“
What am I busy doing at lunch?” I asked. “Did you want to go pick out some more paint? Because I thought you were still working on the GTO and the SS.”
“No,” he answered, not moving an inch, but instead, just watching me. “I brought you fucking lunch.”
He brought me—did he just say lunch?
“There’s a thing in the fridge with your name on it,” Rip kept going, watching me steadily. “I could use your help later if you’ve got time.”
All I heard was something about him needing my help if I had time, but what I really focused on was the container in the fridge with my name on it.
“Come get me if you do,” he said, taking a step back like he hadn’t just surprised the crap out of me.
But I could still get a few thoughts together, at least enough to call out, “What am I going to be doing tomorrow?”
He was still walking backward as he told me, “I’m bringing you lunch tomorrow too.”
What was happening?
What was happening?
“You don’t have to bribe me to be your friend! I’ve been waiting for this for years, Rip,” I hollered after him, ignoring the way my stomach had just felt like we’d started a descent from a steep roller-coaster ride.
I’d swear I heard a chuckle as he answered, “Get to fucking work and come get me if you’ve got time to help me out.”
We were friends.
We were.
Favor or not, you didn’t bring someone food who you weren’t fond of.
I really didn’t want to smile, but I couldn’t freaking help it as he walked back out of the room.
”
”