After a few beats, he pulls out one of those five thousand dollars bundles and gives me the top one-hundred-dollar bill. “You can keep the change.”

The only polite thing to say here would be, “Thank you.”

But I'm done being polite.

I snatch the bill from his hand and head out, ignoring Meemaw’s protests about how breakfast is nearly made.

“I can't believe she's going to get something junky at the general store when I'm making her a homemade meal,” she says to Waylon, her voice laced through with exasperation.

“She grew up hard without anybody she could trust,” Waylon explains, his voice flat, like he’s just giving information. “You were right to text me, but it's going to take her a while to forgive you for that.”

His words make me pause in the doorway. He’s right. That's exactly how I feel—betrayed like in my foster days. I mean, just all kinds of triggered.

I don't know what's more disturbing…

That Waylon is here and making excuses for me after everything he did to me—what he’s still doing to me by keeping me here.

Or that he can read me so well.

CHAPTER 10

Charlie, the barrel-chested older man who runs the general store, frowns at the pile of groceries I place beside his register, then back up at me.

“Is Meemaw all right?” he asks. “I thought she was making you and Waylon Belgian waffles for your breakfast date this morning. Lucinda came in here special yesterday for bacon.”

Wow. Does everybody in this start-up town know everybody’s business?

“I decided not to play their little game anymore,” I answer between clenched teeth. “Can you just ring me up?”

Charlie snaps a brown paper bag open and begins to put my stuff inside it. But he gives my perishable items the stink eye: fruit, a ton of frozen dinners, bagels, and some cream cheese I scored from the store’s large but single refrigerator.

“Bagels!” he spits out like I’ve included rat poison in the collection of things I plan to eat. “I don’t know why you’re eating these cut-rate things. That woman makes the best Belgian waffles in Iowa. Used to be a time when me and the other guys would get into fights over who would get her on Saturdays for maid service, just because we knew she'd be making us Belgian waffles if we asked her nice. Also, she was a fucking spark plug in bed. Crazytown Sr. eventually won that fight permanently when she let him move in. Lucky bastard. I wouldn’t have minded dying between those sweet thighs.”

I glance from side to side. Edit my original question. Does everyone in this start-up town know everyone else’s business and spill all the tea? That was way, way more information than I wanted to know about Meemaw. Or Charlie.