Page 44 of Sweet T

“Look, you don’t have to talk about it,” Evan continued. “I just—I thought we were being real here. Thought maybe you could use a friend.”

Tucker wanted just that. Maybe more, if he was being honest. Evan was so resilient. Twenty-four hours ago, he was being taken to the hospital in an ambulance. Now, here he was, chatting over cheeseburgers on the sofa. Tucker’s gut was telling him to open up, but he was terrified. Not scared so much of confronting inner demons, but afraid of losing himself in Evan’s liquid blue eyes.

“I want to,” he said. “I do. It’s just hard.”

“I get it. SMS.”

Tucker shot a confused glance at Evan.

“Southern Man Syndrome—that’s what I call it, anyway.”

“What do you mean by that?” Tucker asked.

“You know. Being macho. Hiding your emotions. Acting strong for others, or stronger than others.”

“Why do I feel like I’m being targeted?”

Evan put his plate on the coffee table by Tucker’s. “I’m not targeting you. I swear. It’s just an observation. You’re very family oriented. Protective of those close to you. Reserved. Stoic even.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not just a Southern thing.”

“You’re right. It isn’t. But in my experience, it’s prevalent in Southern men–southern heterosexual men, to be exact.”

“So now I’m straight?”

“I hope not.”

Tucker’s eyes shot to Evan’s. “Why?” he asked.

“Because you’re my friend... and I’m a little wary of those that walk the line right now, considering what happened to me.”

“You think the guy that attacked you was straight?”

“I think he’s living that life. Unhappy. Self-loathing. So disgusted by what’s natural to us that when he caves to it, he has to blame someone else. In my case, me.”

“You’ve been giving this some thought.”

“I have. He’s married, too. Cheating on his wife, miserable.”

“Spoon definitely has some of those. We also have the ones that are married with kids, have men on the side, and wives who know and don’t care—or at least tolerate it. There’s a chef that hosts Sunday lunches at Twin City Country Club. He’s an older local, has a big scar on his face from a rumored encounter much like yours, only several decades back. The man has three grown children and grandkids, all living and working in Spoon. His wife is at church every Sunday with him, arm in arm, knowing full well when they get to the club that his special waitstaff will also be there. See, the servers he uses for Sunday lunches are also his young companions. He’s no movie star, mind you, and pushing eighty. I don’t know what it is that draws these young men to him. Some folks suspect drugs. But, like his sexuality, it’s off the table. No one discusses it.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. The shady underbelly of Spoon, Georgia.”

“Y’all have a country club?”

“That’s all you’re taking away from this?”

Evan grinned. “Drugs are everywhere. Gay men are, too—good and bad. If you’re trying to scare me out of ever hitchhiking again, don’t worry. It’s a done deal.”

“Good.”

“But you succeeded in something else.”

“What’s that?” Tucker asked.

“Changing the subject. We were talking about you.”