Crossroads: a point at which a crucial decision must be made that will have far-reaching consequences
Clete Deveraux is a little old Southern boy a long way from home, drifting the highways with his abusive boyfriend, Vern. Tal Clark is newly graduated from the University of Missouri in Columbia, but his plans for a carefree summer have just been derailed and he’s not sure what he’s going to do.
Things happen for a reason…
Clete and Tal’s lives intersect at a rest stop in central Missouri, but sometimes first impressions aren’t the best. And finding the right path isn’t always easy.
Clete and Tal have reached a crossroads… and now they have to decide which way they want to go. And who they want to go with.
No one in the world could make biscuits and gravy like a Southern cook. There was just something special about those flaky bits of baked dough smothered in thick, creamy sausage gravy that could not be duplicated, although many had tried. And while Clete Devereaux appreciated their efforts, it just wasn’t the same.
On the other hand, he wasn’t in the South anymore—he and Vern were in the state of Missouri. The long drive north through Illinois had been fairly boring. Not much to see but endless miles of flat farmland, with occasional oil wells, steadily pumping in and out of the ground. He’d wondered what they were at first. And when Vern told him, Clete was surprised. Not what he’d expected at all. Rather ordinary looking, actually. He was more impressed with the large cross they passed along the side of the highway. It was a ginormous silver cross, biggest he’d ever seen. Vern didn’t seem overly interested in it, and refused to take the exit so he could get a closer look.
“Just showin’ off,” Vern muttered as they drove by. “Don’t have time for that shit.” Clete didn’t argue with him—he never did ‘cause it never ended well. Instead, he contorted himself in the front passenger seat and craned his neck to stare behind them at the huge metal structure until it was no longer visible. He was impressed, even if Vern wasn’t.
Some people claimed Missouri was actually a Southern state. Mainly because many of the residents had owned slaves during the war between the North and South. But Clete knew that wasn’t true, and he knew the difference. He and Vern came from Mississippi. That made them true Southerners.
But these people tried, he had to hand them that. The gravy was just a bit too thin to be proper Southern gravy, and it was definitely underseasoned. That was a term he’d picked up watching a cooking show at some friend’s house they’d stayed at for a while. Generally, it meant not enough salt. Clete could agree with that in this case.
He glanced across the table at Vern, who listlessly moved his fork about his plate, making little attempt to eat. In fact, he seemed incredibly bored. Even though it had been his idea to stop here in the first place.
Clete didn’t know which was worse—a bored Vern or an angry one. Sometimes one developed into the other, so it was a moot point. The trouble was, he never knew when a bored yawn might become a flying fist.
Just because he could.
“More coffee?” Clete looked up. Their waitress stood beside the table, coffee pot in hand. She was comfortable looking, like she’d been working here her whole life and knew everyone. Her brown eyes were soft and warm and she’d been nothing but nice, even if Vern didn’t act appreciative. Now she smiled at him as she looked inquisitively at their cups.
“Yes, please,” Clete responded for both of them. He knew Vern well enough to know that he would take anything that was offered as long as it didn’t cost extra. According to the menu, the coffee came with unlimited refills. Which is why they were still sitting there in this small Missouri diner, instead of hitting the road.
Because they could.
