Chris and Ashley – I finally discovered his wife's name – drove away with a wave, leaving me standing in front of my shabby motel room door, feeling rather stupid, like High School all over again. Why am I trying so hard to fit in? I don't. And when did I start caring? Myra used to try to make me fit in with her make-up and style lessons, but I never let her get to me. Why am I letting Chris get to me now?
Because I'm lonely.
It takes several hours the next night, working with Chris, to put the beach party out of my mind and act normal. Every time I turn towards the kitchen to call in an order, I'm reminded of it. But Chris acts like it was nothing. So I act that way too. Nothing could ever happen between us whether I wanted it to or not ...which I'm still not sure exactly what I want. It's just simpler if I avoid him.
A few nights later, he invites me to his house for a barbeque, and I decline. The following weekend he invites me out on a friend's boat for the evening, and I decline. The very next day, he corners me in the freezer.
“Hey,” he says casually, pretending to retrieve beef patties. “When do you want to go see that place where the Dave Matthews Band started?”
“Oh,” I say, stretching out my task so as to avoid him. “I don't really like Dave Matthews, but thanks.” There. I said it. I expect him to tackle me to the ground for such heresy.
He stops fiddling with the beef patties and turns to face me head on, blocking the exit even more. “You said you liked them when I -”
“No I didn't.”
I close the box I've just retrieved two ketchup bottles from and walk towards him, head lowered, hoping he'll move out of my way without a fuss.
He doesn't. “What's your problem?” he says.
My heart pounds. Why am I so nervous? I've stood up to worse before.
I stop in front of him, unable to move on until he does. “What do you mean?”
“Did I do something to offend you? Why are you such a bitch lately?”
Ouch. I look him in the eye, a bit shocked. I have been a bitch. “I'm sorry,” I say, letting out a breath. “I'm just... trying to find my place here.”
“Well that's not the way to do it,” he says.
We stand facing each other without a word for a moment. I could almost crawl into his arms. I feel stupid. I need reassurance.
“If you don't like Dave Matthews, you can come to my house instead.”
His house? Hm. “Why are you being so nice to me? You never ask the other girls.”
“They're kids. You're not.”
Oh. I take a deep breath, still trying to define our relationship. I tell myself he just wants to be my friend but my instinct is telling me it's more. “Will you let me out? I'm freezing.”
“Will you come over my house Saturday night?”
“Yes,” I say just to get out.
He shifts slightly, and I slip past him.
“Where were you?” Liz asks when I return to the front. “We had like twenty people come in at once.”
“Sorry. I was getting supplies.” I whisk past her towards the booth to replace the empty ketchup bottles with the full ones. Through the open screen windows, laughter and chatter pour in from the group outside that Liz just mentioned.
The group stays the remaining hour until closing, finally breaking up and hugging their goodbyes under the lone spotlight from the gable. While Liz and the others clean up inside, I head out, stack trays and collect trash. A few of the party still remain.
I use a dry rag to brush crumbs and food off the picnic tables, forcing the morning birds to eat their breakfast off the ground. The last three guests apologize for getting in my way and keeping us open late.
As I give their table a brush down, I say, “Don't worry about it. Enjoy.” Then look up into familiar eyes. My face burns with embarrassment, my pulse racing. Damn, he looks good.
“Hey,” Wesley says. “You're not going to cry, are you?” His face lights up with a grin while I stand, staring at him, unsure what to say.
“No.”
His two friends say goodbye and head off into the gravel parking lot. He comes around the table to my side. God, he smells good too. Fresh, like soap and shaving cream. I busy myself brushing off the rest of the table.
“Relax,” he says, pauses, then continues. “You look … better.”
I let out a huff, stand up straight and face him. “Yes. I'm sure I look just great.” I smooth my sweaty hair back off my face.
“Actually, you do.”
His compliment surprises me. I hadn't had my guard up, wasn't protecting myself from emotional invasion. My pulse explodes and I feel uglier than before.
He removes his hands from deep in the pockets of his blue and white plaid shorts and flips his key around one finger. I wring my hands a bit. The only thing on my mind now is what it would be like to have his arms around me - What's wrong with me? - and... does he really think I look nice? Impossible. But for some reason, just hearing him say it makes me feel like a touch prettier.
His gaze drops to my hands as he opens his mouth to speak, then hesitates, and I realize he just spotted my ring. I drop my hands to my sides and shift my weight to one foot.
“So -” I begin to say.
“Do you want to go out to breakfast with me sometime?” he says, cutting me off.
“Breakfast?” I say without thinking. Is he asking me out?
“Yeah. Breakfast.”
A moth dives into my forehead, and I swat it away. The silence makes it seem like someone turned up the crickets.
“No pressure. Just a meal.”
Breakfast sounds less formal than dinner. Not like a real date. And there wouldn't be the same expectation for after dinner. It's probably safe. I hesitate to say, “Sure.”
“Great,” he says before it's barely out of my mouth. “Sunday?”
“Okay.”
“I'll pick you up,” he says.
“Great cause I don’t have a car yet.” Did I really just say that?
“Where should I pick you up?”
Ugh. Not the motel issue again. I gotta get out of there. “Uh... I live in kind of a strange place. I -”
“So do I.” He drops his head and laughs.
Uh oh. What does that mean? If he doesn't ask me about mine, I can't ask him about his.
“We can meet at a restaurant if you want. …Or I could make you breakfast at my place.”
~~ Which should Ana/Mollie choose, the restaurant or his place? ~~
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