I work again Saturday, then I close on Sunday.
Hunter never texts me back, but on Sunday night when I’m coming back from the kitchen with an armful of napkins and some silverware to wrap, I see a group of fine-looking football players walk through the door.
My heart jumps when I see Hunter’s face. A stupid smile claims my lips. I try to stop it, but I can’t.
I haven’t seen a trace of amusement on Hunter’s face since I sent him from my bedroom that night, but as he takes in the sight of me in my retro diner garb, his handsome face lights up with pleasure.
“Wow,” he says.
I flash him a big customer service smile. “You fellas want a table or a booth?”
“I want a picture,” Hunter says. “A series of them, with you in various states of undress.”
My face flushes and I bite back a smile, rolling my eyes at him. “Keep it clean, buddy. I’m at work.”
“If I order a milkshake, will you wrap your lips around my straw?” Sherlock asks, winking at me.
I give him a dead-eyed look. “You guys know I’m a waitress, not a sex worker, right?”
“Tell that to your outfit,” Hunter says, shaking his head.
“I shouldn’t have told you where I work,” I mutter, but I don’t mean it. I’m excited that he’s here. I wish we were busier so I wouldn’t be so tempted to give him too much attention, but I’m happy to see him. Maybe this is his way of extending an olive branch. Maybe the awkwardness of shooting him down can finally pass and we can transition into a real friendship.
I’m not sure how sustainable that plan is. If either of us starts dating again, it’ll probably shoot holes through the pretense, but… well, we can try it. I don’t know.
I just know I miss him, and if he’s here, he must miss me, too.
I bring them out a tray of waters for the table and take their drink order. I upsell them on an appetizer, then return to get their food order.
If nothing else, Hunter will probably leave me a good tip, which is rare working at an affordable place like this.
As worried as I am about giving Hunter’s table too much attention, it ends up not being an issue. A few tables come in after them, so I do have other work to do. Hunter and his buddies just eat and talk. Despite giving me a hard time when they first came in, it seems they’re not here to harass me.
I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed.
I’m certainly not disappointed when they leave and there’s a $50 tip on the table.
I shove it in my apron before the other waitress can see. She’s unpleasant when she feels I got a better table than her, and she wouldn’t have received the same tip from them if it had been her table, but I doubt she’d believe me even if I explained it. She looks for reasons to be mad and doesn’t let go easily when she finds one.
I’m in a much better mood when I go home that night. I’m able to focus and finally finish my homework and studying for the weekend, and when I climb into bed, it’s much easier to get to sleep than it has been lately.
The next morning when I’m getting ready for school, the doorbell rings.
My heart sails as I run to the door and rip it open.
The flower delivery person stands there with a vase full of orange and pink roses.
“We have got to stop meeting like this,” I tell him.
He smiles and passes me the flowers. “See you next week, maybe.”
There’s no gift this time, but I’m floored I even got flowers. I can’t even wait until I get them to the kitchen to read the card.
Love is a serious mental disease. -Plato
Cheery.
I love it, though.
I’m feeling a lot better about life as I walk to school this morning.
Every class leading up to English breezes by. I actually feel eager to see Hunter today. I want to thank him for my flowers.
He doesn’t show up, though.
At first I think he’s just running late, but he never shows up. He’s not at lunch, either.
After lunch, I go to the bathroom and discover I have finally gotten my period.
I sit there for a moment, waiting to feel relieved, but what I feel instead… it’s not relief.
Which is crazy. The last thing I wanted was to be pregnant, but in a sense… it may have been the only possibility of permanence between me and Hunter.
However illogical, I’m bummed out for the rest of the day. On top of that, I’m annoyed at myself for feeling that way because I didn’t want to be pregnant. A period is good news.
But then I take out my phone intending to text Sara and let her know my good news, and that’s weird, too. Even though Valerie is no longer the queen bee, Sara is still hanging out with that crowd. I guess that means it wasn’t a setup, or if it was, maybe they actually started liking her. I’m not sure the why of it, but for whatever reason, she’s still hanging out with them, and the more she does, the less time she seems to have for me.
I figured next year when we went off to different colleges we would lose touch a bit, but I thought it would be because of distance and life taking us in different directions. The schools I’m hoping to attend are in Boston. Sara’s first choice is Johns Hopkins. If she gets in, she’ll move to Baltimore.
That’s not a world away, but it’s certainly not close. I knew we’d see each other less, probably stop talking quite as much, but… she hasn’t left me for Johns Hopkins and bigger, better opportunities. I feel like she left me for Wally, and to a lesser extent, Valerie.
Since Valerie is apparently my arch nemesis in life, that hits a bit differently.
I end up deciding not to text her.
I don’t text anybody.
Feeling blue, I curl up in bed and go to sleep early tonight.
Chapter Thirty Seven
Riley
Two weeks pass.
I don’t hear from Hunter again.
He doesn’t talk to me in school—when he even bothers to show up.
There are two more Mondays, but no more flower deliveries.
He doesn’t show up at my work.
His absence is an aching spot in my heart nothing else can fill.
On Friday, I’m sitting at my usual table alone for lunch. Sara doesn’t sit with me anymore, so I bring a book to read every day.
I’m working my way through Hemingway’s To Have and Have Not when suddenly my solitude is interrupted.
I look up without even a guess as to who it might be, but if I had a hundred guesses, I wouldn’t have made it to who is actually sitting there.
Ryden Sherlock?
“Hey,” he says casually, like we have lunch together all the time.
I frown, glancing past him at Hunter’s table where he belongs. I look back at Sherlock, watching as he uncaps a bottle of water and starts to eat his lunch like he’s staying.
“Hi,” I say uncertainly.
He nods at my book. “Any good?”
I lift the book and look at it like I’m not sure. “It’s all right. Hemingway isn’t my favorite, but it’s better than some of his other works.”
Sherlock nods. “If it’s not about an old guy on a boat, it almost has to be.”
I crack a smile. “Yeah, that’s not one of my favorites. But I read a lot, and I actually think it’s important to read books I don’t like sometimes, too. Just to mix things up, keep my mind open. You read Hemingway?”