“When are you going to be my girl, Tabby Cat?”
I look past him at the one green bottle left standing.
“I’m not your type.”
“What do you know about my type?”
“Blonde. Fake boobs. Likes to drink.”
He looks away, mad or embarrassed, maybe both. I know what he does on the nights he goes drinking with Wilson and Drew. I’m not blind or stupid. I never expected him to wait for me. I’d never ask him to do that.
“Who told you?” he says.
I shake my head at that. As if he could mess around and me not find out about it. Crossing the county line isn’t enough in this town. People tell me things like I’m his mother, though I wish they wouldn’t. I’d prefer to not know what all he does when we’re not together.
“It’s a small town, Bo. You can’t get a flat tire without someone finding out about it. It’s not like I care. I mean, I hardly even think about it.” That’s a lie. I think about it a lot. But I’m not trying to make him feel guilty for getting his needs met.
“I would care,” he says with a pained expression. “I want you to care.”