At Whit's End (Wells Ranch, #4)(71)

No more than five minutes into the drive, I’m getting antsy. The truck cab’s hot and tense and reeks like dog breath. Whit has her hands clasped tight in her lap as she stares out the window, Jonas may or may not be asleep—though the intense scowl suggests he’s awake and refusing to engage—and Betty’s stress-panting from trying to keep herself upright on his lap.

I understand why everyone’s so quiet, but it’s unnerving nonetheless. The silence is thick and sticky, like we’re all chewing on something we can’t quite swallow. And a small voice in my brain is screaming at me to fix this for them.

I shift in my seat. “We should get something to eat.”

If there’s one thing my mother’s taught me, it’s that food fixes everything.

“It’s dinnertime.” I tap the lit-up numbers on the dashboard. “Nothing good ever comes out of being mad and hungry at the same time.”

Jonas makes a weird little noise—half scoff, half sigh—under his breath. Whatever that means. And still, neither of them says anything. Though at least Whit’s looking at me, mulling over my suggestions.

Finally, she nods. “There’s a food truck that usually parks over on Oak Street. That’ll be quick and easy.”

Minutes later, the truck drifts off the pavement into the gravel parking lot. Dust billows up from the tires and I pull in next to the only other vehicle in the lot. Presumably it belongs to the family with four kids who appear to be playing tag around a group of picnic tables haphazardly arranged on a small patch of grass.

Even before we open any doors, the smell of grilled meat infiltrates the cab and makes my stomach growl. This was a great choice, even if it means sitting in awkward silence while we eat dinner. I’d still rather that than the alternative of dropping Whit and Jonas off at home and hightailing it to Anette’s to eat alone.

The gravel crunches under my boots, and I sling an arm across my chest to stretch with a loud yawn. The only way Jonas could move any slower is if we tied a boat anchor to his ass, so for a moment, Whit and I are alone and backlit by the evening sun. We stand a hair’s width apart, and I feel the brush of her hand on my thigh, drawing my eyes to meet hers.

“You okay?” I mouth silently.

She pops one shoulder and her lips curve into something that’s not quite a smile, but trying to be.

My hands jam into my pockets for the slow meander toward the bright-red Mexican food truck, and I squint at the handwritten chalkboard menu. The thing looks like they chose to write on it while driving down a pothole-filled road. Letters are crooked, looping together in places I’m not sure they’re supposed to, and the doodles filling every possible empty space aren’t helping my confusion. And then there’s the pressure of Whit and Jonas standing next to me.

I stare.

And stare some more.

Tilt my head to make it look like I’m merely struggling to decide what I want. In a typical restaurant situation, I’ll play menu roulette and point at a random item when the words aren’t coming as quickly as I’d like them to. But that’s not an option with a chalkboard suspended eight feet in the air.

God, I hate this part. The familiar, itchy frustration in my skull. My heart pounds as if I’m twelve years old again and being asked to read something aloud in class.

I turn to Whit. “What are you getting?”

“Ceviche tostadas,” she replies easily.

I blink at her. Surely those aren’t real words. Or maybe my inability to comprehend the menu is because I’m having a stroke.

Reaching up, I scratch the back of my neck. “What’s in that?”

“Um, it’s like a fish salad on a corn tortilla.”

The retching noise that flies out of my mouth can’t be stopped, and Whit laughs. So, honestly, it’s a win, even if I’m no closer to deciding what to eat.

“No, thank you,” I say, scrunching my nose and trying to decode the menu again. “Seafood and I do not get along. Do they have like…tacos here?”

“They do.” With a soft laugh, Whit sidles up next to me and points at the wall of text, allowing my eyes to follow the length of her arm. “Basically half the menu is tacos.”

She’s close enough that I can smell her perfume and imagine brushing her hair off her shoulder so I can kiss her skin. Bury my face in the crook of her neck and breathe her in.

Fuck. That’s not making this any easier.

“Sorry, it’s uh…been a day.” I gulp, rolling my neck and suddenly wishing I hadn’t suggested grabbing food. “Mind reading out the options to me?”

“You can’t read that?” Jonas chirps. Naturally the first time he says anything is to roast me. “Time for some glasses, bro.”

Whit side-eyes him but doesn’t miss a beat. “You want all the options, or just the safe bets?”

“Safe bets. Not looking to gamble with my intestines tonight.” God knows they’re in enough knots as it is.

She rattles off words I’ve never heard before, which makes me feel better about not being able to read them. And follows up each menu item with an explanation, until I settle on a couple beef tacos and a couple chicken. I let Whit do the ordering, even though it means I practically have to wrestle her away when it’s time to pay. I’m sure Alex is the type of guy who doesn’t even suggest that he buy dinner, but if there’s one thing I want to prove—today more than ever before—it’s that he and I are as dissimilar as two guys can get.