Finally, Forever(4)

“I can’t believe Rachel offered Gray to drive me. It was her idea. Shouldn’t she be a little wary, loaning out her boyfriend to chauffer random girls across the country?”

Nick rests a hand sympathetically on my shoulder. “Honey, have you looked in the mirror recently? I don’t really think she was intimidated. You have a huge smear of motor oil running up the side of your face. And under your chin. And how did you get tire tread marks on your t-shirt?” He shakes his head and makes a “tsk, tsk,” sound.

“But, you told Gray you’re—”

“Just play along right now,” he interrupts. “Trust me.”

He swings the glass door open and half shoves, half escorts me inside the restaurant. My skin immediately chills in the freezing blast of air conditioning. The room is as cold as a meat locker. I bypass the hostess stand and head straight for the restroom sign. My thoughts are racing in front of me and I’m picturing Rachel’s face. One word: Rebound. She’s not right for him. She has a limp handshake that lacked any assertiveness. Her brown eyes are dull and lack any spirit of adventure. And she wears cardigans. In the summer.

I push through the door and stand in the middle of the room.

She would probably keep his cupboards stocked with daily multivitamins, one for men and one for women. She’d make cut-out cookies for his games, in baseball shapes and frosted with his number. She’d pack picnics with napkins neatly wrapped around the silverware. Her meals would contain the appropriate number of servings from the food pyramid.

But Gray doesn’t want to be taken care of, he wants to be challenged. Doesn’t he? Or what if all the things that I think make her wrong for Gray are all the things that make her right? And why is a wide set man wearing a greasy apron giving me the stink eye? What is he doing in a women’s restroom?

“You lost?” he asks me and I blink a few times.

“I just need to use the bathroom,” I say.

“Does this look like a bathroom?”

I glance around at the industrial sized ovens and grills and refrigerators and I can smell sausage cooking and I can hear the bubbling sounds of French fries cooking in the fryer. Two other cooks, both guys, turn and stare at me. I see lots of piercings and tattoos and I get the feeling I’ve stumbled into a motorcycle gang’s initiation meeting. And they’re not happy about it.

I slowly take a step backwards.

“Sorry,” I say and try to redeem myself. “My nose must have been lured inside by the incredible smells.” They look me over.

“Did you get hit by a car?” one of them asks.

“No.”

“Run over?” another inquires. “Did you hit your head?”

“No. Why are you asking me that?”

“You have tire tread marks all over your shirt,” the heavier cook says, pointing at me with his spatula.

“And you were mumbling to yourself when you walked in,” another adds.

I press my hands over my hips. “Look, if you want to know the truth, it feels like I have been hit by a car, okay? I just ran into the ex-love-of-my-life in the parking lot outside, looking like this,” I say and open my arms wide. “He hates me, and he happens to have a beautiful, freshly-showered trophy girlfriend. So can you give me break?”

Their faces fill with understanding.

“You want a slice of bacon?” the cook asks.

“Yes!” I cry. One of the guys pushes a folding chair in my direction and I slump down and press my hands over my face.



***



Ten minutes and two crispy slices of bacon later, I find my way to the bathroom. I walk inside and use a paper towel to scrub the grease off of my face and hands. It refuses to abandon the beds of my fingernails. They’re black around the cuticles and under the tips. It’s a dirt tip manicure. Lovely.

I look at myself in the mirror. My pigtails are a mess. One actually looks longer than the other. Sweaty bands of brown hair have escaped and cling to my neck. I do my best to wipe them away. Pools of freckles stand out on my face like tiny pebbles, darkened and multiplied by the summer sunshine. I look down at my stained t-shirt. There’s no point trying to wipe away the tread marks.

It’s no wonder Rachel offered to let Gray drive me to Flagstaff. Nick’s right, she isn’t intimidated. I literally look like I have been run over by a car.

I lift my chin and stare into my eyes. They glow, amber and blue and green under the fluorescent lights. My eyes have never been able to settle on one color. I always loved Gray’s eyes because they’re so piercing blue, so constant, so different from mine.

I mutter two words out loud.

“Fuck it.”