Georgia Boys

11. in which we go on a road trip

gb readers,, i adore u all (or whatever) 

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If any knowledgeable onlooker were to see the image of Quincy and I settled in the front seat of his parents' truck, they would have to assume that Quincy dragged me out on yet another one of his adventures.

It's be a fitting assumption, especially given the fact that hiking, swimming, going to the skate park and grocery shopping were all Quincy's ideas. Since we were shorter than the stools in our relative bakeries, any sort of quest can be traced back to Quincy's mind.

But the truth of the matter is that I came up with this damn idea. Not Quincy. Shocker, I know. I'd woken up to a dream about Quincy that I haven't yet given myself the time to process. Shortly thereafter, I ended up at Quincy's bakery this morning, and took a good glimpse about the space. Where our bakery has pale pink walls and stool coverings, the Denton bakery has sky blue décor.

I can't exactly remember the last time I'd been here. Quincy, for so long, has always been the one to run into my bakery. Sure, I would've likely slipped into the Denton bakery a few times due to Quincy dragging the gang and I along or my parents sliding in to engage in passive aggressive discussion with the Dentons— but as a whole, I haven't spent half as much time there as I have in my own family's.

Either way, I'd walked into the bakery, hands slipped into my pocket. I'd first laid eyes on Mr and Mrs. Denton bustling about the shop. Both were behind the front counter once I'd walked in, their eyes flicking to me and widening with that air of familiarity. 

They had some pumpkin pie special today that I'd decided to order to feel as though I had a reason to be here. They had me sit at the front stool, exactly in the manner than Quincy has always done, before bringing me my pie.

Mrs. Denton only collects half the price of the pumpkin pie in cash, waving me away when I try to pay the rest. 

"Mrs. Denton," I'd started, "I couldn't possibly—"

Quincy's mother had interrupted me with a wink. "First order is half-off. Store policy."

I had squinted at her but didn't utter much else outside of thank you. 

The Dentons have this dynamic you couldn't exactly look away from. Mr and Mrs. Denton essentially dance behind their front counter, all playfulness and teases. He makes her laugh. Baking, while keeping them on their toes, is fun for them. At least, that's what I had noticed when I truly watched them earlier today. 

My parents were like me in the sense that they don't speak too much. One would think, then, that perhaps we were the type of family to sit on opposite ends of a long dining room table with thick tension between us. However, my parents' own dynamic has some sort of quiet love. They are all business in the kitchen, but on more than one occasion, whenever they are closing together, I have caught sight of the two swaying side by side. 

In that moment, digging into the pumpkin pie, I'd wondered if I'd ever have that: the playful love or the quiet love. I wondered if any of Quincy's relationships had ever reflected it. I wondered if the next person he dated would. And that was then I stopped my wonderings before they became too inane.

Mr. Denton—much love to him because I wouldn't have asked otherwise— had managed to grab Quincy from behind the shop and push him to the front. Quincy, whose eyes had been wandering had brightened once they landed on me.

"My savior!" He'd exclaimed. And to his parents, he'd asked, "does this mean I no longer have to run any errands today?"

Mr. Denton had slapped his back with a hearty laugh. "Nope! But Silas will be here once you get back."