Christmas Home (The Coming Home #6)

12. Clyde

twelve

Clyde

B y the time I left the clinic, it was after lunchtime. I wondered if it’d be too much for me to go to the café for my lunch after having already visited that morning. I thought it probably would be, at least for eating in, so I decided to get takeout.

I didn’t mind takeout, really. Fried chicken, for example, was just as good to me cold as it was hot. Today, though, I had a hankering for a hamburger. Mrs. Cole saw me come in and immediately asked about Ruther.

“You found him in the woods?” she asked, and I noticed all the interested faces around me.

“Yes, I think he was out for a walk. It’s easy to trip over things while exploring. I think he’s going to be okay.”

“Well, you did good. I’m glad you found him before he had to linger out there. So, what can I get for you?” she asked.

I forced myself not to look around at the eavesdroppers. “I think I’d like a burger to go, and I’m gonna grab some sides too. I’m up for a night at home watchin’ TV,” I announced, knowing the gossip would have me and Ruther in the throes of some torrid love affair if I didn’t put them off the subject now while I could.

“Well, nothing like a night alone ,” Mrs. Cole emphasized before winking at me, “to put the body right. Especially after the week of work you put in.”

I smiled and nodded. She left to get my burger started while I filled one of the to-go containers with goodies for tonight’s supper. I loved fried chicken, and Lord knows I’d worked hard enough and got enough steps in this week that I could eat it without guilt, not that I gained much weight anyway. No, I was born skinny, and unless my very obvious genetics wore off, I’d die that way.

Despite that, I knew I needed more nutrition than greasy chicken provided, so I dished up some turnip greens, green beans, and sweet potatoes to go with it.

I looked at the desserts and moaned happily as I saw the homemade chocolate meringue. I hadn’t had that yet, but Mrs. Cole made all the desserts herself, and I’d yet to eat anything she made that didn’t make me want to cry with joy. Nutritional value be damned.

I grabbed another to-go container and dished a big slice of pie into it. By the time I got to the checkout counter, Mrs. Cole came up with my burger, also packed to go. She’d also included some plastic cutlery and heaps of napkins, which was kind of her.

I walked from the café, happy until I got to the motel and surveyed the unsavory crowd that’d already begun to gather in the parking lot. It’s unlikely they were from Crawford City. Of course, I didn’t know for sure, but I did know that it didn’t matter where you were, whether in a big city or a small town, these old motels seemed to attract the same type of people.

I mean, I had to stay in them too, but the addicts seemed to flow from one seedy motel to the next, always leaving havoc in their wake. Staying off their radar, if at all possible, was how to survive.

I usually did. I was short and quiet and not very memorable. I mean, I could stick out when I wanted to, but sticking out always attracted the wrong crowd. Images of my ex as he knocked me around came to mind.

Ducking my head, I slipped by them unnoticed and sighed with relief as the door shut behind me. I flipped on the TV and pulled out my burger, pleased Mrs. Cole had doctored it up like I liked with all the fixings except lettuce. I’d never understand why people wanted it on a burger.

I contemplated Ruther as I devoured the feast. He’d been in pain but had managed it better than I thought a fancy man of privilege would. Men in his situation either gushed over me, wanting to get me in the sack for a quick fuck, or they stuck their noses up the moment I walked within sight. Ruther hadn’t done either, although he was clearly interested in me. Sexually, that is.

I didn’t expect there to be more encounters between us other than perhaps crossing paths again at the café. Still, after finishing my lunch and disposing of the waste, I laid down and pondered what it would be like to have a man of status like Ruther consider me as something more than a plaything.

I ended up laughing at myself. I was as plain and country as they came. Ruther was like a shiny Lexus, whereas I was a beat-up Cadillac. Sure, fancy men like him might take me for a spin, but I wasn’t worth showing off. Soon enough, they’d trade me in for a better ride. I shook my head then. When had I begun to compare myself to cars?