by Clover Hart
As I stand there looking through the warmly lit windows of the diner, I can see that the entire interior design scheme is antlers, from the light fixtures to the horns hanging over the service counter. But I don’t mind all of that so much when I spot Mandy in the farthest window chatting with a blonde I’ve seen in Screaming Beans.
The other girl rushes away, leaving Mandy alone.
I don’t move for a minute. She’s wearing her hair down this evening, and it’s thick and beautiful, burnished to a cinnamon color under the diner’s lights. All I could think about the other night when we were both standing outside her door was kissing her, and I had to pull myself away before my body overruled my common sense.
Good thing I stopped myself, because the armor Mandy wears? It didn’t disappear after that. She actually added something to it that’s far more protective than the sassy attitude she’s always sported. Now, she also has what I call a Buddy Shield, and she used it to deflect me.
Bing! Let’s just be pals who go out to the diner for another dare, Zach.
Bwang! Keep your distance, because even though we just had a sort-of-kind-of date, but not really, you are firmly in the Friend Zone.
I expect her to have that shield up tonight, too, just like a cockblocking Captain America.
I don’t even know why Mandy’s got all that armor, but it’s actually keeping my body from writing checks that my lifestyle can’t cash. I need someone with a shield to keep my head on straight until I get back to reality.
When I walk into the diner, every head turns my way. As usual, each and every cowboy, trucker, and mountain man stares at how I’m dressed, and I take a perverse satisfaction at the tee I’m wearing.
Eat, Sleep, Game, Repeat, it says.
That’s me, bringing it with the tee, just like Mandy told me to.
The blonde behind the register smiles at me, but I only give her a friendly nod, then include all the other baseball-hatted customers who’re seated at the counter. The air smells heavy with fried food as I set my sights on Mandy, who’s casually grinning at me as I approach her corner booth.
Country music — what else? — is playing over the sound system, and the driving, steady beat mocks the pounding of my blood as I come to stand in front of her.
She looks at my tee, then points to her own tight black shirt that features a grumpy, totally unimpressed cat; the design must’ve been hand-drawn by a spastic three-year-old, and it looks like those animated eyes are daring me right along with Mandy’s.
I quickly look away from her shirt before she starts to think I’m ogling her breasts. Which I am.
“I already ordered a variety of the most delicious, disgusting food Milton’s has,” she says in a cheery voice. “Brace yourself, Hamilton.”
Bing! Stop looking at my tits, please.
“I’m already bracing,” I say.
I slide into the booth across from her, my adrenaline pumping. Suddenly, with her here, the diner is a little brighter — the lights are a burning yellow, the jukebox flashes neon in the corner.
“How was class today?” I ask.
“Great. I had animal science, my favorite. My instructor likes to talk about everything from anatomy to courtship rituals …”
She trails off, blushing. When’s the last time I knew a girl who blushed when saying something like courtship?
I let her off the hook. “No homework, I assume?”
“I knew it’d be a light day. That’s the only reason I didn’t wait until next weekend to put you through this dare.” She tilts her head. “But enough about me. Did you get a lot done at work, honey?”
She’s teasing me with a Leave It To Beaver moment, and I take up the gauntlet.
“I looked at a few more properties, dear. I might’ve even found something on the edge of town. It’s a warehouse that could be converted into something pretty special.”
I’m looking at her as I say it, but then we both glance away at the same time. Luckily our server, the kid with the knit cap that I recognize as a frequent customer at Screaming Beans, comes over to give us water. His nametag says Seamus.
He greets me with a nod. Then he and Mandy exchange a sly look that tells me trouble will be coming next.
When he leaves, I raise my eyebrow at her.
“That’s Seamus,” she says. “He’s really into comics — he wants to be an illustrator — and he keeps asking me about what kind of jobs would be available at FCT. Everyone’s been asking.”
“Great.” It occurs to me that I might want to start talking to people about what they’re good at and how we might be able to incorporate their strengths into the firm. But food is my biggest concern right now. “What do you have in store for me?”
“Oh, nothing more terrifying than the salmon roe I had to eat. By the way, I discovered it’s caviar to some people.” She shivers. “I can’t believe you fancy pantses eat that crap for enjoyment.”
“I’m hardly fancy.”
“What? You and your BMW and perfect hair and expensive clothes that aren’t supposed to look fancy? I beg to differ.”
“Are you also calling me pretentious?” I ask.
“You do seem to like pretentious things, like BMWs that’re possessed by the voices of uppity British ladies.”
She scans my trendy new field jacket — something an actual outdoorsman would wear around these parts — then my designer glasses. Finally she lands on my gelled hair, which contains a shitload of expensive product.
Point taken.
She smiles, and I get the feeling that she doesn’t exactly think that anything about me is particularly awful. She’s just having fun pointing it out.
She occupies herself by arranging her napkin and utensils, not looking at me. “In spite of all that, you do have excellent manners, you’re smart, and you work hard. It all kind of balances out in the end.”
“Did you just pay me a compliment?”
“Three.” Now her gaze is lively. “But don’t expect more.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Think of this as a Cherry Valley/Silicon Valley peace summit where we’re coming to terms with our differences and appreciating the things that make us different.”
Even though Mandy would never suit me in the long run, I wish I’d meet more girls as smart and down-to-earth as she is, who possess the willpower to stop themselves from surfing the phone the entire night as they google the latest clubs to go to after dinner or the newest in designer clothing. Mandy might not be highly educated and she might be small-town, but …
In my virtual mind, I imagine her in San Francisco, wearing her sarcastic cat shirt and harness boots. How would she fit into one of my “fancy” restaurants?
She wouldn’t.
“Back to the food,” she says, looking at me as if she knows I was probably gauging her just as thoroughly as she gauges me. “Tonight, you’ll be experiencing the Cherry Valley version of caviar.”
“What does that mean?”
“Oh, you’ll see.”
Her gaze stays bright as Seamus brings over a tray of various plates, then unloads them one by one onto the table. As I look over the strange and mostly fried offerings, I already get a little queasy.
One dish looks like fried honeycombs. Another is a collection of gelled gray squares that remind me of bathroom tiles that haven’t been washed for a century. Then there’re chunks of more fried stuff, accompanied by a plate of round, breaded things that look like …
Fuck. Didn’t she mention cattle testicles a couple nights ago?
The blonde who was manning the counter drops off two empty plates and another dish that appears to be fried tomatoes, but she doesn’t pay any more mind to me before scrambling off to serve everything else on her tray to other customers.
Wait — maybe she’s the other twin who works here at Milton’s? She sure didn’t seem as friendly as the one at the register.
Doesn’t matter. I’m already steeling my stomach, psyching myself up fo
r this.
Mandy lends me a cheesy smile and pushes the tomatoes toward me. “Remember how I took sushi baby steps with the California roll?”
“Yeah,” I say. “And I’m guessing these are my starters. Fried tomatoes.”
“Enjoy the baby steps while you can.”
With those ominous words, she serves me a slice and takes one for herself. When I taste the slightly sweet but acidic appetizer, I relish what I fear is the last decent thing I’ll be eating for a while.
And I couldn’t be more right about that, because then Mandy makes me eat the fried tripe (the honeycomb lookin’ shit which is actually a little like calamari, except it’s fucking stomach from a cow), then the fried squirrel dipped in barbecue sauce (tastes like chicken, but again, it’s a goddamned rodent). I’m plowing through this stuff before my mind can catch me up to the fact that what I’m eating would probably be found in a backwoods sadist’s dungeon. But when I come to the gray tiles that wiggle on the plate, I pause.
“You can do this, Hamilton,” Mandy says, cheering me on from her spot across the table. She’s been keeping up with me, bite by bite, just like a coxswain yelling out encouragement on my college crew team. “Go, go, go …”
“Just tell me what the hell this is,” I say tightly.
“Do you really want to know before you put it into your mouth?”
I’m not sure I do.
She leans over the table and joyfully shouts, “It’s jellied moose nose!”
She can’t be serious, but as I realize that some of the customers at the counter are none-too-subtly watching me during this gross-out marathon, I suck it up and go for it.
I tell myself this is just another delicacy, much like the head cheese I’ve tried in fine restaurants back in the city. And as I chew on a tile, rushing to get it down, I realize that the wobbly texture really isn’t my thing, but it’s seasoned with some kind of herbs and tastes a little gamey and …
I force myself to get it down, then do a shot of the beer that Mandy has kindly ordered for me.
She cheers along with some of the other patrons, and I realize the cheering is louder than the diners at the counter who were watching me could’ve made.
Looks like City Boy is the big entertainment for everyone in here on a slow night in Cherry Valley.
I hold up my hand to acknowledge the applause, even as my stomach turns and burns. When I glance back at everyone, I see scruffy smiles and genuine admiration for something that’s really no big deal. Hell, I’ve eaten mud pies as a child, but that was back when I didn’t know any better.
Here, it’s almost like I’m undergoing some rite of country passage and I’m killing it.
Mandy even looks proud of me, and something in my chest tumbles with such speed and force that it stuns me.
“Now,” she says with her bright eyes, “for the ultimate in courage …”
She scoops one of those round breaded balls onto my plate, and it rolls toward me like a video game creature that I’ll have to defeat to get to the next level.
Of what, though? Admiration from this town? Or admiration from her?
Everyone starts pounding on the tables, encouraging me, even as I dread this.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Mandy says loudly, standing up and punching the air along with the rhythm of the fists on the tables. “May I introduce to you the biggest challenge: cowboy caviar! Otherwise known as prairie oysters or swinging beef! The part of the calf that’s peeled, rolled around in flour, seasoned, then fried to your dangerous cholesterol level’s delight—”
“Rocky Mountain oysters!” everyone shouts.
“Go, Hamilton,” Mandy says, her cheeks flushed. “Go … go … go …”
There’s not a chance in hell that I’m blowing this, so I take that piece of ball, swipe it through some cocktail sauce, and pop it into my mouth just like Mandy did with the salmon roe roll.
Wild cheers erupt. People come over to the table to shake my hand, even as I chew and attempt to decipher what I’m tasting in my mouth. It’s not as rubbery as I expected, and it almost gives me that veal vibe.
The only problem comes when I remember that I’m eating gonads.
But I swallow that motherfucker, accepting the kudos of the patrons. The blonde twins who run the diner come over with a big blue ribbon that says SICK BALLS in golden letters. The twin who’s about to pin it on me is the one who was behind the register smiling at me earlier, but Mandy sweetly takes the ribbon from her and does the honors instead.
As she pins it onto my tee, spikes of heat ray out from the pressure of her fingertips. Over the fried air, I smell her wildflower shampoo, and my groin tightens like I’m some kind of animal.
But I did just eat me some balls. That’s a lot of animal right there.
She’s still next to me, her knee on the cushion, only an inch from my thigh, and as she looks down at me a tense moment passes. If life were a movie, this is where I would impulsively sweep her into my arms and dip her down for a long, primal kiss. But it’s not, and as if she’s sensed what I’m thinking, she moves away from my seat and turns toward the crowd.
“This man deserves a reward!” she says.
Seamus the server says, “The fried bubblegum is already on its way!”
Fried bubblegum, I think. Why’d it have to be fried?
But I merely sit back in my seat, the hero of the hour, glad that at least I’ve made one inroad with Cherry Valley tonight.
Even if it wasn’t with Mandy.
Chapter 14
Mandy
When Zach and I finally walk out of the diner to where our cars are parked next to the country road, I’m not sure where we stand with each other.
Back in Milton’s, there was a moment after he finished that Rocky Mountain oyster when I nearly jumped his bones. It happened after Grace Milton waltzed over to pin the blue ribbon on him — the one that all newcomers get after they finish what we call “The Sick Balls Mile.” If you can down all those plates that I presented to Zach, you’ve earned some recognition.
I liked the way he tackled everything I gave him. He never complained, even though he looked ready to hurl a time or two. I sat across from him imagining everything else Zach Hamilton does in life with that kind of bring-it-on confidence, and I have to admit that it flipped my skirt.
Then Grace Milton moved in with that ribbon, and something deep and dark inside me went uh-uh. That ribbon was mine to give.
And I pinned it right on him.
I’m not sure if I also imagined the way he might’ve stopped breathing during those few seconds. My own breath sure snagged when I touched him, feeling a hint of what’s underneath his shirt before I pulled away from him yet again.
Now Zach is walking me toward my pickup. Under the moonlight, the rusted-out paintjob isn’t as embarrassingly obvious as it is during the day, but the near darkness still can’t hide what a rattrap I drive.
But he doesn’t comment. Like the gentleman he is, he only walks me to my door. Then we both just stand there.
“Well,” I say. “At least you can say you experienced high cuisine in Cherry Valley before leaving.”
It’s a blatant reminder that he probably won’t be around much longer, and he looks back toward the diner with a small smile.
“Soon, I’ll be back to foie gras,” he says.
“Goose liver sounds just as gross as anything you ate tonight.”
“Not when there’s a piano playing in the background at a five-star restaurant with a view of the city lights.”
“And a date who has a voice like the British woman who haunts your BMW.”
“There’s definitely that.”
Now he’s confirming that he’ll be returning to his typical kind of girl soon, and I’m not her.
But that’s okay. Really, it is.
I open my unlocked door, yet I still don’t go anywhere. I’d like one more minute to smell whatever soap he uses, to think about how hot he is right now while he towers o
ver me, all guy, all not my type either.
“I have to say,” he murmurs over the muffled music from the diner. “If it ends up that Full Circle finds another town, I’m going to miss a few things about Cherry Valley.”
Oh, boy, he’s about to say something that’ll make this awkward.
But then he grins. “Like our dares.”
Phew. Just the dares. Not me.
“They have been fun,” I say. “A nice break from all my studying.”
“Thanks for tonight’s in particular. You showed me something about this town that I would’ve never experienced on my own.”
“Maybe I should add ‘tour guide’ to my resume.”
We smile. We’re doing a pretty good job of talking around whatever it is that’s between us, but as another moment pulses by, it comes right back, pulling at the chilly air.
“Listen, Zach …” I start to say.
He lifts a finger. “Don’t worry. Dares aren’t dates. The last thing Cherry Valley needs is to think I’m more interested in developing a social life with the locals instead of paying attention to business. Dating is low on my list of priorities.”
Even though I was thinking the same thing about my own list, I still cross my arms protectively over my chest. Back in the diner, I’d put on my flannel jacket before coming out here, and the bulk of it makes me feel fortified against his mild rejection.
But why should I feel that way when I totally agree with him?
I smile, just to show him we’re all good. “So true, Hamilton. If Full Circle does end up staying here, you’ll need to establish trust with the town. Cutting a romantic swath through the community isn’t the way to do that.”
We both laugh quietly, because there’s nothing romantic going on at all with us. The air between us has gotten a bit lighter again, thank God.
See? All we needed to do was clear up any misunderstandings.
Still, Zach doesn’t go anywhere. He casually plants his hands on his hips, looks at the ground, then looks back up at me. My heart stops, then sputters back into motion.
