Chapter 1 #2
Then, to my own surprise, I don’t walk away. Curiously, I say, “Only…pineapple?”
Cary flicks open a napkin. He doesn’t answer.
That’s my cue to get back to work. But I don’t. “It’s not a bad choice,” I tell him. “I prefer my pizza sweet and spicy.”
“I did not ask.”
The suddenness of his cold tone pierces me. An arrow ripping through skin.
My head tilts. “Sorry, what?”
“I did not ask,” Cary repeats with that same curtness, “what you like.”
Embarrassment burns across my cheeks. I shift on my heels. The urge to leave grows. So does something else under my skin. An annoyance that’s slowly building from a smolder to a flame.
During training, Angela laid out her rules.
The first: While they’re in Viva Catalina’s, the customer is always right.
From the moment I started here in June, I’ve respected that rule. I’ve never broken it. But with Cary…it’s hard not to. His cruel, downturned mouth. The blade-sharpness of his glare, like he’s searching for a weakness.
My life has been split in half since that incident two years ago. Divided into the promising August of Before and the ashes of August After. Who I was then—hopeful and logical and tethered—isn’t who I am now.
Now I’m impulsive. Reckless with my decisions.
Most days, I keep it bottled up. I ignore the clawing beneath my skin.
But not today.
I lean down, lowering my voice. “For someone who has such a sweet tooth, you sure are salty.” His finely shaped jaw tenses. I don’t allow him room to retort. “Next time, add some pepperoni and jalapenos. It might make your personality a little more…original.”
Once the words break free, guilt spreads like blood from an open wound. I shouldn’t have said that. He’s a customer. It was too far. It wasn’t me.
The old me, I mean.
Angela’s going to fire me. An apology fumbles around my throat.
I stop myself when Cary’s eyes flash. Gold spilled over black ink. At least, it looks that way. Maybe my humiliation is playing tricks on my mind.
“You assume there will be a next time,” Cary finally says. His fingers curl into fists on the table.
I open my mouth.
“You can go now,” he says with a dull, uncaring voice.
His eyes—black, they’re black—look past me. As if I’m not there.
Invisible.
Whatever I planned to say fades as the music overhead comes into focus. I recognize the song. I haven’t heard it in forever. On purpose. But it streams through my ears, clear as water.
The lyrics slam into me like the other car that night: Gonna leave this world for a while.
A wave rises in my stomach. It swells fast. Fills my lungs. My vision blurs like morning condensation on a window. I’m drowning, and once again, those lyrics are the last words I hear before everything falls apart.
“Auggie?”
Distantly, I hear Max’s voice under the tide. Almost as loud as Tom Petty’s singing. The voice that haunts my nightmares.
“I need air,” I gasp out.
My feet carry me past her. She tries to follow.
“Alone,” I snap, unintentionally. “Give me a minute. I’m fine.”
I’m not.
I never am in these moments. But admitting that out loud is too risky.
A tear slices hotly over my cheek. I stumble through the kitchen. Past Angela’s closed office door.
My shoulder slams through the pizzeria’s back door. I ignore the throb it leaves behind. All I want is for the music to stop.
The door swings shut behind me, snuffing out the noise. Fresh air doesn’t come fast enough. I cough as rot creeps into the back of my throat. Ripe trash and filth.
My wet eyes trail over my surroundings. I’m in the alley behind the restaurant. A thin passage between buildings.
The wave continues to push against my skin. It screams for release. For me to open the gates. I refuse. It’ll be too much.
I’ll never be able to stop it.
Bile sits sour on my tongue. Wincing, I swallow it down.
It happened so long ago. I should be past this by now, I remind myself.
Stray tears fall on my lips. Salt on my tongue. I’m too scared to close my eyes. To see it all again against the backs of my lids. After another long breath, I cycle through the tips I’ve learned from watching online videos about how to handle situations like this.
I brace my back against the nearest wall. The bricks are sun-warmed under my fingertips.
What do you see? one of the videos asked.
A blue sky bruised pink and crimson. Like the sun refuses to go down without a fight.
Next, I focus on what I can hear. Cars honk in the distance. Halogen lights flicker on. The tiny splash from a cat crossing over a growing puddle. A pipe must’ve burst recently.
Then, footsteps. Nearby.
Movement crosses my periphery. Through the unshed tears blurring my vision, I recognize the shape of a person. Someone emerges from behind a dumpster.
His face wakes a sharp gasp from my lungs.
Cary.
“You” scrapes out of my tight throat.
He’s frozen, startled. The alley’s shadows crawl hungrily toward him.
“What—”
The word hasn’t even skimmed my lips before Cary’s gone. Like a ghost.
“—the fuck,” I finish while staring at the spot where Cary should be.
But he’s not.
My gaze roams past the dumpster. There’s a boot on the ground. Cinderella’s forgotten shoe.
Cold sweat snakes down the back of my neck. I struggle to walk on steady legs. My shallow breaths fight for a consistent rhythm. All the effort is useless after I step around the puddle.
What I find makes me jump:
Lifeless eyes stare back at me. Blue and dull as old denim. A mouth cracked open as if it struggled for a last breath. Or tried to shout for help. The body is propped against the brick wall like a discarded marionette.
This isn’t a random stranger lying dead in an alley.
It’s…Hal.