“Can I get a burger, fries and a chocolate shake?” I answer before looking in Indi’s direction.
“I’ll get the same,” she says closing her menu. I’m impressed. I thought girls like her ate lettuce or tofu, shit like that. I’ll be interested to see if she actually eats it.
When the waitress leaves, silence falls over us again. I watch her as she looks around the restaurant, anywhere but me. She looks nervous and a little uncomfortable. Makes two of us. I’m not a fan of small talk.
“So, tell me about your mum,” I ask out of the blue. Fuck me. Why can’t I keep my mouth shut? When her eyes meet mine I see sadness. It tugs at me for some reason. She doesn’t say anything at first. Now I feel like a dick.
“Oh, you heard Mr Gregory did you? Not much to tell,” she eventually says. Her hands are twisting nervously in front of her. I can only gather how hard this subject is for her to talk about. “She died when I was six. She had a brain tumour. I don’t remember much. My dad tried to shield me from it. She was in a lot of pain and spent most of her time in bed. My dad struggled with her death. Still does. It couldn’t have been easy for him. He had a full-time job, a sick wife and a small child to contend with.” I see sorrow cross her face. It’s fleeting, but I definitely saw it. I guess that’s understandable.
“I’m sorry,” is all I say. Lame response I know, but it’s the best I’ve got.
“What about you? Do you still see your father?” Her question instantly gets my back up. See this is why I hate small talk. Fuck, me and my big mouth. I should’ve kept quiet. Talking about my father, or lack thereof, is something I never do.
“I don’t have one,” I snap.
“Everyone has a father,” she responds. Not everyone. I don’t. Maybe she just assumes my parents are divorced.
“Well I don’t. Can we just drop it?” When I glare at her, she gets the message because she changes the subject.
“How long have you had your car?” she asks. Fuck she’s nosy.
“I bought it a few years ago. It needs a lot of work to get it to where I want it, but it’s all I could afford at the time.”
“Did you have a job before moving here?” she asks.
“Yeah. Kind of.”
“What do you mean kind of? You either did or you didn’t. Did you buy the car yourself?” I wish she’d stop with all the questions. I hate talking about my personal life.
“Yes I did,” I snap. “Not everyone has a privileged life like you, Princess.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks defensively. I ignore her. It means just that. My mum struggled to put food on the table most days. Any luxuries I wanted I had to buy myself. When I was twelve, I started to do odd jobs for the people who lived in our apartment building. It all progressed from there.
“How did you get money to buy the car then?” she probes further.
“I have ways,” I say, smirking when I see her processing my answer.
“What ways?”
I shake my head and scoff, “Fuck you’re nosy.” I stare her down hoping she’ll get the message to quit it. I’m not comfortable talking about this subject with her. With anyone for that matter.
“What kind of job? I can’t imagine how someone your age could afford a car like that.” Fuck. Obviously my intimidation didn’t work.
“Can we change the subject?” I plead, exhaling.
“No. What’s the big secret? What, were you a drug dealer or something?”
“Hell no,” I chuckle.
“Well what then?” I may as well tell her the truth. She’s not going to let up until I do. At the very least it will shut her up.
I lay my hands on the table between us and lean into her. She mirrors my stance before I whisper, “Sexual favours.” Her beautiful green eyes widen with shock.
She puts the distance between us as she leans back. “Bullshit.”
“It’s true,” I tell her. That’s exactly how I got the money.
I watch her eyes dart around to make sure no one is able to hear her. “Like a prostitute? Oh. My. God. You’re a prostitute? You make those girls that jump through your window, pay you?” she shrieks.
“Fuck no. That’s for pleasure,” I say frustrated as I look around the restaurant. “Look, it’s a long story. Just drop it okay.” All these questions are starting to give me a headache.
My eyes snap back to hers as she slaps her hand over mine and leans forward. “Like hell I’m going to drop it.”
I stare at the top of her hand while she squeezes mine. “It was one person. That’s it. When I lived in the apartment building with my mum, the landlady would pay me to scratch her itch you could say. It’s no big deal.”