Dumplin - Julie Murphy Page 0,21

to the kitchen.

At the end of the night, Ron sends us all home early and promises to come in tomorrow morning to do the closing checklist. I would protest because my mother taught me that a southern lady always puts up a fight when anyone else volunteers to do the cleaning, but I’m all too ready to be home.

I try to be quick and beat Bo out the door, but with every step I take, he’s on my heels.

I have got to find a new job.

My hand is on the door of my car and I’m nearly home free.

“Willowdean.”

I turn.

He moves toward me so quickly that I feel like I’m moving, too.

Our noses brush and his lips stop short of mine. My mind’s eye has yet to catch up and process that he is here, in my bubble, redefining everything I thought I knew of myself. My discretion. My pride. They’re both gone and it’s like I’ve got horse blinders on.

I am kissing Bo Larson. I am thinking of Bo Larson.

For the first time in my life, I feel tiny. I feel small. And not in the shrinking flower kind of way. This feeling: it empowers me.

“I want to kiss you,” he says, and with each word, his lips brush against mine.

I lose all words and, instead, lace my fingers through his hair and pull his lips to meet mine.

TWO MONTHS LATER

TWELVE

Standing on my tiptoes to reach the top shelf, I feel my apron fall loose, the tie at my waist coming undone. I glance behind me to my right and then to my left to see Bo grinning.

He winks.

Bo has become the best and worst part of my day.

The watch on my wrist tells me it’s 6:02 p.m. Time for my break. I shove the last bag of buns onto the shelf, carelessly crushing them no doubt, and turn to follow him. My feet carry me without my mind having any say. Behind me noise fades and all I hear are the echoes of Harpy’s. Orders shouted out. Customers complaining. Marcus whistling. Meat sizzling. It all fades to zero.

Until earlier this summer I’d never known anything like this. It’s the moment right before I grab the bag of trash piled on top of the crates in the back and kick the already ajar back door open.

It’s the second before I drop the leaking plastic bag next to the Dumpster as Bo Larson crushes me up against the metal door and nothing but his lips touch me. It’s that millisecond of no hands. Just lips.

Then, like a dam releasing water, his hands roam and the moment is gone. And I remember how uncomfortable his touch on my soft body makes me feel.

When it hits, my mind turns back on like it’s on a timer. Every moment feels rehearsed because as things between us progressed, I spent more and more energy trying to predict what he might do next. And now I know. I know that when he inches me toward the short Dumpster with the lid and holds his hand around my waist that he wants to lift me up. So I always reach back and hoist myself up, because the thought of him trying to lift me and failing makes me cringe every time. When his fingers trail down my chest and across my stomach, I suck in. Which is stupid because it never makes any difference in pictures and I doubt it does now.

It’s in those moments that I’m a shadow of the person I was. The woman Lucy had meant for me to be.

But when he says my name, it’s always a surprise. “Willowdean,” he says, and each letter tickles all the way down to my toes.

Every night, when Ron sends us home, we walk to our cars, a few feet separating us. When we’ve slipped into the darkness outside the red glow of Harpy’s, Bo brushes his fingers against mine before walking around to his driver’s-side door. “Follow me.”

I don’t even bother nodding because I will and he knows it.

He starts his car and I start mine. This thing between us is a roller coaster. The brakes might be out and the tracks might be on fire, but I can’t make myself get off the ride.

THIRTEEN

I’ve learned so much about Bo. And yet he’s still a mystery. Like the thing with red suckers. He used to have anger issues as a kid, so his mom would give him a red sucker and say, If you’re still