“This is fine. Thanks.”
His brown eyes flit up to me and we are a kissable distance away from each other, close enough that when he shifts, his shoulder brushes against my chest and a cascade of sensation rushes down my spine. My lips press together in an attempt to keep me from saying something dumb, and then I nod and all but sprint back to the safety of the counter.
He has dibs.
What in the world does that mean?
I look down to see my hand shaking, sloshing coffee around the pot near the rim. Quickly, I replace the pot on its warming pad then get busy behind the counter, refilling salt and pepper shakers, rolling silverware for lunch, and helping Christine make drinks for her tables. I feel safe behind the counter, like there’s a forcefield between the basketball players and me. Even still, I can’t help myself. Every now and then, when I think I can get away with it, I sneak a surreptitious glance at Ben. It’s so interesting to see him among the rest of the team. He’s with them, but not really one of them. His presence looms over the table like he’s a deity who’s only gracing us with his presence for the time being. He listens to the conversation and every now and then the edge of his mouth might hitch or he’ll nod in response to something, but he doesn’t openly participate, not like the rest of them.
It’s subtle though—his ownership of the space. He’s not being loud and authoritative. It’s his quiet confidence that puts me so ill at ease. I have no idea what he’s thinking. No idea if he’s happy to be here or not. No idea if he “has dibs”.
When Cook finishes up with Ben and Anthony’s breakfast plates, I carry them over, aware of every step that takes me closer to their table. Just like with the coffee, I serve Anthony first, delaying the gratification of leaning over Ben again. I love that they’re all crammed in side by side. I love that I have no choice but to brush my hip against him and place my hand on his shoulder to stabilize myself as I lean over.
“Right behind you,” I say, dropping his plate down in front of him.
His shoulder muscles ripple under my hand as he moves to the side, trying to give me space. Then—and maybe I’m imagining it—I swear he leans back into my touch. My hand slips off him, the pads of my fingers barely skimming his shirt, and I notice the goose bumps that spread across the back of his neck. His subtle awareness of me is enough to drive me insane. What in the world is happening here? Why am I trying to play with fire?
Just then, the door between the dining room and the kitchen swings open, and Patrick strolls in. Like a bug to a flame, his attention falls on me almost instantaneously, and I quickly move away from Ben. He flicks his gaze from me down across the table filled with basketball players, and his eyes narrow with accusation.
Then he turns, picks up the first thing he sees, which happens to be an empty coffee pot, and calls my name.
“Raelynn, get over here and make more coffee. I don’t pay you to stand around.”
You don’t pay me anything, I want to say. Your daddy pays me.
Ben’s head jerks in Patrick’s direction as I slink around the table and hurry back behind the counter.
“Morning, Patrick,” I say, trying to ease his temper with kindness. Half the time it works, half the time it doesn’t.
“It’d be a better morning if you weren’t taking advantage of my dad’s goodwill. What were you doing over there? Flirting?”
I know better than to argue with him. It’s futile.
“Have you eaten yet?” I ask. “Want Cook to fix you up some breakfast?”
For a long moment, he stares at me as if he’s not sure he wants to drop his previous line of questioning. Then eventually, he nods and points to a vacant spot at the end of the counter where he plops down with a cup of coffee. I don’t miss the flask he tugs out of the back pocket of his jeans, topping off his coffee with a heavy pour of liquor.
Some days, I feel bad for Patrick. He was popular in high school and good on the football field, but that luster has long worn off. Nowadays, he looks like he’s barely keeping himself together. His flat blond hair is receding and thinning. His stomach hangs over the top of his jeans, and his skin carries a sickly sheen to it that doesn’t pair well with the alcoholic bloat.
Most of the time, I can’t muster up any pity for him, though. I know he watches me while I work. I feel his beady little eyes slither down my body, and I wish I wore a chain mail suit instead of this old-fashioned diner dress.
Today my attention slips though. With Ben here, I’m distracted. That’s the only possible explanation for how I missed Patrick following me down the hall on one of my bathroom breaks. I don’t notice him until he corners me right outside the door, slapping his hand against the wall and making me jump out of my skin.
“Raelynn Birdie, you gonna let me take you out on a date soon like I’ve been asking?”
His other hand touches my shoulder, spinning me to face him. His words are meant to be seductive, but they make my skin crawl. Or maybe that’s just his rotten breath.
I turn around and force a tight smile as my stomach ties itself into a knot. This isn’t the first time Patrick’s tried to get handsy with me, pressuring me about going out with him, but I’ve been good at weaseling out of tight situations, good at easing his sour moods. Unfortunately, I know one of these days, he’s not going to take no for an answer.
I don’t want any trouble. This job is cushy compared to what most have to do to get by in this town. Pouring coffee, smiling at the regulars, minding my own business—I won’t let Patrick mess that up for me.
“Come on, Patrick. You know I don’t date.”
I try to sound easy breezy, but his brows furrow and he sniffs in an angry breath, his nostrils flaring.
He steps closer and I hold my hand up in self-defense, trying to push him away. He catches hold of my wrist and tightens his grip enough to make my skin smart.
“Yeah. Why is that, Birdie?” he asks, leaning in closer. “You think you’re too good for me? You were always such a brat back in high school. Stared down your nose at the rest of us like we couldn’t tell.”
He’s mistaken.
I would have bent over backward to join his group of friends. In high school, I sat by myself at lunch with a book or homework splayed out in front of me, sneaking glances at the popular table. I used to wonder how they did it—just smiled and laughed without a care in the world. I wanted to be like them. I wanted to be them. I’d missed that part of growing up. Life had plucked me from childhood and thrust me straight into adulthood so that on the outside I might have looked like any other teenager, but inside, I felt a thousand years old.
I look away, down the hall, trying and failing to keep my voice even as I speak. “Come on, Patrick. I’m working.”
“Are you? The way I see it, you’re making eyes at those basketball players back there. You think one of them will notice you?” He snorts like the idea is absolutely ludicrous. “Don’t hold your breath. You’re no better than the rest of us, Raelynn—trash.”
He spits when he speaks, the spittle landing on my cheek. His grip tightens on my wrist, stinging my skin and no doubt leaving a mark. The pain tangles with the disgusting feeling of his spit on my face and drives out the last of my good sense.