The Long Game

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JIMMY BOY LEANED on the counter and flashed a sweet smile at the cute blonde working the register.

“I’m sure glad y’all were open this early ‘cause our pa wanted to have the new deck done this weekend.”

I kept my head bowed, eyes trained on the scuffed tennis shoes I’d pulled on in a rush to make it to the truck before we hightailed it to Slidell.

My brother and I hadn’t made the ten-minute drive to the hardware store to get parts for a new deck, and we certainly weren’t building one with our da. But, for some reason, that’s what Jimmy Boy’d come up with—as if visiting a hardware store for a box of screws was so unusual it required some kind of grand explanation.

Lying for lying’s sake never made me uncomfortable. If there was one thing I knew about being a Traveler, it’s that Travelers didn’t truck with being honest with country people, even when being dishonest wasn’t strictly necessary. Besides, it was difficult switching between talking from both sides of your mouth out on the road to being straight with people once you got home. There was just no point in trying to keep track of who you’d lied to and who you hadn’t.

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