Chapter 2

“How you doing?” I asked, my voice squeaking a little.

“Couldn’t be better,” he said in a Yankee voice. “You?”

“Still not dead,” I offered, wondering what a Yankee was doing in the heart of Dixie wearing scrubs and looking so damned fine.

“Good deal!” he exclaimed.

“Gotta card you,” I said, putting a hand on one of his cases of beer.

“No problem,” he said, offering a new Magnolia State driver’s license. I spent perhaps a bit too long staring at it, as you do when you’ve got more than cashiering on your mind. Seems “Jackson Ledbetter” was born on September 15, 1985, making him twenty-eight years old. He was 5’10”, 148 pounds, with brown hair and brown eyes. That hardly did justice to the Greek god standing before me, this angel who looked like he had just stepped out of a Caravaggio painting. Best of all, he lived right down the street from me. Better, my gaydar was twitching like a jack rabbit at a rodeo.

I could see him looking at the name tag on my chest:I’m Wiley Cantrell. How may I help you?

“Wiley’s a cool name,” he observed with a slight smile.

Was he flirting with me?

I certainly hoped so.

“Will that be all?” I asked.

“I’m having a housewarming party starting at six. Why don’t you come?”

“That’s very kind, thanks.”

“Terrace View Apartments. Number twenty-two. See you there?”

Was he openly flirting with me while a string of coupon-clutching customers waited?

“Sure,” I said.

“Cool!” he exclaimed. His eyes lingered on mine rather longer than they should have before he grabbed the beer and sauntered away, looking sexy in those scrubs.

Damn, he was hot.

I could do some loving on that man. I really could. Do some loving and shake the bejesus out of his sugar tree. 3: Stood Up

I don’t normally go to parties thrown by complete strangers, much less with my nine-year-old son in tow, which can be a real deal-killer when you’re horny and hoping to get laid, but I made an exception in this case. Probably not one of my better decisions, but horniness does that to you and it’s not like Tupelo is drowning in gay bars since the only one it ever had was closed down years ago.

It was just after seven in the evening when Noah and I went in search of apartment number twenty-two at Terrace View.

Noah is a scrap of a boy, barely forty-five pounds, about four feet tall, my little midget. For a premature meth baby who was not expected to thrive, he’s certainly had the last laugh.

He’s a beautiful boy. To me, at least. His head is a bit too large for his body. He has a darkness around his blue eyes that never goes away no matter how much he sleeps. About his face there is something imperfect, something unfinished, not quite right, off in a way quite impossible to describe. I let his hair grow in glorious abandon because he doesn’t like having it cut. In that, he takes after me since I haven’t had my hair cut since 1998.

We were both dressed in shorts and tank tops, standard summer wear. To be frank, when stores put “No shirt, no shoes, no service” signs on their front doors, they’re thinking about the Cantrell boys. We’re nothing if not scruffy. I had tied back my hair in a ponytail in a lackluster attempt to make myself look presentable. I should have trimmed my goatee, but I only do that for weddings and funerals and sit-downs with all the fixings. At least we wore shoes.

I carried a box of cookies that I’d bought at FoodWorld with my EBT card. The cookies were a “FoodWorld Daily Deal!”

I glanced at Noah and smiled a bit of encouragement, which I needed more than he did.

Are you going to knock or what?he signed.

Be good or I’ll sell you on eBay, I replied.

He smiled hisha-ha-ha-you’re-so-funny-I-could-die smile.

He’s really cute, I signed. I’m nervous. Give me a second

He rolled his eyes and crossed his arms on his chest.

How do I look?I asked.

He shrugged with disinterest.

How are my teeth?

I received a thumbs-up.

Can we go in now?he asked. I’m hungry!

I’m nervous.

Just don’t act so stupid and he’ll like you.

Thank you!

You’re welcome.

Without regard for my insecurities, he banged on the door like a state trooper.

Jackson Ledbetter answered wearing an expensive running suit. He was a fine-looking how-do-you-do.

“Come in,” he said.

“Hey,” I said.

We followed him into a sad apartment empty of furniture that was somehow spiffy and modern and new, yet bleak and bare and sterile. Boxes stood hither and yon. A tablecloth had been spread by the large bay window, and the evening’s fixings had been laid out upon it. The air-conditioning was heavenly. Emily Sandé was on the CD player singing “Next To Me.” I kept hearing that song everywhere I went and it grated on my nerves. Give me Reba, Patsy, Johnny Cash, Willie, Waylon

“Sorry I’m late,” I said. “We brought cookies. Should have brought chairs, from the look of things.”

“I haven’t had time for shopping. And who’s this little man?”

“My son Noah,” I said.