She Loves You, She Loves You Not... (9 page)

“Is Ben here?” you asked.

“Uh-huh. Your dad is totally in love with him.”

A wave of guilt washed through you. You’d never told Sarah about using Ben as your boyfriend.

“He told me what was going on,” Sarah said.

The pain in your head intensified. You wanted to explain, but she pressed a finger to your lips. “I wish I’d thought of it instead of telling my parents the truth about us.”

That made you feel like crap.

Sarah traced a finger across your jawline. “My mom accused you of corrupting me.” Sarah’s eyes twinkled. “If she only knew.”

“Sarah…”

She kissed you.

You fell asleep, and images kaleidoscoped in your brain. Sarah’s eyes, her lips, her fingers in your hair. You sensed people nearby. Dad hovering. Sarah and Ben sitting on the floor in your room. Ben being goofy, cracking her up. M’Chelle dropped in. During a lucid moment, you remembered that M’Chelle had been bringing you your homework. It was piling up, but you couldn’t concentrate long enough to focus on finishing assignments.

Sarah and Ben and M’Chelle were laughing. Dad appeared. “You’d all better scat. Let the invalid get some rest.”

“Okay,” Sarah said. “Thanks for letting us stay so long.”

“You’re welcome, Sarah. Call tomorrow before you come.”

You wondered what Dad thought of Sarah. He’d love her if he knew her. Footsteps on the stairs and then a presence. Dad said, “Do you want anything? Hot cocoa or a toasted cheese sandwich?” Dad had always made you toasted cheese when you were little. Toasted cheese and tomato soup.

But all you wanted was sleep. Did you fall asleep again? Someone brushed your bangs up and planted a kiss on your forehead. On your eyes, your lips. Her lemon-lime shower gel filled your nose. You pulled Sarah down.

A movement at the door snagged your attention. How long had she been standing there? How much did Tanith see?

Enough to know Sarah was more than a friend.

Arlo shoves a tub of dirty dishes at me as I rush through the café doors. He snipes, “You can’t wear those to work in.” He rolls so close to my toes, he almost runs over them, and I have to jump back.

“I know. I didn’t get a chance to go buy any shoes.”

“Doesn’t your
mother
have shoes?” He says it like it’s a dirty word.

“Yes, my
mother
does.” I throw it back in his face. “If you want me to wear fuck-me pumps.”

His eyes meet mine, and his lips twitch. So glad I amuse him.

I wonder what it is between Arlo and Carly. Something.

Arlo rolls over to the fridge and mutters, “Wear a hat.”

I pivot to snag a cap off the cup holder, and scoop up an order pad.

A score of hungry eyes eat me alive along the counter. Finn’s busy with tables. “Good morning,” I call cheerily to everyone. “I’ll be with you quick as a bunny.” Did I just say that? I get stupid when I’m nervous.

Finn zooms by with a fistful of orders to pin on the rack. She says, “Can you handle the counter by yourself?”

“Sure,” I say, not sure at all.

“Can I get a cuppa joe?” This beefy guy wheezes and coughs up bloody phlegm into a napkin. Major ew.

I spill a tall grape juice down my shirt, which makes me look like Sweeney Todd, and then I get two orders of toast sent back because they’re cold. I can’t figure out how to get hot coffee and hot toast out at the same time. As I slam down two more slices of bread in the toaster, the steam from the espresso machine scorches my hand, and I squeal. A customer comes up behind me and says, “I ordered a cherry Danish, not raspberry. I don’t think I should have to pay.”

He’s holding out an empty plate. I’m about to say, “Okay,” when Finn grabs the plate and goes, “Nice try, Gomer. You don’t think she’s gonna fall for that old trick, do you?” She cocks her head at the guy. He snaps his fingers like,
Got me
, and reaches for his wallet.

Without warning, my arm is jerked backward. “Be careful,” Finn says. I was about to pour boiling-hot milk from the espresso machine on my hand. She presses a button to release steam.

“Thanks,” I say.

She lets me go but holds my eyes.

I suddenly feel so inadequate and incapable and inexperi
enced. Finn gives me a brisk hug around the shoulders. “It’ll get easier,” she says.

“When?”

“Order up!” Arlo calls.

Finn leaves to fetch the plates, but her kindness clings to me.

A woman signals to come over to her table. It’s that nurse from the other day. “Alyssa, right?” she says.

“Right.” How’d she know my name? I don’t have a name tag yet.

“I’m Barbara. I knew your mom when… I mean, I still know her. I don’t see her as often.” She lifts her plate. “My eggs are kind of runny. Do you think you could ask Arlo to apply a bit more heat?”

“Sure.” I take the plate from her.

“Tell him I ordered over easy, but these are a little too easy for me.”

I run the plate into the kitchen and say to Arlo, “These eggs,” and he almost launches off his chair. “Don’t
do
that!” he screams at me. “Don’t ever sneak up behind me!”

“God! Don’t yell at me!” I shout. I hate being yelled at. Now I’m on the verge of tears, but I refuse to let him see me cry. “These are runny.” I set the plate down hard on the counter.

He goes, “They’re over easy.”

“Yeah, well, she doesn’t want to drink them with a straw.”

Arlo smiles, and then he laughs. He actually laughs. “You’re Carly’s girl, all right,” he says.

Is Carly a smart-ass too? I want to ask him what he knows about her. Barbara said, “I knew her when.” When what?

I wait for the eggs, watching Arlo alternate between
sausage, pancakes, bacon, potatoes, and an omelet on the grill, in addition to the over-easy eggs. He reminds me of those Japanese chefs at Akebono, back home.

Arlo’s not that old—maybe forty? I’m curious why he’s in a wheelchair, but he’d probably bite my head off if I asked. I’ll ask Finn. I’ll ask her about Arlo and Carly too.

When I get back from delivering the eggs (Barbara said they were perfect!), Finn is tamping down espresso in a new filter and sliding two shot glasses under the slots. A fine sheen of sweat glistens on her skin, which is so smooth and brown and moist. I reach over her head for more cups and saucers, and our eyes attach across a roiling ocean. I have to pull back or get swept into the vortex.

The toaster sets off the smoke alarm, and Finn hisses, “Shit.” She runs to the back for a step stool to yank the battery in the ceiling alarm. Meanwhile, I fork out the crispy critters and slam down two more slices.

The screeching alarm clears out customers fast.

It’s almost one, anyway. Closing time.

I go around collecting dirty dishes and tips. I find Finn in the back dumping leftovers into the trash. “God, I’m starving,” I say. To prove it, my stomach rumbles. I rinse a fork and dig into a nest of hash browns.

Finn says, “Don’t let Arlo see you eating off people’s plates. He’ll cook for you if you want.”

“Really?” He’s a fantastic cook. Chef. Whatever. It’s clear why this place is always packed.

Her eyes scan down my front. “You take a bullet?” she asks.

The grape juice. I curl a lip at her like,
ha-ha
.

She smiles. We hook eyes again, and it gets intense.

Her gaze lowers to the wad of money on the serving tray. “Those the tips?”

“Yeah.” I scoop up the bills to give to her.

“Split it in half,” she says.

“No way. You waited all the tables.”

She divides the tips anyway and says, “Go buy some shoes,” tucking my portion in the front pocket of my shorts. The feel of her fingers gives me goose bumps.

I’m so weak.
Stop it.

She goes over to scrub the grill. “Could you get the dishes?” she asks.

Cups and plates overflow the sink and grill area. I open the dishwasher, but it’s crammed full.

“Are these clean or dirty?” I ask.

She glances over. “Not sure.”

I remove a cup, and it’s still warm. Clean, I deduce, and begin to empty the dishwasher. A radio is playing classical music. It’s always so noisy in here that I hadn’t noticed the radio before. I’m not a fan of classical, since that’s all Dad and Tanith listen to.

I walk over to change the channel, and Finn’s hand clamps over mine. “You have a death wish?” She releases me. “Don’t touch that radio. Arlo will kill you.”

Now my hand buzzes. I wish she’d stop touching me. Obviously, I’m attracted to her, but I won’t allow it. When they say being gay is a choice, they’re wrong. The only choice is whether you act on your feelings or not.

Finn resumes scrubbing while I load up the dishwasher with dirty dishes. I see Arlo out back in the parking lot, smoking.

“Why is Arlo in a chair?” I ask Finn.

She deadpans, “He can’t walk?”

I mock sneer at her. “Really? What happened to him?”

“I don’t know. Ask him.”

Sure, and have my death wish fulfilled. “Why don’t you just tell me?”

“Because I don’t know. I make it a point not to get personal with people.”

I wonder,
Does that include me?
“Do you know how he knows Carly?”

She says, “How does anyone know Carly?”

My eyes narrow and hers drop. “I didn’t mean that to come out the way it did. I just meant everyone knows Carly.” Finn ducks her head and disappears into the restroom, leaving me to ponder the statement. It’s a small town. Everyone knows everyone. Or… they know who she is by
what
she is.

I find the detergent and start the dishwasher. When Finn comes out, she’s changed into a faded tank. I love the definition of her arm muscles.

“I’ve got to get to work at the book swap,” Finn says. “You okay here alone?”

Arlo’s van pulls out of the lot, and I panic.

Finn stuffs her Egg Drop tee into her ratty backpack. “Just set the tables for tomorrow and then lock the doors.”

I trail her to the rear exit. “Isn’t there a security system or something?”

Finn says, “If anyone broke into this place and stole something, there’d be a riot in town. Anyway, Arlo will be back. He lives here.”

“At the restaurant?”

She saunters through the dirt parking lot, straps on her backpack, loops a leg over a mountain bike, and pedals off like a speed racer.

There’s a door marked
PRIVATE
, and I think,
I’ll just check it out—
you know, for interest’s sake. It’s not locked. I flip on the light and see a double bed, made up with old flowered sheets and a folded fleece blanket. A closet. The closet bar’s been lowered so Arlo can reach the hangers. Bars and pulleys, like exercise equipment. A small TV. Through another door there’s a wheelchair-accessible tub and shower. The front bell tinkles, and I close the door fast.

It’s that old cowboy dude. “We’re closed,” I call out to him.

“I figgered. I was in town and thought I’d come by to shoot the bull with Arlo.”

“He’s not here right now. He should be back soon.”

“You his new girl?” He removes his cowboy hat and flaps it against his thigh, raising a cloud of dust.

I’m nobody’s
girl
. He means waitress, I think. He seems nice.

I push through the swinging doors. “Yeah. I mean, yes. Yes, sir.” I wait for him to say it—
blah, blah Carly’s girl
. When he doesn’t, I introduce myself. “I’m Alyssa.”

“Dutch.” He extends a hand, so I walk up to him and shake it.

His hand is bony, with age spots, like my grandpa’s. Paper-thin skin. “If you want to wait…”

“Don’t mind if I do.” He takes a seat at the window table. “If you got some sludge and fudge, I’ll take it off yer hands,” he says. A moment passes, and he chuckles. “Coffee and a chocolate doughnut.”

“Oh.” I must be perfecting the art of the clueless expression. I think,
I’ll have to tell Ben that one—sludge and fudge.
Immediately I snuff the thought.

We have one chocolate doughnut left and half a pot of coffee. “Is decaf okay?” I ask him.

“Better’n okay,” he says.

I serve Dutch his order. “Thankee, little lady.” He smiles and the crow’s-feet around his eyes remind me of Grandpa too. I head back to the kitchen, wondering if I’ll ever see Grandpa and Grandma again; if being disowned means giving up everyone I love.

“You.”

I jump out of my skin. Arlo’s sneaked up behind me in the kitchen.

“Fill in on the schedule what days you can work.” He hands me the clipboard from the wall. “No more’n four days.”

“That’s all?”

“Howdy, Dutch,” he calls through the swinging doors.

Dutch lifts his coffee mug at Arlo.

Arlo says, “Be right out.” He cranks up the fan and goes, “Can you feel that?”

The fan blasts hot air in my face, but it’s a relief. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Arlo takes a stroll around the kitchen, humming. He’s chipper, for once.

“What happened?” I say. “Did you just get laid?”

Arlo widens his eyes at me. Then cracks up. “I like you.” He wags a finger at me. He rolls to a stop at the dishwasher and adds, “Go home. I’ll finish up.”

I want to ask him about the chair, about Carly. But I don’t want to push my luck, and right now it feels good to have someone actually like me.

At the house I strip and shower. The grape juice soaked all the way through, staining my bra and the front of my shorts, so I gather a load of wash and take it downstairs.

I open the laundry closet and reach up for the detergent. Then I see this box shoved under the bottom shelf. I don’t know why I pull it out or open it.

Yes, I do know: I’m a snoop. I plop on the cold tile floor and remove the first item. A tiny pink knitted cap. The next item: a pair of baby pajamas with little pink flowers. A frilly dress. The whole box is filled with baby clothes.

This warmth flows through me from head to toe. She kept my baby clothes. I must’ve meant something to her if she kept my baby clothes. Right?

I go through everything in the box. There are sizes from zero to three months, on up to eighteen months.