“Charlotte?” Elle asks. “What does Noah do for work?”
“He works for a real estate investment company and handles properties all over the US, but really even international.”
“Wow, sounds important.” She folds her hands in her lap. “So he deals with lots of land and paperwork and travel.”
“And litigation,” I say. “He stays busy, and it’s not a nine-to-five job, which is why things come up last minute with travel.”
“Does it make you sad when he’s not at home?”
“It can, but I know it’s for us, and the . . .” I stop, about to offer information I’m not ready to. Instead I say, “Our future.”
As I go back to my menu, Elle says my name again.
“Uh-huh?” I keep my gaze level with the menu. The waitress brings our waters and malts. Strawberry for Elle, banana cream for me. We both settled on grilled cheese and tomato soup, splitting a platter of fries between us.
“Charlotte?”
“Yes?” I meet her eyes, her thick lashes fringed with tears.
“I’m sorry.” She plays with a bracelet on her thin wrist. “I shouldn’t have been so bitchy about you coming to my school. Thanks for bringing my shirt back. And letting me stay at your house during the storm. That was really cool of you.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, holding my breath, unsure of where to go from here. Do I dare ask anything personal, or will it drive a wedge further between us? I decide to let her lead the conversation.
I unwrap my metal spoon from the napkin. I prefer to scoop the malt instead of sucking it through a straw.
After we’ve had time to devour our desserts, our faces sticky with ice cream, she offers, “It’s just . . .” Her face burns red. “I don’t like where I live.”
“How so?”
“I wish I lived in that Cape Cod house. Or in your subdivision. But I don’t.”
“Is it because you just like those houses better than yours?”
“Not even.” Elle lowers her eyes. “I’m in an apartment over by the Elmore district.”
“Okay.” I don’t know where that is, but she makes it sound dangerous. “Is that bad?”
“It’s a rough neighborhood.”
“And you’re seventeen, is that right?”
“Yeah, though sometimes I feel like seventeen going on forty-seven.” She taps her fingers on the shiny tabletop. “How about you?”
“It’s impolite to ask a woman her age.”
“Then why did you ask me?”
“You’re a teenager.” I point to my forehead. “Until you have fine lines and wrinkles, it’s okay to reveal your age.”
Scrunching her nose, she says, “I don’t see any on your face.”
“I’ll take that compliment.” I laugh. “I’m midthirties.”
“I just don’t like talking about me.” Elle shrugs. “I never feel like there’s anything interesting to mention.”
A server interrupts us with the food, the Formica table filling up with plates and soup bowls. My mouth waters as I take a bite of the grilled cheese, and I can’t help but murmur, “So good.” I can tell Elle feels the same by the way she’s inhaling the soup, each spoonful disappearing swiftly into her mouth, the bowl emptying faster than I can find my silverware.
Feeling like I’m propped on a land mine, I decide to risk an explosion. “Do you live with both of your parents?” Lowering my voice, I add, “Or is that asking too personal of a question?”
“No, it’s fine.” She shakes her head. “My dad died of natural causes, and my mom died in a car accident when I was a small child.” Fixing her gaze on her french fries, she adds, “Before people cared as much about seat belt safety.”
“How tragic.” I tug at the napkin in my lap. “You’re so young to have lost both of your parents.” Her confession is powerful, and I find myself with blurred vision as I try to control the tears threatening to moisten my cheeks. “I know the feeling,” I whisper. “I miss mine every day. It’s hard not having them around.”
“Yours are gone?” Elle says, then chews a mouthful of food.
“Yes, and let me tell you, it doesn’t get easier as you get older.” I squirt some ketchup on my fries, thankful to be keeping my hands occupied so she doesn’t see them tremble. “You always need your parents. They are the anchor in the madness of life.”
“What about Noah?”
“He’s an anchor, but it’s different . . .”
Shyly, Elle interjects, “No. I mean, do you guys want to be parents? Do you want to have kids someday?”
“We do. But it hasn’t happened for us yet.” I inhale sharply. “It’ll happen when it’s meant to.”
She takes a gulp of water, avoiding my eyes. “You’re a really good person, Charlotte.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I can tell. You’ve helped me multiple times and you didn’t know me, and even after I was a total bitch, you still didn’t let me down.” Giving me a small smile, this time she makes eye contact. “I hope one day I can repay the favor.”
“I’m sure you will.” I pat her hand. “I’m not worried about it.”
“I’ll start with our late-night diner food that hit the spot.” Elle swipes the bill before I can even glance at it. “Stellar choice.”
CHAPTER 13
Elle
We both stand, and Charlotte grabs her leather tote from the back of the booth. It has some designer name on it I can’t pronounce. I swear, it’s a prerequisite for being a fashion designer, I guess. The harder the pronunciation, the more expensive. The popular girls at school would probably drool over it.
“Laughlin.” I hear my last name called.
Shit. I ignore it.
“Laughlin!” More emphasis this time. Definitely more insistence.
Charlotte twists her head in the direction of the female voice yelling loudly. I know she doesn’t know my real name, at least she’s never let on she does, and I assume she’s peering toward the voice because it’s obnoxious.
Unable to hide the flush creeping up the back of my neck or run in the opposite direction, since there’s no escape through this end of the diner, I do what any innocent person does.
I dart underneath the booth, pretending to look for a lost item.
I catch Charlotte’s bewilderment in her tone. “Did you leave something down there? Need help?”
“Dropped the bill. This one’s on me.”
“Don’t be silly.”
It’s while I’m hunched over, disgusted at the amount of food underneath the booth, that I hear the approaching footsteps and the female voice, up close and personal.
Shit balls.
My Converse sneaker is rested half on the booth, my body twisted at an odd angle underneath.
“Elizabeth Laughlin, what the hell are you doing under the table? You scrounging for food? I knew you were hard up, but come on! You’re better than that.”
I’d know that whiny voice anywhere.