Chapter 1 #2
She mouths, “I hate you,” and I smile a truly outrageous smile in return.
I have the sickest sense of wanting to put my fingers to my face to feel the lines, the way my mouth turns up.
I want to behold the fact that my face still knows how to do that.
It’s still possible. I don’t think I’ve smiled like that in a month, maybe a year. Maybe three years.
Turning back towards my newest table, I gulp and stare in awe at the man seated there, drumming his long fingers across the sticky plastic menu as he watches the sunrise through the smudged window pane. My heart seizes at the sight.
At first glance, he doesn’t belong here. This man does not belong in Eddie’s 24-hour roadside diner that hasn’t seen a mop in years. This man belongs on the cover of a magazine or in the movies. Maybe a board room or even a battlefield.
But when he senses my presence and turns to face me, I see it. It’s etched in the deep grooves of his forehead. The lack of laugh or smile lines. The lack of life in his eyes. Oh, how wrong I was.
This man belongs, just like the rest of us.
Sometimes, I wonder if Eddie’s is actually purgatory. Like everyone who’s stumbled in here is actually dead, and we’re just the holding cell.
Recognizing he’s just another broken person, I relax.
If he turned around with a megawatt smile, I would have been too nervous to serve him.
Roni says I’m a lovesick fool who doesn’t know how to act around men.
She’s right about the last part, but I’m not lovesick.
I’ve never been in love. Can’t be lovesick when you don’t even know what you’re missing, right?
My mouth slides to the side in not quite a smile but not a frown. Just a kindred offering that I hope says, “I see you. I know this. French fries won’t fix your problems, but they might help.”
He nearly mimics the gesture, and so, without letting an awkward silence fall between us, I ask, “What can I get you?” I use a gentle voice.
The same soft, delicate sound I would use if I came across a wounded animal in a forest. Not that I spend any real time in forests. But I’ve certainly imagined it enough.
The man clears his throat, “Uh, a full stack of pancakes. Side of bacon. Three eggs, fried. Side of biscuits and gravy, and…” He eyes the cherry pie sitting on the breakfast bar underneath its clear plastic dome, but he shakes his head, “a glass of orange juice.”
I jot down his order, and a second later, he says, “Thank you,” awkwardly, like he forgot his manners.
Looking up, I smile at him and offer a sliver of kindness in return. “You’re so welcome.” Same soft voice for the wounded man.
Double-checking the order before I rip it off the pad to pass to George, I can’t help but wonder how a man looks as cut as he does, eating like this. A strange thought tugs at the rear of my mind, but I ignore it, pouring his glass of OJ.
Setting it down in front of him, I turn to leave, but he stops me. “Do you have a pen and paper I could borrow?” he asks.
“A pen, yes. But will I get the paper back?”
His cheeks tinge a light pink. “Well, no. Can I just have the paper?” I laugh gently and pass him a spare guest check pad and a pen.
It’s only after I’ve passed it over that I realize I’ve given him my favorite pen.
Vintage, from the Grand Canyon. On it, it says, “The biggest hole in the west.” It always makes me want to giggle when I see it.
Not that I ever actually do, but the thought that it might is nice.
He scans the pen quickly, and his mouth upturns slightly. “I’ll make sure you get this back.” He holds up the pen, much to my relief.
“It is my prized possession.” I’m not really joking, but that doesn’t matter. I walk away quickly when one of my other tables motions for me to refill their sodas.
I walk past his table a few more times before his food comes out to bring him a glass of water and drop napkins, that sort of thing. I don’t say anything, but each time I pass by, he has another note scribbled on the back side of the blank guest checks.
It’s not intentional, but occasionally, I get a glimpse of what he’s written. Seems nonsensical at first, but when I deliver his food, he fails to cover the last note before I read it.
No funeral. Please. It’s my one request.
Love you, sis. I’m sorry.
Chills run up my spine. My tongue feels thick in my mouth, and this feeling… I’ve felt it before, and I hate it.
Men like that don’t eat like this. I don’t say anything, not that I could. No, instead, I silently deposit the plates in front of him. But my eyes water as soon as I turn and walk away.
I hate that. I hate everything about it.
The long-held ache in my chest cracks open again.
I want to sit next to him, and hug him, and tell him everything’s going to be okay.
But it would be a lie. I don’t know anything.
Least of all, if things will be okay. Hell, if anything, I’ve learned the opposite.
Just when things couldn’t possibly get worse, there was always a way.
This place, Eddie’s, feels especially like purgatory tonight. There’s a group of degenerate-looking gamblers in a corner booth. Missionaries at another. Several low-life-looking tables. But far and away, most tables are just lonely-looking souls. Too many to count.
My hands turn clammy, and I rub them against the skirt of my uniform.
“God, could Table 19 be any hotter?” Roni whispers, coming to stand beside me while I roll silverware into paper napkins.
Nodding but not saying anything, I keep rolling away, swallowing against the tight feeling in my throat.
This is ridiculous. I shouldn’t care. I don’t even know him. If this was any other person, would I care? Or is this just because he’s pretty? Alright, I would care, but I probably care more because he is, without a doubt, one of the most beautiful humans I’ve ever encountered.
“Have you ever thought about…not doing this anymore? L-like life, I mean? Do you ever just want to give up?” I ask her quietly.
It’s silent between us, aside from the sound of silverware clanking against the laminate counter and The Supremes singing in the background.
After some consideration, Roni finally says, “Sure. I mean, look around, Em. This is our life. It’s not exactly any better outside this shithole either…” The truth reverberates and hits me deep in the chest.
Hopelessness, I know. Despair, also yes. But could I really give it up? I don’t know. And if I’m being honest, it’s probably because I’m too cowardly to do anything about it. There isn’t any nobility in me choosing to live. But to leave on your own terms? That’s fucking brave.
“Alright, hun, time to go home,” Dina rasp-yells across the breakfast bar top. My shoulders droop. I’m not ready to leave. I’m never ready to leave, but especially today. There’s a tug, quietly asking me to stay. But that’s nothing new, really.
“Can I please stay through the morning rush, please?” I ask Dina, just shy of begging.
My hands actually clasp together as if in prayer.
I know my shift is the night shift, but it’s undoubtedly the shitiest shift.
The worst tippers. The most drunks. The morning rush is solid, though.
People heading to work, old people, young people. Families.
Sometimes, if Dina is nursing a hangover, she’ll let me stay…but not today.
She shakes her head and says, “No dice, sweetheart.” I hate that she calls everyone a nickname like it’s endearing. Honestly, I think she does it because she can’t remember our names.
I give a fake smile to Roni, who shrugs sympathetically.
Without thinking twice, I plate a piece of cherry pie, write a quick note on Table 19’s check, then set the pie in front of him as I clear his empty plates.
“I didn’t –” he starts to tell me he didn’t order the slice of cherry pie. I shrug and drop his check on the table.
Feather-light so no one else can hear, I say, “Life is short.” I give him a soft smile, and without waiting for him to read the check or even respond, I walk toward the back to dump his dishes.
I’m slightly embarrassed by my presumptive thoughts, but if there’s anything that years at Eddie’s have taught me, it’s to leave my shame behind.
So I drop it, along with my cares, and head for the back office.
When I cash out, I count my tips to discover I nearly worked at a loss after buying Table 19’s meal. But it was worth it, I hope.
Then, opting not to do my closing work as a little “F you” to Dina, I head towards the back parking lot.
Elvis singing, “Only fools rush in,” gets cut off as the heavy back door closes, sealing the sound in and me out.
In its place, a bird chirps into the freshly risen sun.
The brisk morning air cuts through my thin uniform, and I shiver as I walk toward my old Honda.
“Hey,” a deep voice startles me.
“Holy firking shirtballs!” I clutch a hand to my chest with alarm. Getting caught, alone, with a man in the back parking lot is one of my worst nightmares.
“I wanted to give you your pen back.” He extends a brawny arm covered in a baby-soft, long-sleeved sweater. “And you didn’t need to pay for my meal.” The pen is sandwiched between a couple hundred-dollar bills.
My cheeks feel hot, likely red now. “I wanted to,” I say quietly and timidly because: big man, small-ish girl, creepy parking lot.
He thrusts his arm towards me again, but I stand there unmoving. A part of me wants to cry, standing in the early morning sun across from him. Will I be the last one to see him like this?
I wonder because, truthfully, what a shame. His sandy-colored hair, a shade darker than mine, is backlit in the first rays of sunlight. His high cheekbones are painted pink above his neatly trimmed beard, like he’s been standing out in the cold waiting for me. Beautiful, I decide.
“Please, take it,” he pleads.
“I can’t accept.” Idiot. I should accept. I should take the money — what looks like four hundred dollars — because I’m broke, and crudely enough, he doesn’t need it where he’s going.
Even with all that, I can’t will my body to reach out. I shake my head reluctantly, and he drops his arm back down to his side.
“If you keep looking at me like that, I won’t be able to do it, you know,” he says with exasperation and maybe some shame, looking down at his feet while he speaks.
“Maybe it’s because I don’t want you to…” I say back, soft, like I’m back in the woods and a baby deer is laid out in pain before me.
“I’m not a good person, Emma.”
Emma. The way he says my name…that he noticed my name. I mean, it’s loud and proud on my name tag, but most people don’t take notice.
“Few people actually are,” I say in defense.
“Yet somehow, I get the feeling you’re one of the few.” He looks me in the eyes, and it’s like a shock to the system. Like I know his pain without knowing him. I can practically feel it, too.
I shrug because I do think I’m a good person. But did I just cut out on my closing duties? Yeah. So maybe I’m not the best person. But decent? A hundred percent. Because I’ve been around shitty people. Bad people. And I know that I am far and away from being bad people. And so is Table 19.
“I would say the same about you.”
He sighs, his broad shoulders rising up before slowly falling. “You wanna know why I’m here?”
Desperately. I would give anything for him to just keep talking. So I nod.
“I came here to find someone to marry. Someone just drunk enough that they would choose me. Just lost enough…” his voice trails off. “I sound like a fucking predator when I say it out loud. And I’m not a predator or a murderer or anything, just to be clear.”
“Sounds like something a predator-slash-murderer would say.” I feel nothing but relief when he almost chuckles at my remark. It’s not fully formed, maybe just a scoff, but it warms me from the inside out. It does more than warm me; it’s a singe.
“I swear I don’t own any windowless vans.” He holds up his right hand in a pledge, in what I think is his attempt at a joke. This time, I laugh involuntarily. It surprises me.
With an almost smile on his face, he drops his hand and asks, “Any chance you’d want to grab a coffee or something since I can’t reimburse you for the breakfast?
” Oh. The look on my face has him backtracking, though.
“You know, actually, I forgot it’s the week before Christmas, and you probably have somewhere to be or people to get home to. ”
I don’t.
I shake my head. “No. I really don’t.” I sound quiet and pathetic because I am. I used to have people, but honestly, it’s better this way. “I would accept a coffee…on one condition.”
“What’s that?” he asks cooly, almost as if he’s prepared to give me whatever I demand.
“Your name. What’s your name?” That same, not-quite-a-smile passes across his lips.
“Alexander.”
Alexander.