The Reason I Stay (5 page)

I dig at my stack of pancakes and wait for whines to reach my ears, but they never do. Instead, I hear a giggle. “I was just at the soccer game. I made a goal,” the little girl replies, excited and unfazed.

“Well, you should have cleaned yourself up before coming here. We have guests.”

I want to laugh. This woman is ridiculous.

I look up at the now embarrassed little girl. “I don’t know about the other guests, but I look like a freaking mess as well.” A tentative smile curls her lips, so I pick at my T-shirt and smile. “Two-day-old T-shirt, pajamas underneath my shorts, a bedhead that puts all bedheads to shame, and I didn’t even brush my teeth yet, so I don’t mind at all. And congrats on the goal.”

The girl’s face lights up at the same moment Sally’s twists as if she just sucked a lemon. I consider that a victory, and payback for the annoyance she put me through this morning. In a conscious attempt to piss off the woman more, I drop my fork and point my fist in the direction of the little girl. She knocks her tiny fist against mine.

“I’m Kodee,” she says, seating herself on a chair to my left. “I’m seven.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Mathew, and I haven’t been seven for seventeen years.” I stuff some egg in my mouth, and she looks at it with longing in her eyes.

Sally lets out a heavy sigh. “She didn’t even feed you, Kodee?” The girl shakes her head. Her filthy, sweaty, matted hair moves, making Sally puff out yet another heavy breath. “Stay here. I’ll go ask Fatima to cook you something.”

We both watch—with similar relief in our faces—as Sally stands up and makes her way to the kitchen. A wicked gleam shines in Kodee’s eyes as she looks back at me. She folds her elbows over the table, and brings her body close to mine. “I’m in
big
trouble,” she tells me in a whispering voice, as if she’s telling me the biggest secret.

“Yeah, whas tha?” I ask through my stuffed mouth.

“I lied.” She brings a dirty index finger to her lips, makes a “shush” noise, and starts giggling. “My godmother gave me a sandwich. I just told Grandma she didn’t so she’d leave us alone. She can be a bit much, you know?”

I don’t really get, or care, why that tiny lie would get her into trouble, but still the kid is funny, and she got rid of my morning annoyance, so I nod and lift my coffee cup in a salute. “Thank you.”

She reaches to grab a piece of my sliced watermelon with her fingers. “So, what’s your story?”

“Hey,” I reprimand her in the grumpiest tone I can muster, “I’d rather you didn’t, but if you’re gonna steal my food, use a fork. You have dirty soccer hands.”

Yes, I’m thankful that she showed up and got rid of Darth Vader, but my head is still pounding, so having some quiet time would be awesome. Unfortunately she doesn’t seem to care about not being welcome, because she giggles, puts the watermelon in her mouth and licks her dirty fingers before grabbing a fork and digging in again.

My face scrunches up in disgust. “That’s nasty, you know? You’ll end up with worms in your belly.”

She waves the fork at me and speaks through a full mouth. “Your story . . .”

We stare at each other for a few moments. Her hazel eyes—ones that seem too big for her face, and give her a cartoony look—are all wide with excitement, which makes me consider, if only for a second, telling my story to her. Luckily, in the next second I’m over it, so I stuff more egg in my mouth, and shake my head.

“I don’t have a story.”

Her lips press together in a pout. “Don’t be silly; everyone has a story. And I
love
stories. I ask all the stories of all the guests that stay here. And you look like someone with a good story. So c’mon, tell me your story, Mathew.” The words come out of her little mouth in a rush, and as soon as they do her brows pull together. She takes a deep breath and blinks twice. And once again, she’s laughing. I stare at her in confusion, and she just shakes her head, grabs my orange juice and takes a long gulp. “I get dizzy when I talk too fast,” she says, and drinks again.

I look at the glass in her tiny little hands, and good mother of a holy person, I want to yell every cuss word I know at this kid. She’s cute and messy, but between the questions, putting dirty hands in my food and drinking my juice, she’s becoming just as annoying and overbearing as her grandmother.

She holds my gaze for a few seconds, her eyes wide and begging for a story. She’s excited, and I’m annoyed. She giggles and I sigh, but I open my mouth anyway.

“I’m on a road trip. I was kind of drunk and decided that the next song that played on the radio would decide my destination. ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ played, followed by Dolly Parton’s
‘
Jolene’. I typed that into my GPS and here I am.”

“Wow . . . that’s kind of dumb.” She’s laughing once again. Apparently that’s all she does.

Frustrated, I shake my head. “Tell me about it.” Her fork comes up and grabs the last of my greasy eggs. I look at her through narrowed yes. “Will you stop eating my food?”

“You’re such a grump.” She suppresses a chuckle, as if it’s the funniest thing in the world. Even though I want to scream, I laugh at her honesty.

Her smile widens. “You’re just traveling around?”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t have a home to sleep in every night?”

I roll my eyes because that was implied in the whole
traveling around
thing, but she’s a kid, so I try not to be too big of a jerk. “Not at the moment.”

She stays quiet, looking out the window for some time. Then she looks back at me, deadpan. “It sucks, doesn’t it?”

Confused, I knit my brows. I want to ask her if she should be saying “sucks”, or why she thinks that not having a home to sleep in every night is indeed the pits, but I don’t. This time, it’s not because I don’t care. Even with the dirty fingers, and the annoying questions, and the eating my food, it’s good to have the company of someone who’s funny, despite being about as tall as my legs. I don’t want to scare her away. I also don’t ask those questions, because there’s sadness in her eyes, and I don’t like seeing it.

So, I reply in the most honest way. “Sometimes it does, but not right now.”

She grins so wide I can see that she’s missing two of her teeth. In return, I offer her a smile that shows her that all of mine have already grown back.

“Mickey Mouse pancakes, eggs and juice, Miss Kodee,” Fatima says as she places a plate in front of the small girl. “Mrs. Sally asked me to tell you she’s gone to the office and to meet her there once you finish eatin’.”

Kodee thanks her and gets a kiss on the forehead, before the woman turns around to make her way back to the kitchen with my empty plates, leaving Kodee and me to resume our conversation. We talk as we share her plate of food. Even though she spends the whole time either being nosey or talking about her soccer game, not once I do get bored.

After the food is gone and we’ve exhausted our topics, she sighs. “I should go see what Grandma wants or she’ll come here, and neither of us wants that, right?” she asks, and I nod.

We both stand and walk side-by-side to the reception. Before we part ways, she grabs my hand and smiles. “Okay. It was nice meeting you, Mathew.”

“You too, Kodee. Don’t forget to try the play I told you about,” I remind her.

She nods and releases my hand. “I won’t.”

I have only made it three steps up the staircase when she calls my name. As I turn around, my eyes narrow at the sight of her reddening, I’m-up-to-no-good face.

She watches her foot, which is kicking at nothing, for a moment. “If you decide to sleep twice in the same place, you should go to the beach tomorrow. I’ll be there with my Gammy . . .” She looks around, and then whispers, “. . . who’s way cooler than Grandma,” before continuing in her normal voice, “and my godmother, and my best friend, Bras, and her big sister, Tanie. We stay right in front of the ice cream shop because on Sundays I get sundaes. If you go, you could show us that play. I’ll bring a ball. It would be cool. I mean, if you want to. There’ll be food and all.”

Once more, her words come in a rush, causing her to breathe heavily again and blink a few times. I laugh. “Dizzy again?”

She nods, but continues to look at me expectantly.

I reply, “I’ll think about it, okay?” even though I bet I’m not gonna make it. Yeah, my morning talking to the coolest seven year-old I’ve ever met was fun, but if there’s one thing I know it’s that I’m not staying here.

“H
ey, Jimmy. What’s up with those burgers for five? They’ve been waiting for half an hour,” I yell through the window to the kitchen. There’s absolutely no mistaking the irritation in my tone or on my face, and for once, I don’t care.

As a personal rule, I try to be an upbeat, bubbly person. I smile a lot, I say hi to people—even to the ones I don’t really like. I wear colorful clothes and, if I’m in an exceptionally good mood and have the downtime, I’ll even read and sing to children that come into the diner. But today, I’m the opposite of all of that. Today, I feel like I could chew off a person’s head without any remorse. And I blame it all on the surge of bad luck that started yesterday.

“Rookie’s gone and set the patties on fire,” Jimmy’s gruff voice reaches me, though his large body is nowhere in sight. “New patties are on the grill. It’ll take ten more minutes.”

I groan as I retrieve the baskets of fries and buffalo wings waiting at the window, and place them on my tray. “Fine, but make some complimentary spicy fries. Forty minutes for burgers is just ridiculous, and I’m in no mood to be yelled at in the last thirty minutes of a ten-hour shift.”

By the time his reply—a reluctant “okay,” followed by “Rookie’s paying for them”—makes its way to me, the tray is already balanced on my shoulder and I’m making my way to the bar to get the beers for The Snake Pack
.

They are a group of nine local douchebags and idiots who have made my life a living hell since high school. I’ve never understood why they called themselves that, since there’s no such thing as a pack of snakes. I’ve also never cared enough to ask, even though—much to my everlasting shame—I used to date one of them, and have made out with two others. I call those three unfortunate souls The Three Stooges.

Almost three years have passed since I last allowed any momentary lack of judgment and depreciating self-esteem to push me in one of their directions. I’m very proud of it, and have since given them nothing but snarky comments and my best fuck-off attitude. However, my ex, Kyle, keeps trying to get back under my skirt—something that, for the love of all that is holy, will never happen again.

The order was placed by Damian, the leader of the group, and the father of my goddaughter, Kodee. We have a less-than-friendly relationship, but due to the nature of it, he doesn’t look at me like he’s envisioning me naked, and he tries to keep The Stooges from messing with me. That’s the primary reason why dealing with him alone is miles better than having to deal with all of them.

“Here y’all go.” I start setting their food and drinks on the table.

The first pair of horny eyes to turn my way belongs to Kyle. His friends don’t take long to follow.

“My sparkle,” Kyle coos.

I take a deep breath, and order the wave of vomit to recede. The amount of hate I have toward that nickname has no measure. “I’m not yours, Kyle. Haven’t been for four years, so will you stop with the sparkle crap? I’m not fireworks or glitter.”