Page 29 of Believe in Caloosa Springs

I huffed a laugh as Porter eased the car to a stop just outside the main barn. I could already see a bunch of people I didn’t recognize mulling about around the barn’s expansive entrance. “Yes, I’m gay. You have nothing to worry about on that front.”

Porter breathed out an exaggerated sigh of relief before killing the car's engine. “Good.”

As I got out of the car, I could see a small crowd of people holding up flashlights several yards away from the barn. The second my brain asked what they were doing, a large plume of flames erupted in the center of them. The guys around the fire began to hoot and holler as several people began to clap and cheer. They made their way closer to the warmth of the flame.

“Folks sure do seem to get pretty excited around here,” Porter commented, coming up to stand next to me.

“Right? Imagine what they would do if they ever saw a professional firework show or something.”

“Want a drink?” he asked.

I shrugged, “Sure. I’ll have whatever.”

Porter laid the flat of his hand on the small of my back, and we made our way into the barn.

Tyler was the first person I laid eyes on that I recognized. He smiled and gave a friendly nod as we passed each other. He was carrying a stack of folding chairs. I smiled back and waved.

“You need any help?” Porter asked. He was so quick to offer assistance. It was cute.

“Nah, I got it,” Tyler said. “Grab a drink and relax.”

Porter walked over to a large ice chest and pulled out two bottles. A Coke and a longneck with a label I’d never seen before. Not that I was a beer connoisseur or anything. I enjoyed them now and then, but I preferred to smoke unless it was a holiday or special occasion. What better occasion to drink beer than at a small-town bonfire in the middle of a farm?

A few more vehicles had pulled up and parked haphazardly around the barn, their occupants greeting each other with cat-calls and slaps on the back.

I was suddenly uncomfortable, and cursed myself for agreeing to come. These were so clearlynotmy people. I reached up and scratched at the skin between my wrist and palm. My skin always got itchy when I was nervous. A terrible flaw—I’d have preferred just about any of the other nervous ticks that plague people. Sweating, I could deal with. I wear enough deodorant and cologne to choke out a dime-store hooker. With the uncontrollable itching, it looked like I was having some kind of psychotic break, scratching at myself like a werewolf trying to claw my own skin off or something.

Stuttering would have been fine too, as I didn’t want to talk to most people, anyway. A speech impediment would have probably kept my ass out of trouble at multiple points in my life so far, come to think of it. I was just so quick-witted and had negative amounts of patience, so my brain-to-mouth filter had never been able to keep up. Then again, not being able to get words out would be fucking frustrating. I saw this news report a few months back about some young guy getting kidnapped by akiller freak who was stalking him. The only thing anyone seemed to be able to say about the kid was that he had a really bad stutter. That was, like, the only identifiable characteristic anyone seemed to recall.

I cringed thinking of that poor guy, and wondered briefly if they'd found him, or if he was even still alive. Fucked-up stalking stories always hit kinda close to home, being someone who, very much against their will, had a bunch of creepy fans. A healthy fear of obsession was a big part of what brought me to Caloosa Spring: to lie low.

I shifted the beer from my right hand to my left so I could grate my palm against the side of my jeans. I wassoitchy. My hands felt like they were on fire. God, I needed to get my shit together.

“You okay?”

I stood stock-still before willing myself to bring my hand back up to a normal position.

“Yeah-h-h,” I drawled nervously. “My hand just itched.” Turning slightly, I brought my beer up to my lips.

Once Porter looked away, I used the end of the bottle to scratch down the side of my nose and cheek as we made our way towards the fire. We walked through a few groups of people clustered in little packs, all laughing and catching up. Porter and I took a seat on two folding chairs, and I was immediately grateful for the warmth the fire was giving off. It was downright frigid outside. It had that bitter, icy feel that made me wonder if it was going to snow. That would be shitty. Not that the snow wasn’t beautiful to look at, but once it got anywhere near the fire, it was just going to melt into an icy rain shower for anyone close to the flame.

I took a few more pulls off the long neck in my hand and looked around awkwardly. I didn’t recognize anyone, except the few Baker Farms employees I’d seen in passing.

“Thank you for coming out with me tonight.”

I looked over to see Porter gazing at me with a big, goofy grin on his face. Hewaspretty damn cute.

“Thanks for inviting me,” I replied.

He nodded and glanced away long enough for me to scratch at the side of my face and then down my wrists.Shit, I was a nervous wreck. What the fuck was wrong with me?Porter had made it pretty obvious that he was pretty into me. I wasn’t concerned with impressing him, or anything, so what was my deal?

Within a few minutes we were all called back to the barn to grab plates near-buckling under the weight of hotdogs, pasta salad, and chips. The smell was heavenly. It was almost enough to make me forget my misery for a second. The franks were grilled to plump, juicy perfection, and the salad, laden with creamy dressing and fresh veggies, was piled high.

As I turned from the long table back towards the exit, plate in hand, Porter stopped me.

“Hey, hold up a second,” he said, his lips pursing as he raised an eyebrow. He reached up and gently tilted my chin towards the light. “Tian, your face is all red.”

“It’s probably from me scratching. I do that when I’m nervous.”

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