Chapter 33
Thirty-Three
CHLOE
When I leave Rhoads’s house, I drive my normal “thinking” route through the back roads.
Nothing but golden cornfields swaying in the breeze and farmhouses in all directions.
Not a stoplight in sight. After a few minutes, I pull over to the side of the road and flip on the sound system, connecting my phone.
Classical piano blares from the speakers.
I curse and shut it off with a quick jab at the button.
Yeah, so I’ve been listening to a different kind of music lately.
It’s been a comfort, but right now it grates on my nerves.
Before I turn the sound back on, I cycle through the playlists on my phone and settle on an upbeat road trip mix full of catchy pop-rock ear-worms. Nothing drowns out my thoughts like repetitive lyrics and strong downbeats, and I want nothing more than to forget the memory of my own stupid voice flirting with Rhoads over the past few weeks.
Emotions war for my attention as I drive.
Guilt for the hurtful things I said. Shame for turning into this version of myself, the one who’s yet again upset over a boy hurting her feelings.
Fear that maybe I’m just not meant to trust or be trusted in that way again, that Graham rewired my heart and plucked out the part responsible for maintaining a functional relationship.
I exaggerate every single look and word until it explodes like confetti from a stadium vuvuzela.
It’s stupid, really, to be crying over such a short-lived thing that wasn’t even a thing.
I can’t even call it a relationship, which makes me sink further into my own self-pity.
But I can’t help it. I let my guard down, got too close, and look where it got me.
I’m not ready to go home. Not yet. I’m supposed to be studying for at least another hour.
Gripping the steering wheel with both hands and squeezing until my fingernails throb, I drive to Peggy’s. The waitresses there aren’t chatty. And that’s exactly what I need right now. Extra ketchup, hold the small talk.
After three deep breaths in my parking spot, I’m calm enough to go inside. The promise of fried potatoes without romantic entanglements has instantly lifted my mood.
I choose a two-person booth in the back, facing the rest of the diner. Yes, I want to be antisocial, but I don’t want to look it. It’s a delicate line I learned how to walk this summer. I’m a pro.
Before I’m even settled in the booth, a carafe scrapes across the sticky table along with a mug. Hot coffee warms me from the inside out, the caffeine moving my blood.
Marsha, my favorite waitress after Peggy, takes one look at me, opens her mouth as if to ask what I want, then smiles and shakes her head.
“Back in a few, kiddo.” She winks. Marsha, like all the others, has memorized my order.
Eating at Peggy’s is as close to famous as I’ve ever imagined being.
I have to admit, it’s kind of nice not having to ask, to have someone just understand what I need.
But I can’t expect that of everyone. It isn’t fair to assume someone will know what I’m thinking. Or feeling.
Maybe I’m the actual jerk in this situation.
I shouldn’t expect him to tell me everything, but how can I trust him if he won’t even talk about his best friend?
He said he and Candace aren’t romantic, but how can I believe him when he’s keeping other secrets?
The half-digested hash browns braid themselves back together inside my stomach as I remember the winky face emoji in that text.
Marsha returns with my Chloe Special and sets it down in front of me. “Want to talk about it?”
“No thanks, Marsha. I’d rather just eat my feelings.” I’m not even hungry, but I bite down on the cherry anyway, relishing the sickly-sweet flavor coating my tongue.
“Okay, hon. Let me know if you need anything.”
“I will, thanks.” Marsha leaves to tend her other tables, leaving me to my mediocre pancakes and bacon and perfect hash browns.
I still can’t believe he bought me the perfect trifecta.
The bell over the door jingles. Out of habit, I look up to see who it is.
I know most of the regulars. That happens when you spend as much time in a place as I have in this diner.
The two people approaching the podium, however, aren’t regulars.
The boy lifts his head. I drop my fork. It clangs against my plate, echoing through the diner. Or maybe just inside my skull.
Rhoads.
And he’s with a girl. Short, blond. For a split second I think it’s Charlotte, but then my senses kick in. This girl has a bright red streak running down her bob.
My stomach turns again. Is this Candace? Or another girl he had lined up to woo?
They can’t see me from where I sit in the back. Marsha gestures for them to sit anywhere. They head to my side of the diner.
Crap.
I duck behind my menu, accidentally sticking the corner into a pool of syrup on my plate. Rhoads turns over his shoulder to talk to the girl.
They don’t touch at all.
Am I the one in the wrong here?
Or maybe he’s saving her from a bad night, like he did for me at Dionne’s party. A knight in shining shin guards. Maybe that’s his move.
The girl pulls a chair out and sits with her back to me, leaning her head against the window and sighing. Rhoads sits opposite her. I lean away from them, hoping the fake plants will block Rhoads’s view of me. It probably would work if Marsha didn’t approach at this moment.
“Chloe, doll, you want a warm-up?”
Rhoads’s head snaps up, his eyes roaming the diner. He heard the waitress say my name. He stands, saying something to the blond girl, and heads toward me. The girl follows. She seems weighed down, as if every step costs her too much energy.
“No, thanks, Marsha.” I fumble with my purse and throw some cash on the table because I don’t have time to wait for her to swipe my card.
I don’t bother to ask for change even though that leaves Marsha with about a hundred percent tip. It’s fine. She deserves it. And I have to get out of here before I make an even bigger fool of myself.
My face burns, my whole body pulsing with shame. I have to go. Fast.
In my mind, Rihanna’s “Shut Up and Drive” drowns out the classic rock song playing over the speakers.
There’s no way to avoid Rhoads and the girl, so I just march straight ahead with every intention of ignoring both of them, pretending I’m super focused on my destination.
“Chloe?” Rhoads says as I pass. I keep going until his hand rests on my arm. “Hey.”
I whirl around. “Oh. Hi.”
Rhoads’s expression looks like I slapped him. He blinks at me for a few seconds, then says slowly, “Are you okay?”
A high, nervous laugh bursts from my mouth. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You didn’t finish Greg & Lou’s bacon earlier, and now you’re here.” He emphasizes this last part because he knows this is the place I come to heal. Knows my wounds but hasn’t been open to sharing his. He searches my face, his gentle hand still searing a mark on my arm.
Distantly, I think I should move away. But I can’t. He’s not holding me tightly, not physically. But my body won’t get the memo that I’m upset, and he’s the reason why.
“I just didn’t want to go home yet.”
“You’re mad.”
I shake my head.
“You are. Did I mix up the diner orders?” He tries for a sheepish grin.
The corners of my mouth tighten. “This isn’t about food.”
“But there is a this. Just tell me what I did or said.”
The girl stands behind him, watching this awkward exchange with a puzzled look on her face. She’s wearing Rhoads’s—Jenson’s, but it might as well be Rhoads’s—leather jacket.
“There it is,” I say under my breath. The proof I’ve been looking for. Because either that jacket means less to him than I thought it does, or it means way too much to me.
Maybe he lets all the girls wear it. Maybe for him, it’s just not that deep. No feelings, no shared secrets. No strings.
To Rhoads I say, “You didn’t do anything, Rhoads. You didn’t say anything. Enjoy your next breakfast.” Cringing at how lame I sound, I turn on my heel and stalk out of Peggy’s, adrenaline carrying me all the way to my car.