The Reason I Stay (2 page)

A stubby, balding man named Larry, judging by the embroidered letters on his gray overalls, stops beside me. He smiles, and wipes his hands on a red cloth. I’m normally suspicious of overly happy or nice people—another side effect of growing in a metropolis—but he just complimented Greta, and I can’t ignore a person who does that.

I turn my love-filled eyes to
her
. “Thanks,” I reply, wondering if since he called me
son
I should call him
dad
.

“We don’t see many Maseratis ‘round these parts. Actually, I reckon this is the first one I ever saw.” He lets out a throaty laugh that shakes his protuberant stomach. I don’t really see what’s funny, but I force a smile just the same. “Can I fill ’er up for you, Son?”

I open my mouth to tell him
no
, mostly because I hate people touching Greta or refueling her. I’ll be damned if I let her paintjob burn because some asshole lets gas drip on her, but he’s already opening the tank and getting the hose hooked up. He’s got a smile that would make you think he just got a free lap dance or something, so I hold my breath, and chuckle in spite of myself.

“You staying over there at Sally’s?” he asks me, without taking his eyes off of Greta.

I want to ask, “Who the fuck is Sally and why the hell would I stay with her?” but Larry is being nice to me. With that in mind, I stay silent, and pull my brows together in confusion.

He looks at me and laughs again. Once more I don’t see anything funny, other than the oddity of this man, but again, I just keep my mouth shut. “Sally’s is this here town’s lodge. The mayor’s wife, Mrs. Sally, owns it. They’d be tickled to have you, Son. Beachfront property and everything. It’s a good place for out-of-towners and honeymooners.”

“Oh . . .” I raise my brows and shake my head. “Nah, I’m just passing through.”

“That’s a shame,” he replies as he puts the hose away, and uses his red cloth to clean around the tank’s opening. It makes me warm up to him. “I’d sure love to fill this girl up a few more times.” He runs a chubby hand over Greta’s roof. “She really is a beauty, young man.”

I chuckle and lift my chin in pride as I remove the receipt from the pump, and fold it and place it in my back pocket. “Hey Larry, do you know someplace where I can get some good food before I get back on the road?”

“Oh, you betcha. There’s a rocking diner just down that street. You go until you see the ocean, then turn left. You can’t miss it.”

I nod and take a ten out of my wallet, which gets transferred from my hand to his as I shake it. “Thanks, Larry. Take care.”

It takes no more than five minutes for me to be parked in a small lot next to a yellow house with a wooden sign that reads
The Jukebox Diner
hanging from the porch.

Sighing, I face the heat and humidity again, and make my way toward the restaurant. My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and see
Dennis
written on the screen.

I put the device to my ear and say, “He’s called me back. It’s a miracle.”

“What do you want, Mathew? I’m very busy today. I don’t have time to waste on your attitude.”

I roll my eyes. Dennis is always busy.

“I want to go back, or at least go someplace nice, like New York or LA. Somewhere I’ll have things to do and friends. It’s been four months and I’m done with this shit. I’m done with hiding in small towns and being alone. It sucks.”

He asks me to hold and talks to someone, probably his secretary Lucy, as I walk into the restaurant.

The space inside seems much larger than the exterior leads you to believe. A few wooden poles mark the places where dividing walls once stood, but now the whole ground level is one big room with booths lining the walls and square tables with red chairs dotting the space in between. Country music coming from an old-fashioned jukebox to my left fills the space just as much as the mouthwatering smell of southern food.

I stop by the empty hostess stand, and Dennis resumes his conversation with me. “Well, you should have thought about that before you went and fucked up your life. Again.”

Memories flood my brain. Snow on the road, booze, a birthday hat, blowing on a party whistler as Lea does a fine job blowing me and then, blood. And screams. And sirens.

And stop thinking about it.

I open my mouth to protest, to say that no one died so I didn’t fuck up my life. Before I can get a word in, he continues, “I’ll see what I can do, but I’m not making promises. There’s still too much hype about this whole subject, and I have a big money case that can’t be collateral damage to your poor judgment.”

“C’mon, Dennis. I learned my lesson, I’ll behave.”

A woman with short salt-and-pepper hair in a navy dress approaches me. “Welcome to The Jukebox. Party of one?” she greets me. I frown and nod impatiently, pointing at my phone. She walks toward a booth by the window.

A frustrated puff of air comes from Dennis’s side of the line. “I wasn’t born yesterday, Mathew. Besides, I’ve heard this speech too many times to know it’s fake. Like I said, I’ll see what I can do, but you stay off the grid until then. And if I can give you a piece of advice, take some time to reflect on your life. I know you like living like the world is one big Mathew party, but it’s not.”

I sit down on the plastic red seat and try to think of something to say, but he tells me he has to go and disconnects the call.

I let my head fall to the table. Pain shoots through my skull, but it’s not nearly enough to dissipate my frustration. I hit it against the wood surface a couple more times, holding down a desperate need to scream or kill someone, preferably my father. Why doesn’t he understand or care that I’m dying here?

I absolutely fucking hate my life . . .

So I hit my head again.

“Hey there,” a chipper voice with a very noticeable drawl sounds to my right.

Lifting my head to acknowledge the source of the voice, through my peripheral vision I see a narrow waist covered in navy fabric and a hand with purple nail polish and a girly skull ring, but I don’t bother to look at her further. I just can’t. I know she’ll be some nice southern-hospitality enthusiast trying to start a conversation, and welcome me to this town. Being one hundred percent sure that I’ll lose it if I’m subjected to that I bend my elbows, anchor them on the table and burry my head in my palms.

“Welcome to The Jukebox. I’m Lexie.”

I roll my eyes at her stupid name.
Of course you’re a Lexie.

“Excuse me, do you have a problem with Lexies?” she asks, the previous friendliness in her voice completely gone.

Unlike most people, I don’t flinch, frown or apologize when I’m called out on my rudeness. I’m me and I don’t give a fuck. Without removing my head from my hands, I reply the only thing I can think of. “No, I don’t.”

“Good, ‘cause you’re stuck with me . . . Lexie . . . your waitress . . . up here.” Her cheery tone is back, obviously trying to be cute with me.

Usually I’d take her cue and have some flirty fun, and if she ranks seven or up, I’d put some mild effort, leave her a big fat tip and take her home for the night. But as previously stated, I DON’T WANT TO BE HERE. Besides, considering how hard she’s trying to be nice, I bet she’s no more than a five in the looks department. With that in mind, I give her a sarcastic thumbs-up and return my hand to its place, holding my aching head up.

She chuckles. “Come on. You’re really not gonna even look at me?”

And now she’s pushed me too far.

I puff a lung full of air. “No, I’m not.” With my eyes fixed on the tabletop, I continue. “Listen, sweetheart, I’m betting you were prom queen of this shithole, and for that reason you’re sure that if I just look at you, we’ll fall in love, get married, and you’ll get to quit your shitty-ass waiting job and actually be someone in life. But I’m not interested. I’ve had about five of you this week alone, and I’m just sick of it. So why don’t you quit with the chit-chat and do your fucking job, which is not that hard, by the way.”

She takes in a sharp intake of breath and lets it out in a loaded sigh. “Wow. Okaaay then. I’m so happy we got that settled. Are you ready to hear the specials, order or
leave
?” Her tone completely changes, but I hear none of the I’m-about-to-cry tone that usually follows after a girl is on the receiving end of one of my outbursts. In fact, she sounds positively pissed off, and she’s not even trying to hide it.

Again, I don’t give shit. “The specials.”

She sighs again. “Today we have chicken fried steak with white gravy, and your pick of corn-on-the-cob and fried okra, or collard greens and mashed potatoes.”

“Greens and potatoes. And a beer.”

“Yes, sir,” she mumbles before walking away.

The moment she’s gone, my head falls back to the table and I hit it once, twice, three times, making the dull ache I’ve been feeling grow to a heavy pounding. I know I’m being pathetic, but so is this town and every other town I’ve been to so far; therefore, I feel justified. So I hit it again, theorizing that if I do it enough times my brain will somehow unglue from my skull and all of this will be over. When I lift it to hit it again, a slapping sound unrelated to my forehead reaches my ears.

I freeze with my head a palm away from the surface, and open my eyes. A small, pale white hand, wearing a large silver ring with a black stone, and purple nail polish is flat on the table, right in my line of vision.

I blink twice, and before I can say anything, Lexie’s voice reaches my ears again. “Look, I reckon you’re having a bad day, which sucks and I feel sorry for you. But I had chocolate-chip pancakes for breakfast,” she says that slowly like it’s supposed to mean something to me. Even though she’s scolding me, and even though I have no desire to, I smile and slowly lift my head as she continues to speak. “That means I’m planning to have a really good day, despite the fact that you made fun of my name, acted all rude when I was just being nice to you, and basically called me a dead-beat bimbo looking for a sugar daddy. Now, I’m pretty resilient, so none of that put a dent in my good mood, but having to clean a broken table or a broken head will definitely shit all over my day. So will you please just stop doing that?”

She stays silent for a while, and so do I. Then she lets out a frustrated groan, and so do I. Finally, she takes a deep breath, and so do I.

“Okay then. Here’s your beer; I hope you’re one of them happy drunks. I’m going to get your food, now.” Her tone is calm and almost friendly, and although I still haven’t moved my eyes to her, I can feel her looking at me.

She taps her fingernails twice on the table, clicks her tongue and points an index finger at me. “Don’t shit on my day,” she warns and takes two steps away from my table, then stops and turns around. “And put the bottle against your head. You look ridiculous with that bright red mark on your forehead.”

That comment does it. I turn my head just in time to see the shape of a thin woman with a messy knot of blond hair tied on top of her head, her navy dress is similar to the one the old hag was wearing but about a palm shorter, walking away.

She moves with the same spunk and swagger her words just demonstrated to me, and I can’t seem to stop watching her. Or her tattoo-covered right arm.

And just like that, I know I’ll follow her instructions and keep my head off the table. I won’t do that because I care about looking ridiculous, or even because I want to see when she comes back to finally take a look at her face—which at this point I obviously do want to—I’ll do that because, for whatever reason, she just made me forget why I was knocking my head on the table in the first place. And that is a freaking good thing.