, but Jamie’s still a captive for another hour or so. It’s not like I can’t enjoy the vendors and stuff on my own, but man, it’s kind of scary how fast I’ve gotten used to being able to turn to him for his opinion on just about anything.

Jake and I fell fast. It was easy. And it took over a decade to show cracks, so I really can’t trust anything. Not even my own gut at this point, though it’s clearly hesitating. Maybe Jamie hasn’t made a move—and hey, maybe he doesn’t want to make a move—but I saw his shirt, and I saw him looking at mine, so that’s one barrier down.

There’s still another one on my end, though, and he has no idea it exists.

---

Chapter Twenty

Jamie

Ricky was only on until three, but he waved Talon to come around to the front instead of trying to squeeze in through the back. “I’ll see you two later,” Ricky called, leaning around Jamie to make sure he met Jo’s eyes, too, before he jauntily saluted and worked his way out between the front seats.

Talon was dressed like normal, which meant just the lumberjack side of hipster, and he nodded at Jamie but then blinked. “Jo, what the hell?”

“Critters ate Jamie’s buns,” she reported perkily, and Jamie closed his eyes for a moment because that sounded planned.

“Uh-huh.” His gray eyes, beneath raised eyebrows, turned to Jamie.

“Something got in the garage,” he explained, because Talon looked like he wanted to jump to all kinds of conclusions except the most realistic one. “The replacements aren’t sliced.”

Talon tilted his head. “If Jamie’s Food Truck starts rockin’ …”

Jamie nodded at the window. “Customers.”

The thing was, Jo wasn’t going to be here forever, and then Jamie’s Food Truck would feel empty. He wanted her to stay—he wanted her to want to stay—but there really wasn’t any reason to ask her to do it without an actual job keeping her here. It was less than practical, because space really was at a premium, and what would she do, watch him make the same dishes over and over again? Maybe she’d planned on coming for the drag show later, but that was still hours away.

There was a lull in customers, which was good both because they were still running out despite the reinforcements and it also meant Jo didn’t have the space to cut and stack the last rolls. “God, I need better shoes,” she groaned, twisting out her back as much as she could in the close space.

“Inserts,” Jamie offered with a shrug. He wore Converse the same blue as his food truck, which was another thing that started out as a joke but stuck in the end. “The good ones are expensive, but worth it.”

“You didn’t pack for the summer in case you’d get roped into this?” Talon asked, mock surprised.

“The archives involve a lot of sitting,” she argued, leaning around Jamie to confront him. “You can’t even hold the pages up. You turn them and lay them flat on the table.”

Talon held up his hands and wiggled his fingers. “While wearing white gloves.”

Jo shook her head. “Common misconception. If you’re handling something like a book or paper, you want clean hands to minimize oils, but gloves mean you aren’t as dexterous. You want them for things like glass or film, though.”

“Huh.” Talon looked at Jamie. “You probably knew that already.”

He had, even before he’d met Jo. “You’re one of today’s lucky ten thousand.”

Talon grinned, because he knew the reference: an XKCD comic strip calculated that, if every adult was supposed to know something, about ten thousand people had to learn it every day. “Did you know that polar bear hunts are successful less than two percent of the time?”

Jo tilted her head. “I knew it was low. Isn’t the most successful animal some kind of small desert cat?”

“Black-footed cat,” Talon agreed with a nod, but then he shook his head. “Some argue African wild dogs are better, and I’ve heard dragonflies hit ninety percent.”

“Wait, Buzzfeed lied to me?” She pouted, meaning Talon had to stifle a laugh when a customer came up to the window.

The buns were sliced and neatly piled all too soon. Jo must’ve caught something on his face because she leaned over to nudge him with her shoulder. “I’m going to take my car back home and have a nap before Gretchen Wiener blows us all away.”

Jamie nodded down at his workspace. “You want one to go?”

“As much as I love your buns, I’m a mac and cheese kind of girl.” She batted her eyelashes at him, which at least meant he should take it completely as a joke and not contemplate the first half of that sentence. The proper thing to do was fix her up a container of the barbeque mac and cheese and let her out the back door.

Talon waited until it was shut and then gestured to his shirt, although he didn’t mean the plaid. “Did you know about Jo?”

Jamie shook his head.

After a moment, Talon tilted his head. “Did Jo know about you?”

He didn’t know why she would. “Not unless Ricky told her.” Maybe that wasn’t actually Jo’s pronoun, but she hadn’t corrected any of them or asked them to use something else.

Talon frowned. “That’s not Ricky’s style.”

True. Ricky was more over the top, urging Jo to eat his meat. He wouldn’t out Jamie unless Jamie asked him to.

A grin broke out in the middle of Talon’s beard. “Dune wondered about Jo, though. They weren’t going to take bets or anything, but they told me to get it on the record.”

Jamie nodded slowly. Being queer wasn’t a requirement to come to game night or anything, but being cool with the rest of them certainly was, so things tended toward the former, anyway.

“I, uh.” Talon chewed on his lower lip and nodded, but he didn’t force Jamie to meet his eyes when he said it: “I notice you went for ace instead of aro with the shirt.”

Because he knew Jo would be here, at least for Ricky’s time on the stage. “Yeah.”

And this was another good thing about his friends: instead of prying, or maybe trying to force Jamie to say more, he just nodded and let the silence hang until the next customer came up to the window and passed over the order slip with the same calm ease because he wasn’t waiting on an answer, either.

Talon said he’d noticed, and if Jamie wanted to talk more about it, that was up to him.

---

Chapter Nineteen

Jo

Oh my God the ace shirt makes a lot of things fall into place. It’s funny that we have the same shirt—mine’s in slightly different colors, since the nonbinary flag has yellow instead of gray, in a different order—but also funny that I think we each took one glance and had a light bulb go off. I caught the way Jamie looked at me when I shucked my hoodie, and it wasn’t because I had to find a place for it that won’t trip us up.

I think he clocked it when I hesitated at introducing myself to Dune. They gave their pronouns, and my brain blinked out for a moment, because … well. I don’t mind she/her, and I like wearing dresses, and sometimes it’s easier to just go with the flow. I know Dune noticed, because they gave me one of those looks that says maybe I’m back at the start of their journey, but I think Jamie did, too. He didn’t ask about it, but he double-blinks at the colors on my barcode before he turns to the next slip.

He’s fast. I guess anybody who does anything this frequently gets fast at it, but man. There’s a reason he got out a cutting board and knife and made just enough space for me: they’re going to be through their rolls in no time, and it’s going to take me a while to slice the rest. I’m not fast to begin with, and the thought that people will be paying for these makes me a little more careful about lining up the knife and getting the thickness of the bottom half just right. Once I’ve thought I can’t let their five-star rating go down the drain I have to focus on not paralyzing myself into inaction. A couple wonky buns might not make a difference, but come on: I’m here to help out, not cause more problems.

There’s no music playing in the food truck, and most of Ricky’s conversation is directed outward. Some noises drift in from outside, but I should’ve brought my headphones. I wasn’t planning on coming to PrideFest until hours from now, closer to the drag show, because Ricky asked me to. My original plan was to be home, reading or maybe trolling the internet for more photos of Jamie’s old neighborhood circa 2000. I’ve got a newspaper subscription in general, but this is specifically looking for stories about that one part of Milwaukee, and that’s not easy to search for. It’s a lot of clicking and scrolling, just to be sure.

Jamie’s still working his way through the copies I made him, and he’s diligent about it. He doesn’t have many photos of his time in Milwaukee, considering both where it fell in the evolution of cameras and how people living alone don’t really take snapshots of the things they see every day, but he’s got some of his family coming to visit. His dad grew up there, and Allan visited a lot, usually when things weren’t going well with whatever woman he lived with at the moment. He’s been married three times, but I think you’d probably call him a serial monogamist. No matter the reason his marriage broke up, he’d move in with someone else after a short stint with Jamie.

And Jamie never dated anyone because he didn’t want to. Granted, there’s a whole spectrum of asexuality, but considering the zero previous interest I have to assume he’s the black stripe on the flag and not the gray. It’s also a possible explanation for some of the awkwardness when I intrude on his personal space bubble. Not everyone who’s ace is touch-averse, but he might be. Even though, right at this moment, we’re very close indeed.

I think it’s even more distracting because of the lack of music. It just makes me listen to see if I can hear him breathing. Down, girl. You can come to his rescue and maybe not drool over the confident motions of his hands.

He probably works out. Maybe his forearms are like that because of being in the kitchen like this, but how else would he get those biceps?

The Thirty-One totes are nice because they fold down flat, so once I empty one I can get it out of the way and move on to the next. There’s no room for it up on the counter, and I can’t get too far ahead of Jamie because there’s not enough space. This isn’t an operating room, but there are still food-safe surfaces, and he handed me a hairnet and gloves before I got started, so this is serious business. I haven’t looked around enough to see if there are any certifications on display somewhere, but he’s got to be inspected and licensed and stuff, right? If he’s serving food, there are all sorts of codes, even if it’s on wheels and not a brick-and-mortar restaurant.

Is there one proclaiming that all staff are suitably trained? All my own certifications lapsed when I got laid off because of COVID, and even then, my extent was making espresso drinks and bagging bakery. I had to cut bagels back then, I guess, but that was with the bagel slicer that did not exactly live up to its name. Maybe the hair net and gloves are enough, as long as I don’t cut one of my fingers or something.

The cafe always had music going. What kind of music depended on who was there, but it was always something. Nobody worked in silence, whether it was us or the customers. It was near campus, so just far enough away to make students feel like they were leaving school for a bit but definitely close enough for study groups or grad students and their mentors.

Jake never came with his mentor when I was on shift. I figured he didn’t want to mix the professional and personal, meaning he wouldn’t be able to help it if I was around, and not that he was ashamed of me for not going on to grad school. I picked up after him, I kept him fed, and I respected any time he told me he had a meeting or wanted to work late. Maybe he was cheating on me back then, too, and not just with Tess, but that’s never come up. I can’t say I really want to know.

Okay and music also gives my brain words to think that aren’t just my own thoughts.

Mom and Dad called this morning, of course, and we talked a bit about my work for Margot but not the stuff I’ve been going over with Jamie. I think they’re both convinced that, if they don’t entertain my fantasies, they’ll dry up. Since we haven’t actually talked about it, I don’t know if they think I’m making it up because of the Jake thing.

They don’t think it’s the concluded contract thing, because hey, I got all that money. Kara and Tess fulfilled their half of that deal exactly as they said they would, and paid quite well, so I should be happy. Maybe not so happy that I turned Davis in like that, but happy that I could be part of the chain that means the police finally had enough evidence to arrest and charge him.

There’s enough for that. There’s just not enough to convict him of all nine, except what police department wants to think they missed two serial killers instead of one? They’ve already lumped the nine together, so even the work Jamie and I have been doing to try to track down everyone involved with that neighborhood—he asked if I’d looked into divorced dads whose kids lived there, and I kind of groaned and swore and added that to my list—will be pointless unless we can find someone who fits.

It’s really not time to get distracted and think about my own life and where—or how, or if—Jamie himself fits.

---

Chapter Eighteen

June

Jamie

How long did it take to form a habit? Jo had been to three game nights. She’d met Talon and Dune, so she was able to put faces with the two remaining group chat phone numbers. He’d had two farmers’ markets since meeting her, but he hadn’t signed up for the one today because PrideFest started at noon. Jo hadn’t shown up to either of those, but she’d been there for lunch after, mostly because of Chase.

The times when she’d hung out with him while he smoked weren’t because of Chase, though. She’d never spent a full day, and it was sort of catch-as-catch-can based on her time in the archive and Margot’s most pressing questions, but he was now somehow almost used to a text from her: Coffee before I head to the archives? Or Can I stop by? They were always questions, like he’d ever tell her no.

There were times when he wasn’t sure if she’d change her mind because he’d always work in Mom’s schedule or whereabouts if she was there or expected back soon, but she didn’t. Jo now knew that Mom was more of a tea drinker than a coffee drinker, and then actually a tisane drinker, so she’d show up with three cups and hand one off either in passing, if Mom was going somewhere, or during a short chat.

Mom had yet to suggest they have Jo over for dinner, as something official, but it wouldn’t be long. Right?

Jamie didn’t really have time to think about that just now. The problem started when he checked his supplies before heading down to the harbor to park the food truck and he saw that the lid of one of his containers hadn’t been fastened all the way. Something—mice or maybe even squirrels—had gorged on an entire bin of his rolls. Shit. Today was not the day to run out of the one ingredient that really made his product street food. But he was late, and Ricky was running behind, so he loaded up what they did have and pushed off the bread problem for another few minutes.

Ricky had other things on his mind. He’d been accepted to perform during the drag show, and being Jamie’s first-shift help was not even on his radar. Jamie had to prep as well as he could and hope Ricky showed up at the stroke of noon, although at least he didn’t have to worry he’d be in any part of his costume. The ensemble would only be revealed at the right time, when it was complete. For now, Jamie did what he could to get set up, alone.

When Ricky arrived, he was cheered by the little line already waiting out front. Because it was Ricky, he waved and blew kisses like a beauty queen. “You look pissed,” he announced as he squeezed around Jamie, but there was nothing to indicate that he thought Jamie’s mood might be because of him.

“Something got into the rolls, so we’re going to be short.” Jamie all but shooed Ricky to the window to take the first orders.

He did, working through a half-dozen or so before asking the next person if they wouldn’t mind hanging on a minute. Jamie wasn’t behind, at least not noticeably, but Ricky stepped away from the window and pulled out his phone. Jamie tried not to sigh, especially when he started the conversation with “How much do you love me?”

Chase loved him a whole heck of a lot, but Chase also didn’t need all of the information Ricky proceeded to give: where they bought their rolls. What account number to use. “I’ll text you a photo, but at this point anything close is good.” And then he ended without saying any form of Love you.

“Jo,” Ricky said with a shrug as he took and sent the photo so he could slip his phone back in his pocket. Today it was jeans and a rainbow tie-dye T-shirt that proclaimed here. queer. fabulous.

Jamie passed some orders down the counter. “Jo loves you enough to go get rolls?”

“Right, right,” Ricky agreed, almost distracted. “Thanks for waiting! What’ll you have?”

Okay. The only conclusion was that Jo loved someone enough to go get rolls, and Jamie knew Jo well enough by now to mean that had to be a lot. She was good at masking her social anxiety, but anytime she had to do something new—say, buy a ton of bakery and ask to put it on an account—she preferred time to prepare a script and maybe even go through a practice run.

Shoot, she’d also have to pay for admission into PrideFest. Maybe they’d let her in carrying dozens of rolls based on her story about the food truck, because who else would show up like that, but they’d also be within their rights to demand the entrance fee. Was Jo even planning on coming to anything before the drag show? She was cool with his game night friends, but what about the community in general?

There wasn’t much time to dwell on things. The lunch crowd came in strong, ready to peruse the stalls and check out whatever was happening on stage now—the drag show was later, after most of the vendors had left and things shifted from come one, come all, to PG-13—and eat their fill while doing it. This wasn’t Jamie’s first year here, but things varied drastically according to the weather, and that was something you couldn’t predict with much accuracy. Some diehards would hunker down and endure a deluge, but others wouldn’t come at all if it was going to be cold and rainy.

Some people showed up in the sorts of outfits Ricky would totally change into after handling the food and were probably chilled no matter what the weather.

Jamie himself was in jeans and a T-shirt that had a barcode in black, gray, white, and purple stripes next to the text ASSUME NOTHING. It was the asexual flag, because he specifically hadn’t looked for one with the aro-ace flag, and it was also more on the subtle side. If you didn’t recognize the colors, then most of the meaning went over your head.

Even in a group like this, Jamie was never sure how many people would recognize the colors. It wasn’t the most popular flag.

Generally he lost track of time on days like this, when it was a rhythm of looking at slips, making what they said, and grabbing the next one. He had his watch on, sure, but Jamie hadn’t checked to see when, exactly, Ricky had called Jo, so it was a surprise when Ricky first leaned out of the window to wave frantically and then pulled back in. “Open the back for her,” he told Jamie, even though that meant he’d need new gloves.

Like there was any universe in which Jo wasn’t worth new gloves. Jamie stripped them off and opened the door, blinking at the sight of Jo loaded down with large, reusable tote bags. “Did you know Amanda does Thirty-One parties?” she asked as she handed one up, like it made any sense.

“Uh.” Jamie shook his head a little and shifted things around so he could make room for them.

“I think it’s a bag or two more than you asked for,” she added, “and they’re not all sliced, but if you’ve got a bread knife and can squeeze me in, I’ll take care of that.”

Jamie didn’t even say uh again. Yes, it was tight quarters, and yes, having to slice rolls would slow him down more than usual, but how had it even occurred to her to ask? He just took the last tote and then offered her his hand, since it was a pretty big step up and her legs weren’t as long as his. “I’ll see what I can find,” he rasped because here she was, bright-eyed and smiling within kissing distance, and he’d better turn away as much as he could before he got any brilliant ideas.

---

Chapter Seventeen

Jo

I am an absolute disaster human being. Mentioning Jake like that? Giving cagey answers about my parents? Disaster. Really it’s for the best that I stay in my apartment the rest of the day, looking at but not responding to further texts that are really just introductions: This is Ricky. Mitch. Trevor. You’ve been added to the group chat.

I really shouldn’t have mentioned Jake.

I work on the book about the natural disaster, which is somehow the only Erik Larson I’ve missed, and knit some more. At least I’ll have progress to show Mom next week. I eat a healthy microwave dinner and get to bed on time, and because it’s past the first couple nights in a new bed, I even sleep pretty well. Then it’s morning, and I get to enter Waiting Mode while on alert for Jamie’s text.

A teenage Allan resented having a baby in the house because it meant too much parental supervision, and here Jamie and I are decades later, annoyed by that same thing. Helen’s used to having Jamie to herself. It’s been just the two of them for years now, and even the smoker keeps him home a lot. Game night means he’s still there, even if she’s not. He moved back from Chicago so she wouldn’t have to be alone after the death of her husband of, what would that be, fifty-something years, and that’s a huge change. If she’s clung to Jamie in the wake of all that, who can blame her?

That’s a lot to shake up, and I don’t know if it’s worth trying. I already did Jake and Elaine, and right now Helen’s more like end-stage Elaine. It was Jamie’s suggestion to avoid her, though. Is that good or bad?

My phone lights up: The hen has flown the coop.

I guess it could be worse. It’s not like I have to worry about Helen checking my messages or something, so I don’t have to delete it, even if he ends up doing that on his phone. What do you want from Babycakes?

The bubbles pop up and disappear a few times. The meaty would be great, thanks.

Sure, but What about coffee?

The bubbles do their thing again. I guess technically he could say no, but I’m offering. I’m putting on my shoes to head up there anyway, and I’ll be buying myself stuff.

Just a black coffee, thanks.

I give that a thumbs-up and grab my backpack. Maybe it’s a black coffee because it’s less expensive, and maybe it’s a black coffee because he likes it. Either way, he’s getting a large black coffee.

It’s a familiar walk by now, even with the little detour to Babycakes. I’m not sure if it’ll be soothing or embarrassing when they start to recognize me, but since today it’s two orders to go instead of one for here, I’m not predictable yet. Jamie’s house isn’t that far, and he must’ve been keeping an eye out because he opens the door before I can knock, with that same sort of surprised smile. Maybe he’s used to people not following through.

“Thank you,” he greets me, taking the cup I hold out. I can slip my shoes off without having to kneel down or take off my backpack, though, so he just nods me on toward to the dining room table.

It seats eight, which is fine for game nights I guess, but it’s too big for just the two of them. He’s already got a stack of papers at one seat, so I go for the chair across from it. That gives me plenty of room to spread out my own stuff. It looks like he’s taking me seriously.

Jamie grabs plates and silverware and even gets us both glasses of water, hovering a moment before sitting down. So he’s used to being the server in this space, even if Chase kind of took that over from him on Friday. If Helen, Jamie, and Chase were in here at the same time, who’d get the override?

“Okay, so.” Jamie sits down and starts opening his breakfast burrito, and wow, yeah, that’s basically breaking the silence. I’m not necessarily a chatterbox, but I’m also not usually good with quiet when I’ve just met someone. “I haven’t made it through everything, but I did …”

Wow, I missed his laptop. He opens it and clicks to a bunch of pictures before turning it so I can have a look.

It’s the crime scenes. That’s the place where Julie was found. They’re pretty sure it’s also the place where she died, but that certainty goes down the further into the series a murder happens. They figure the killer got more comfortable with disposal, and wanted more time with them, so for the later women it’s a second—or third—location.

“Google street view, mostly,” Jamie tells me with a little shrug. “I was trying to visualize it. Do the trip from my apartment and all.”

I hesitate, but my backpack’s right here. I’ve got a map with the most likely paths and average walking times handy. He didn’t get a copy of that, but I pull it out now and pass it to him, smiling a little as his eyebrows go up. “I really did my due diligence to make sure it wasn’t you.”

“Yeah, well.” He pulls the map closer, leaning in, and frowns. “Wait, how did you …?” Jamie traces a certain convergence of lines.

I lean in, too, because the table’s nice and large. It’s hard to share a single sheet of printer paper. The section he’s pointing to is a foot path, overgrown at this point but still noticeable if you’re looking. “I’ve been there.”

“You’ve walked it,” he corrects, going for something more specific.

I nod. Not Forgotten fans have made pilgrimages, but they don’t know about this path because they weren’t starting from the same spot. I went in daylight, and it’s basically at the edge of the stuff that’s been gentrified—Jamie’s building was torn down a few years back and turned into ritzy condos—but it was still there. I have photos.

“Wow, so, uh.” He grins at me, adorably lopsided and entirely open. “I was going to try to be helpful, but I think I’m just redundant.”

I can’t help but grin back. “Try me anyway.”

Was I wondering if he was taking me seriously? He’s got his own map, and he’s marked out about how long it would take to walk to certain areas, including the places he knows were corners for sex workers. They’re not necessarily the spots mentioned in the podcast, and I’m not going to ask him how he knows, but it’s the sort of information only a local could give me. I do have a reason to get out my notepad, and I barely eat my own burrito before it gets cold, and partway through Jamie pushes his plate across the table so he can sit next to me and we can look at things at the same time, and I really shouldn’t be thinking of what he smells like or how his arm’s on the back of my chair while we’re discussing seven murdered women.

---

End of Part One (May)

Chapter Sixteen

Jamie

It wasn’t panic stations, exactly—if anything, Jo fit in almost seamlessly—but Jamie wasn’t entirely satisfied with lunch, either. Sure, they started listing Tumblr memes and compared favorite episodes of TV shows and discussed favorite actors, but they were all riding Ricky’s energy. Chase could do that basically all the time, but Jamie didn’t always have Ricky to fall back on. He wanted more time with Jo when they didn’t have Ricky to fall back on.

Sure, they dragged things out with the cinnamon rolls, and he and Jo shared one, unspooling it as they went, but that was all time with other people. Jamie spent so much time quietly by himself, but it didn’t seem like the sort of thing he could just ask Jo: hey, do you want to pick one of your books and read it near me? It sounded like a serial killer thing.

Some people just couldn’t exist in silence. If there wasn’t music playing or ambient noise, Ricky had an earbud in place. He even had a noise machine when he slept. How would that have worked if Chase needed utter quiet? Even the best earplugs in the world couldn’t cancel everything out.

It didn’t help that Ricky kept giving him meaningful looks about things he and Jo had in common, even though they’d already covered a number of them before Ricky came into play: Hannibal and Star Wars and Family Guy. They had The Simpsons, too, even if Jo cared more about Broadway musicals than he did and she’d never really gotten into Futurama or Marvel. Most of what he watched was because Mom put it on the TV, anyway, and it was apparently rude to go off and do his own thing and just leave her to it.

Mom was clear proof that some people weren’t able to sit alone, in silence. Having Jo around Ricky so often meant he’d never find out if Jo could do silences.

When they all stood up to clear the table, Jamie seized his chance, clumsily, but with both hands: “I’ll walk you home.” He didn’t even know if she was going home.

Jo gave him a long look, the sort that made him suspect that it was more awkward—or more desperate—than he’d realized. “If you’re not all worn out after work,” she told him with a little shrug. “That’s a long time to be on your feet.”

Wait, was she merely being polite or offering him an out in case he didn’t actually want to do it? “Walking’s better than standing in one place.” It was true, but adding something like It’ll oil my joints just made him feel too old.

She grinned, though, so maybe it was all okay, after all.

Ricky didn’t comment, possibly because Chase had a death grip on his arm, so that was even better. Jo just picked up her backpack, and with her three new books it was a heft again, and he knew where Brent and Amanda lived, so he knew which was to turn. There were a couple options for getting there, depending on whether she chose the slope or the stairs, but he could confidently turn right and fall in beside her.

And now … okay, the part that he maybe didn’t think through: it was up to the two of them to carry the conversation.

“So it’s you and Ricky in the food truck, right?” Jo asked, and she left her arms swinging freely instead of hooking her thumbs through her straps, so was he supposed to take her hand? That was a thing some people did, but Jamie had never been some people.

He settled on a nod.

“Does he talk the whole time?” she continued.

Jamie laughed, even though you weren’t supposed to laugh at your friends. “He does, but it’s to the customers, so it’s even more annoying because he says the same things over and over and over.”

“You can’t, like …” She gestured to her ears. “Put in headphones and just make whatever order slips he passes you?”

He shrugged. “I don’t own any headphones.”

“Wait, you’re just stuck alone with your thoughts?” Her eyes were wide. “My God, you are a serial killer.”

“You just told them I’m not!” he protested, laughing, as he gestured back behind them.

“Them just now, my parents this morning …” Jo tilted her head, looking forward again, but she was smiling.

Was that an opening? Jamie didn’t want to pry, but he was curious. “Your mom’s Amanda’s age.”

Jo nodded once, even though the smile all but disappeared. “I was an emergency placement. They were young, but it stuck.”

Emergency placement. It took him a few steps, and then they were at the street corner so they either had to turn right or wait for the light. Jo waited, and now her thumbs were hooked into her backpack straps, and she watched the don’t walk sign intently like it needed mental effort to change.

He licked his lips. “How old were you? Do you already know I was two?” Sheesh, give her a chance to answer one question before he shot off another.

Jo nodded once. “Maybe seven.”

That maybe was weird. If courts got involved, they had you fully documented. CPS had pages upon pages of little Jamie, whose last name hadn’t been Whittaker at the time.

Wait, and even then, if she was seven … “Was your mom even out of college?”

“Just.” Jo shrugged a little, but he couldn’t tell if it was irritable or dismissive since she also started walking again. “They got married in the middle, summer after her sophomore year, and they started on the foster thing right away. It’s what they always knew they wanted, but …” She flashed him a smile and gestured to herself. “I was a handful.”

Okay, and was this the part where he could ask if her being a handful tied in with her also being maybe seven?

“It was better after we moved to Michigan,” Jo offered, tilting her head toward the walkway and stairs so she wouldn’t run into him. “Then nobody knew my parents without me, and I guess a lot of my friends’ parents didn’t want to ask, considering our ages. They just assumed my parents had me in high school and still both got through college.”

He nodded slowly, trying to imagine it. “Allan’s ten years older than I am.” Maybe she knew that part already. “We used to dress alike—Mom’s got the photo collages upstairs. He was out of the house when he turned eighteen, but he was just so excited to have a brother.” Then he held up a hand like he had to signal a rewind. “Shane was a surprise. It’s not cool to have a baby in the house when you’re fifteen and trying to score cheerleaders.”

“Teenage girls don’t like babies?” She frowned.

“Babies mean someone’s always in the house so you don’t get to sneak up to your bedroom.” Ugh, and the way he explained it made it sound like he thought about it that way, too, even though it was really just Allan laughing about it, years later, the night before his wedding to Suzanne.

Jo smirked, though. “I didn’t really date anyone until Jake. It happened fast, but everyone thought it was solid.”

This shrug was definitely disheartened, and was that a message? Whatever he thought he felt for her, at this speed, and however his friends reacted to it, he didn’t want to be another Jake. Had she dated anyone since Jake?

Honestly the customs house was too close. That was part of its appeal: the walkability, at least when there wasn’t a foot or more of snow on the ground. Jo nodded them down the side and stopped at the door to get out her key. “Oh, hey, I don’t have your number.”

Jamie blinked and reached for his phone. “Right. Uh.” What did you text someone when you didn’t want to be a Jake but you also weren’t just going to turn and walk away? Most emojis were dangerously loaded with deeper meanings, but words weren’t exactly safe, either. If he sent her one of the pigs, would she realize he meant pork or think it was an insult? He pulled up her name, because of course he’d added her into his contacts, and decided to send the blue one that popped up when he typed truck.

She opened the door and slipped off her backpack, using it like a doorstop, so she could check her phone. Apparently the emoji was a good choice, because she grinned. “Cool. Do you want to text me tomorrow when your mom’s leaving? I can grab you something at Babycakes.”

He nodded because honestly he’d agree to anything Jo suggested that meant spending time together. “I’d better go study, then.” Shoot, that made it sound like a chore.

Jo just smiled. “I’ll bring my red pen.”

---

Chapter Fifteen

Jo

Chase picks up a menu and hands it to me before the woman behind the cash register can ask, moving us aside so the people who came in after us can start their order. “I’ve had everything here,” he tells me, not having to bend down to do it because he might actually be shorter than I am. “Jamie’s predictable. He gets the same thing every time.”

Helen Whittaker took a look at the books I was checking out and commented on how they’re such an eclectic mix. I stopped myself before I said yeah, sure, I get bored of the same thing over and over, but only just. She’s the sort of woman who’d think I was talking about her son when seriously, it’s just books. I only got three this trip, two nonfiction and one fiction, but yeah, they don’t have much to do with each other.

I flip the menu over, then back to the front again. Between the cutesy names and the Scandinavian terms, I’m overwhelmed. I wasn’t planning on this much social time, thanks, even if Chase is far less of a mine field than Jamie’s mom. “If I’m only coming here once, then I absolutely have to try …?”

“The cinnamon roll,” he answers promptly.

Well, yes, but in my current mood I should really go for some protein before I hit the sugar.

Chase grins. “The cowgirl.”

Yeah, see? That doesn’t tell me a thing about it. “Sounds like a winner.”

“And their signature latte?” Even though it’s not his own place, Chase is ready with the upsell.

“Decaf.” The sugar will be bad enough.

“Not to insult the income of a professional researcher, but …” He pulls out his wallet, which is the same brown leather as his belt and his shoes. Does he swap it out if he wears black? “Grab that table.”

There’s a single open table for four, so yeah, that’s probably a good idea. I’ve been roped into the usual after-market late lunch, the way I was roped into yesterday’s game night, and mostly I’m just thankful to Chase for appearing at the library and inserting himself into the conversation Helen started. I get out my phone, because everyone always gets out their phone when they have a few minutes, except I don’t have Jamie’s number. I don’t know what I’d text him if I did, but I don’t have to figure it out.

Chase orders for everyone, so Jamie doesn’t even have a chance to say no thank you. He’s just assumed to be coming, the way Ricky assumed I was invited yesterday, and I don’t know any of them well enough to tell if Jamie feels comfortable saying no.

After Chase orders he moves down the counter slightly and waits for the next person to pour him four cups of water. I hear him tell her that distinctly: “Four today.” I guess the usual number’s three, unless they routinely rope Jamie into double dates.

This isn’t a date.

Chase carries all four cups easily, because apparently he used to be a waiter, and he deals them out before pulling straws out of his breast pocket. It’s the weekend, he’s just hanging around, and he’s still in khakis and a dress shirt. He takes the seat across from me and offers a commiserating smile. “Hope I wasn’t overstepping with Helen. You looked like you could handle it.”

“Handle it with PTSD flashbacks,” I mutter, unwrapping my straw. “My ex-mother-in-law.”

“Never good enough for her perfect little angel?” he guesses.

I wrinkle my nose. “I was good enough to cook and clean and put him through grad school.” Except Jamie clearly cooks, and if he needs someone to clean up after him, that his mother’s job.

Chase looks toward the door and leans in, resting his elbows on the table in defiance of Ms. Manners. “Jamie’s never dated anyone. His brothers have gotten married, and Helen didn’t even attend Allan’s third wedding, but Jamie’s never had anyone in his life.”

Meaning, what, I’m in his life now?

He starts to take a breath, but then just nods and shoots me a look at a grin because Jamie and Ricky show up, and even though I’m sure Ricky passed on that I’d be here, Jamie’s face breaks into a delighted grin when he sees me.

Okay, point to Chase.

I’m on the bench side of the table, and Jamie slides right in next to me. “Hey,” he says, which is probably good, because even if he had a witty line, I wouldn’t be able to come up with a proper response.

“Can’t stay away?” Ricky asks as he takes the chair next to Chase, but I’m saved, at least slightly, because the barista calls out our drink order. Ricky pops up, but the size of the mugs means Chase gets up again, too. It’s only a short reprieve, just the two of us at the table, but my eyes catch on Jamie’s and we both smile and look a little too long.

Right. Okay. “I ran into your mom at the library.” I blurt it and feel myself blush because that’s like the opposite of diffusing the situation.

He just nods to my backpack. “What’d you get?”

“One natural disaster, one man-made disaster, and one thriller.” Honestly I can’t remember the titles.

His eyebrows go up even as he nods his thanks to Ricky for his drink. “Three at a time, huh?”

“Oh yeah? I’m game.” Ricky bats his eyelashes at me, and it’s a pretty good imitation of innocence. Only the first couple rows of seats would see through it.

Jamie leans a little closer and lowers his voice. “Is he the natural or man-made disaster?”

I cover my mouth because seriously, again? I’m just primed to snort-laugh around him, because of course he’s not just cute, Mom. He’s also funny, and he’s got the best lopsided grin, and even though he’s clearly had a long day already and his hair is frizzing out of his usually perfectly-smooth ponytail, those broad shoulders are easy.

Damn. Okay. Never dated anyone, huh? Not for lack of options, but that’s also a long streak. Who am I to think I could break it?

To be fair, I’m not the only one thinking it, and maybe not even the first one thinking it. Ricky was all over me last night about staying, and the way Chase talked about lunch like it wasn’t even a suggestion, just a given …

“How close did you come today?” Chase wants to know, and apparently it makes sense to the other two.

“Six,” Ricky announces with pride, and then takes pity on me: “Six servings left over. Jamie’s got this down to a science.”

I nod, even though maybe I should be more impressed. “You did make the top ten list of food trucks in the state,” I point out, like maybe Jamie doesn’t actually know.

Chase’s eyebrows go up. “So you researched more than just Jamie the serial killer.”

Seriously, this again? “I couldn’t make him work as a serial killer,” I protest, but how did Chase find out? When did Jamie tell him?

“Yeah, he’s totally a cinnamon roll,” Ricky teases. “Speaking of …”

Apparently Chase ordered two giant cinnamon rolls for the table. They barely fit with all our sandwiches. Also apparently Ricky spends as much time on Tumblr as my mom does.

Chase tilts his head and frowns, studying Jamie. “There’s got to be something else on the continuum, doesn’t there?” he asks. “It’s not like you could kill someone, but you’re not really a cinnamon roll.”

Seriously, were they all spying on my FaceTime call? If someone says blorbo, I’m out.

“Jo, I like your shoelaces,” Ricky announces, and ugh, he’s caught me.

I sigh. “Thanks. I stole them from the president.”

Laughing, he raises his mug and won’t move until we’ve had a proper cheers.

---

Chapter Fourteen

Jamie

Normally Jamie didn’t mind being the guy fixing the orders instead of the guy at the window, but it meant he couldn’t keep an eye out in case Jo came to the farmers’ market. He didn’t think she would, exactly, and it was probably silly to hope for it, but it was still a strange annoyance. Then again, Ricky was at the window, so he didn’t think he’d be allowed to miss it if Jo was out there.

Jamie had to be there early to make sure the truck was in place and he wouldn’t drive through other vendors’ stalls, but Ricky generally showed up at the last minute, handed Jamie his to-go cup from Dead River Coffee, and adopted his morning person persona right before he opened the window. Friday nights weren’t really the best choice for game night considering how two of them generally had early Saturday call times, but it was the only night Mom was reliably out of the house.

Maybe Mom latched onto Jo so suddenly because at least it meant the guys hadn’t made him gay.

The market ran from nine until one, and even at nine people lined up at Jamie’s Food Truck. It was kind of a brilliant name because it was so simple, even though he figured Allan and Shane thought of it as a joke. It wasn’t even as specific as Jamie’s Barbecue Truck. Shane said it was so they wouldn’t limit his creativity, but Jamie always suspected it was because Shane didn’t care enough to learn what kind of food Jamie actually liked making. He was supposed to be grateful that they’d thought of him at all.

Okay and it was probably a good thing his mood didn’t actually get imparted into his cooking.

Ricky could turn it off and on when he wanted to, and there were times Jamie wondered how Chase put up with it instead of wondering if their relationship was just another part of the act, but he could see the usefulness, too. He didn’t really need it, since he looked at the order slips and prepared the paper dishes while only interacting with Ricky himself, but he’d studied it. Ricky was flirty with everyone, but it didn’t mean anything.

Well, at the beginning Ricky had flat-out told Jamie he was flirting with him and it did mean something, but he also hadn’t let Jamie’s sorry, no get in the way of their friendship. Was that a gift or a hard-earned skill?

Food truck days were far more exhausting than smoking days. On smoking days he was like so many hard-working Americans: on his ass for eight hours or so. Food truck days meant a lot of standing, and even with shoe inserts and the memory foam mats, he’d still gotten into the habit of taking Aleve in the morning to try to get ahead of it. Being younger, Ricky was of course in the habit of rolling his eyes, but he’d get there.

Jo was Ricky’s age. Jo’s mom was basically Jamie’s age, which was weird as fuck, but Jo was Ricky’s age. That was an acceptable gap. Honestly his entire friend group was people who couldn’t find someone within a decade. Maybe Jo’s mom was the same, but ugh, fifteen and twenty-five? That was a problem.

If he really wanted to know, he could text Allan about his friend Brent’s wife’s friend from college, but he didn’t want to know badly enough to let Allan in on it. He’d ask, but he’d want to know why, and Jamie didn’t even know Jo’s mom’s name. Somebody Lewis. Yeah, Allan, Amanda’s friend Somebody Lewis.

Ricky waved to their final customer, turned the sign over to CLOSED, shut the window, and held his smile until he stepped just out of sight. “Phew,” he declared, twisting his back and making Jamie wince with the popcorn crackle. “How close did you call it today?”

Jamie eyed the leftovers. “Close enough to make me nervous. Looks like half a dozen.” He didn’t have to worry about the bottom line quite as much since the Rusty Bucket was a steady paycheck, but Mom only ate chicken and fish, and most of his friends were probably sick of free pork.

“Booyah.” Ricky held up his fist and Jamie stripped off his plastic gloves before he bumped it. “Okay, let’s see what our lunch plans are.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket. They were both in jeans, with their cobalt blue Jamie’s Food Truck shirts on top. Jamie had a T-shirt, and Ricky had the short sleeve one that buttoned up the front. Jamie started to put things away but turned back when he heard Ricky’s chuckle. “Alrighty then.”

Frowning, Jamie took his phone to see the most recent text from Chase: Meet Jo and me at Trenary Toast. “Uh.” He didn’t think Jo had given her number to anyone else.

“He was going to the library,” Ricky offered, taking his phone back so he had both hands free for cleanup. “Maybe he ran into her there.”

Maybe Jo ran into Mom there. Jamie couldn’t always keep track of her hours, but she’d go there even when she wasn’t volunteering, especially when the weather wasn’t good enough to sit around outside.

Ricky paused long enough to raise an eyebrow. “Maybe he rescued Jo from your mom?”

God, was he that transparent? Jamie turned back to the prep counter and got busy. “I don’t know if she was there.” Did Jo even know Mom volunteered there, or would she have been blindsided? Seriously, he’d only met her Thursday and he couldn’t think of her as not knowing something about his life.

The fact that Ricky was silent for long should’ve warned him, but instead Ricky clucked his tongue loudly and almost made him jump. “I’m calling it now: you’re not strictly aro-ace. You’re gray in at least one of those spectrums.”

“I’m pretty sure the plural is spectra.” Oh, good comeback there, Jamie. Clearly with a single sentence he’d stopped all of Ricky’s thoughts in their tracks.

“Jamie, buddy. Pal.” Ricky turned and put his hand on Jamie’s shoulder, which wasn’t hard considering the size of the food truck meant he couldn’t exactly escape. “Does it help if Chase and I both agree she’s crushing on you right back?”

No. No, actually, it didn’t help, and he turned away like he really needed to make sure the lower cabinets were secured and not because it meant Ricky wouldn’t see the expression on his face.

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Chapter Thirteen