Page 144 of The Lineman

Gina’s entire soul left her body.

She put both hands on the table and leaned in, her expression almost as deep as the cleft of her sagging, very visible boobs. “Whatkindof sweet tea?”

I frowned. “Like . . . how sweet is it? Southern sweet or normal sweet?”

The gasp that left her was so dramatic that the cook in the back poked his head out, looking concerned.

Gina straightened, pointed at me, and glared. “You listen to me, young man. This is a proper Southern establishment. Our sweet tea is so sweet it’ll make ya want to slap ya mama. If ya ain’t prepared for that, I suggest ya can get the fuck out now.”

I held up my hands in surrender. “I’ll take the tea.”

She gave a satisfied nod and strutted off again.

Mike leaned across the table, voice low. “I think she just hexed you.”

I laughed and shook my head.

The diner wasn’t exactly bustling with business. If anything, it felt like the kind of place that never had more than a handful of diners at a time—just enough to keep the lights on, but never enough to be considered busy.

At a corner booth, a man who looked like he’d been carved out of the North Georgia mountains himself was hunched over a plate of catfish, methodically forking pieces into his mouth. His beard was impressive, a wiry, silver-gray thing that covered most of his face, and his faded flannel shirt looked like it had seen more than its fair share of hard work. He chewed slow, his eyes trained on a newspaper—an actual newspaper—spread out in front of him, his finger tracing the print like he was searching for each next word.

Near the front counter, a pair of older women sat in a booth, their heads close together, whispering in the way that only Southern women could—just loud enough to ensure everyone knew they were talking about someone, but not so loud that you could make out who. One of them, a petite woman with tight gray curls, kept glancing our way with undisguised interest, her lips pursed like she was cataloging details for later gossip. Her friend, a slightly taller woman with badly dyed auburn hair whose roots bordered on a shade of baby poop green, seemed equally intrigued, though she pretended to be more interested in her bowl of peach cobbler.

At the counter, a kid—he couldn’t have been more than seventeen—sat hunched over a milkshake, scrolling on his phone. His work uniform, a navy polo with a stitched logo that read, “Harrison’s Auto Repair,” was slightly wrinkled, like he’d thrown it on in a hurry. He barely looked up, too absorbed in whatever was on his screen, occasionally sipping at the milkshake with all the energy of someone who had been forced to labor in a North Korean work camp.

And in the farthest booth, pressed against the wall like he wanted to be anywhere else, was a guy who had definitely not been born and raised around here. He wore a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his tie loosened, his hair slicked back like he had tried to make himself look presentable and then gave up halfway through. His laptop was open in front of him, the glow of the screen reflecting off his glasses, and beside it was a half-eaten burger and a sweating glass of sweet tea. Every few minutes, he pinched the bridge of his nose like he had a headache, then typed something aggressively, muttering under his breath.

They all seemed completely unaffected by Gina’s theatrics, which meant they were either used to her, or they had simply learned to survive her.

Either way, aside from the gossips, they barely spared us a second glance.

Which, considering how off balance Gina had already knocked us, was probably for the best.

The food arrived about fifteen minutes later, and when I say I saw God, I mean I saw God.

The plates were overflowing. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes drowning in gravy, biscuits the size of my fist, collard greens, macaroni and cheese, cornbread—everything.

And Gina?

Gina slammed our plates down with an air of triumph.

“There,” she said, smug. “Now eat, before I have to sit down and show you how it’s done.”

Mike and I exchanged a look.

Then we dug in.

And holy shit.

I had never eaten anything so good in my life.

Mike let out an obscene groan at his first bite of fried chicken. I was this close to proposing to whoever made the biscuits.

At some point, Gina walked by and smirked. “Looks like youarecity boys. Poor things, shoveling it in like you’ve never had real food before.”

I didn’t even look up. “I’m in love with this meal. Seriously, I want to take it out back and make love to it right this minute.”

“I’m flattered,” she said. “But you’re not my type. I like my men with fewer broken bones.”

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