Chapter Sixteen
Pat
When we climb into his Mustang, Chevy is still laughing, and I’m still wiping whipped cream off my nose. I normally enjoy a good prank, but Chevy telling the waitstaff it was my birthday gave Lindy the chance to escape. Not that I can totally blame her. My proposal sucked. Hardcore. Even Wolf Waters with his drumline topped it.
The engine purrs to life, and I bend down to scratch at my skin under the ankle monitor. “Thanks for having my back in there, man. I kinda thought we had a whole bromance thing going on.”
Chevy wipes the tears off his cheeks, still chuckling. “Too soon to tell on the bromance, but I appreciate the offer.”
Honestly, other than the mariachi band, Chevy has been far kinder than I would be, if the roles were reversed. After he picked me up at the municipal building, Chevy took me to his place to shower, let me borrow some clothes, then to Walmart for toiletries and—shudder—a temporary wardrobe. For the foreseeable future, I’ll be staying in his guest room.
I had the impression Chevy was a laid-back, stereotypical single guy. I would have expected him to drive a big truck and have the kind of bachelor pad where beer cans are the coffee table décor. But he restored the 1967 Ford Mustang we’re currently riding in. He also renovated and decorated his farmhouse bungalow, which has all the charm Lindy’s falling-apart house lacks. Apparently, Chevy is a small-town deputy who likes home improvement, restoring old cars, and could moonlight as an interior designer.
Oh, and he also likes pranks.
I just hope he can take as good as he gives, because it is ON. Maybe when I’m not dependent on his hospitality.
“Look, man,” he says, his big hands flexing on the wheel, “I’m willing to give you a chance, even though this whole town knows you broke Lindy’s heart once already.”
He glances over to see how I’m reacting to his statement. I have no idea what emotion my face is showing because I have like seven different ones stirring up inside me. Usually I’m all about the words, but right now, silence seems like the best option.
“I get the sense you’re a decent guy. Despite the past and that one time you punched me. I’d even go so far as to say I might support your efforts to win Lindy back.”
“Really? Because I get the sense you and the town would love to throw me out.” I shake my ankle monitor. “Except for this.”
“And that is also interesting,” Chevy says, nodding down at my ankle. “I’ve never known Judge Judie to hand out one of those. She generally leans toward the side of go to jail, go directly to jail, or pay super high fines. I’ve never seen her issue an ankle monitor. Especially to a non-Sheeter.”
“Huh. So, what does that mean, you think?”
A slow grin overtakes his face. “I think,” he says carefully, “it means some people in the town might actually be willing to give you a chance. They want you here for some reason. And it's not just because our team needs another win this year.”
In addition to my anklet, the judge handed out a community service—a very specific kind of community service as an assistant coach to the high school football team. Chevy is the other assistant coach, and he’s already warned me that the head coach is worthless and seems to have one foot out the door.
“Yeah? Why? Y’all barely know me. And I haven’t made a good showing so far.”
Chevy hums an agreement. “I can’t speak for Judge Judie. But call it a hunch. I kinda like you. And I think Lindy does too, despite all her protests.”
“Really? Because she just ran out on me when I proposed.”
Chevy gives me a quick glance, his face shocked. “You were proposing?”
“Not well. But yeah. I think I bombed even before the mariachi band.”