Checkered black-and-white linoleum flooring that had seen better days—probably in the eighteenth century. Tattered red vinyl booths. A jukebox that randomly coughed up “All Summer Long” by Kid Rock entirely unprovoked.
And Jerry’s claim to fame—a wall laden with pictures of him hugging celebrities who’d made a pit stop in our town (namely, two professional baseball players who got lost driving into Winston-Salem and a backup dancer for Madonna who did come here intentionally, but only to say goodbye to her dying grandmother, and looked every inch of a woman who had just said goodbye to a loved one).
The food was questionable at best and dangerous at worst, depending on whether our cook, Coulter, was in the mood to wash the veggies and poultry (together) before preparing them. He was truly a great guy, but I’d rather eat crushed glass than anything his hands touched.
Still, the place was full to the brim with teens sucking on milkshakes, ladies enjoying their refreshments after a shopping spree on Main Street, and families grabbing an early dinner.
What Jerry & Sons lacked in style and taste, it made up for by simply existing: it was one of the very few eateries around.
Fairhope was a town so small you could only find it with a microscope, a map, and a lot of effort. Your-worst-ex’s-dick small. And a real time capsule, too.
It had one K-8 school, one supermarket, one gas station, and one church. Everyone knew everyone. No secret was safe from the gossip gang of elderly women who played bridge every day, led by Mrs. Underwood.
And everybody knew I was the screw-up.
The town’s black sheep.
The harlot, the reckless woman, the jezebel.
That was the main irony about Fairhope, I supposed—it was not fair and offered no hope.
From the corner of my eye, I spotted Cruz Costello occupying a booth with his girlfriend of the month, Gabriella Holland. Gabby (she hated when people called her that, which was why I did it sometimes, although only in my head) had approximately six miles of legs, each the width of a toothpick, the complexion of a newborn baby, and arguably the same intellectual abilities.
Her waist-length, shiny black hair made her look like a long-lost Kardashian (Kabriella, anyone?), and she was equally high maintenance, making outrageous changes to the dishes she ordered.
For instance, the triple-sized, Elvis-style beef burger with extra cheese fries became a free-range, reduced-fat organic veggie burger, no bun, no fries, with extra arugula leaves and no dressing.
If you ask me, no thigh gap in the world was worth eating like a hamster. But Coulter still went along with all of her demands, because she always whined if her plate had a smear of oil by the time she was done with her food.
“Just give it up, Messy Nessy. Pick up my fork and we can all move on,” the teenager hissed in the background, snapping me out of my reverie.
Heat flamed my cheeks.
While Cruz had his back to me, Gabriella was watching me intently like the rest of the diner, waiting to see how this situation was going to play out. I shot another peek at Jerry before sighing, deciding it was not worth getting fired over, and crouching down to pick up the fork from the floor.
Two things happened simultaneously.
The first thing was I felt the douchebag’s fingers pinch my butt cheek.
The second was I saw the flash of a phone camera behind me as someone took a picture.
I turned around, swatting his hand away, my eyes burning like I’d just opened them in a pool full of chlorine.
“What in the hell?” I roared.
The kid looked me straight in the eye, chewing on the straw of his milkshake with a vicious grin.
“I heard the stories about you, Messy Nessy. You like to slip under the bleachers with boys, don’t ya? I can take you back to the scene of the crime, if you feel nostalgic.”
I was about to lose my temper, job, and freedom and really kill the kid when he was saved by the (Southern) belle.
“Waitress? Yoo-hoo, can I get some help here?” Gabriella waved her arm in the air, giving her extra shiny hair a casual flip.
I pointed at that kid. “I hope you choke on your straw.”
“I hope you choke on my straw.”
“That’s probably about accurate for size, I’m guessing.”
“Turner!” Jerry barked, suddenly paying attention to this interaction.
“All right, all right,” I muttered.
My only consolation was that, with a face and pickup lines like those, Drew hoodie kid was bound to stay a virgin deep into his thirties.
Still, it sucked that I had to keep this job to be able to provide for Bear. Finding a job in Fairhope was no easy feat, especially with my reputation. Secretly, though, I’d always wanted to save up enough to study something I liked and find something else.
I stomped my way toward Gabriella and Cruz’s booth, too angry to feel the usual anxiety that accompanied dealing with the town’s golden boy.
Cruz Costello was, and always would be, Fairhope’s favorite son.
When we were in middle school, he’d written a letter to the president, so eloquent, so hopeful, so touching, that he and his family were invited to the Thanksgiving ceremony at the White House.
In high school, Cruz was the quarterback who’d led Fairhope High to the state finals—the only time the school had ever gotten that far.
He was the only Fairhope resident to ever attend an Ivy League school.
The Great Hope of Fairhope (Yup. I went there with the puns. Deal with it).
The one who helped Diana Hudgens give birth in her truck on a stormy Christmas Eve and earned a picture in the local newspaper, holding the crying baby with a smile, blood dripping along his muscular forearms.
It didn’t help that upon graduation from college, Cruz had followed in his retired father’s footsteps and become the town’s beloved family physician.
He was, for all appearances, holier than the water Jesus walked upon, more virtuous than Mother Teresa, and, perhaps most maddening of all, hotter than Ryan Gosling.
In. Drive.
Tall, lean, loose-limbed, and in possession of cheekbones that, frankly, should be outlawed.
He even had a pornstache he was unaware made him extra sexy. There wasn’t a woman within the town’s limit who didn’t want to see her juices on that ’stache.
Even his attire of a blind, senior CPA, consisting of khaki pants, pristine white socks, and polo shirts, couldn’t take away from the fact that the man was ride-able to a fault.
Luckily—and I use that term loosely because there was nothing lucky about my life—I was so appalled by Cruz’s general existence that I was pretty much immune to his allure.
I stopped at their table, leaning a hip against the worn-out booth and popping my gum extra loudly to hide the nervous hiccup from being touched by that kid. Whenever the occasional urge to speak up for myself rose, I remembered my job prospects in this town were slimmer than Gabby’s waist. Raising a thirteen-year-old wasn’t cheap, and besides, moving back in with my parents was not feasible. I did not get along with Momma Turner.
“Top of the mornin’ to you. How can I help Fairhope’s Bold and Beautiful?”
Gabriella scrunched her button nose in distaste. She wore casual skinny jeans, an expensive white cashmere shawl, and understated jewelry, giving her the chic appearance of effortlessness (and possibly French).
“How are you, Nessy?” she asked without moving her lips much.