CHAPTER 53
KIAN
After I left the gym, I decided that more than anything, I need a cheat meal. A juicy cheeseburger with greasy bacon on top. And pickles, lots and lots of pickles on top. Especially if they’re crunchy. My mouth waters in anticipation.
Muscle memory takes me to Miss Mary's, and I soon find myself parking in the familiar lot.
It’s not busy now, the dinner crowd having already dispersed. I open the door, and the overhead bell dings. The sign says to seat myself, and I walk past empty booths with red, vinyl coverings and a table sealed with epoxy that has newspaper clippings tucked securely underneath.
My favorite booth is the one in the corner, closest to the jukebox and with the best view of the front door. Listening to music and people watching was my favorite thing to do after graduating–the amount of people I went to highschool with who would come in here after their nine to five, dressed in business slacks. Or the other ones who have random jobs coming in with their significant others.
When I worked at the newspaper, for all of the six months I was there, me and Trent always met here after I clocked out for the day. He worked so hard to get us on similar schedules while he was working at the grocery store. I still remember when he came home with a bright smile on his face saying his manager approved the schedule change. It was a shitty schedule, both of us having to be at work by three forty-five in the morning. But we did it together, and then we rewarded ourselves with cheap burgers and the best milkshakes in town.
The grocery store was sold out and new management was brought in, and that’s when our relationship took a nosedive. Trent was like me and couldn’t hold a job down for a very long time. Nothing was a good fit, and his options were small with his school records and only experience being from a grocery store. I stumbled across the social media management job, and it was the blessing we needed. We moved out of Mitch’s and into our own apartment. Until the rent went up and we couldn’t afford that one, so we found another in our price range. And then the same thing again. And again.
It was no different than it was in high school, constantly moving around and never feeling stable. It stressed me out and strained our relationship.
We’ve been through so many issues together, but we’ve always come out on top. So what drove him into another man’s arms? I pondered it for so long. I thought maybe the guy provided something more than me. He was hotter, more well-off, whatever the heck he was. But one day, when I was live streaming a video for my subscribers on OnlyFans, it hit me. That guy–the asshole from the video–made Trent feel wanted. Right or wrong, Trent was begging for attention, and he got it from someone who wasn’t me. And that’s what hurts worse than anything.
I could have forgiven him for drunkenly doing stuff. I don’t care what anyone says, just because someone does something while they’re drunk, it doesn’t mean they’ve thought about it or it’s their true colors, or whatever reasoning people might come up with. When Trent gets drunk, he puts himself in a vulnerable position, and his emotions, especially his self hatred, are amped up to the extremes. I’ve seen it time and time again. He resorts back to self destruction. And that’s what happened to us.
A melancholy feeling comes over me when the waitress stops by to take my order. I tell her the exact thing I used to get when Trent and I used to come here. A double-patty cheeseburger, add bacon, add double pickles. When she walks away, something else dawns on me. I didn’t say no tomatoes. I freaking despise tomatoes, but Trent would always take them off my burger and eat them himself.
Great, now that dumb fruit that should be considered a vegetable is going to poison me.
I scroll on my phone while I wait for my food, listening to the idle chatter of the older ladies two booths down from me. Their bright white hair is in chaotic curls, and their laughter is loud and contagious. I put my phone face down on the table and concentrate on what they’re saying. For the most part, it sounds like old lady drama and talking about what’s happening on the latest episode of the soap opera they’re watching.
“Did you hear he got sentenced?” the one closest to me stage whispers, and my ears perk. I’m a sucker for a good scandal.
Their next words are muffled, and I could literally pull my hair out. Why are they trying to gatekeep who got arrested? I need to know now. I’m invested.
“Yeah, they said there had been multiple reports about him.”
Who? Say freaking who. Right now, grandma. I need to know.
“Multiple? I haven’t heard that! I know there was that one allegation about two years ago. But it never went anywhere.”
“That was so sad. Trent is so nice to everyone. Remember when he used to work at the grocery store? He always carried out my groceries for me no matter what else he had to do. Such a sweet boy.”
Trent, like my Trent? No, no way.
“And his boyfriend was adorable too! He worked at the gas station, and he always had his curly hair pulled back into a ponytail. My hair never looks like that, no matter how many perms I get.”
Well, they are definitely talking about Trent, unless there happens to be another man named Trent in town that happened to work at a grocery store and his boyfriend had curly hair and worked at a gas station. That’s a little too specific.
“I’m just glad to hear something is finally being done about James. He’s been a predator around here for too long. Goodbye and good riddance.”
What the hell? Would it be rude to sit down beside them? I mean, really, they’re already talking about me, so I’m just including myself in the conversation now.
The waitress sets my plate in front of me, and the greasy smell that I normally love so much causes my stomach to roll. I wait patiently to see if the women will say anything else, but there’s nothing. They pay their check and walk out, like they didn’t upend my whole identity with their dinner talk.
I need to find Trent, now more than ever, and figure out what in the ever loving heck actually happened that night.