“Sure, Garrett,” Brendon says with a smile. He turns that smile to me with an apologetic shrug. “See you around, Chelsea.”
He squeezes my arm and walks off with Garrett, and I watch him as he goes, but something’s off. A few weeks ago I was dying to jump his bones. What is the matter with me?
day twenty
“I can’t tell if you’re giving me the silent treatment, or if you’re just being…you.”
I ignore Sam and scrub the pot in my hands. The Friday night special is lasagna. It crusts on the bottom of the dishes so I have to hand wash them.
It’s taken Sam two days to catch on to the fact that I’m giving him the cold shoulder. He is right, though; it’s hard to let someone know you’re pissed off when you’re already not speaking. My method has mostly involved avoidance of eye contact and a lot of scowling. Passive aggressive, I’ll admit, but it’s all I’ve got unless I want to tell him off via whiteboard.
He steps in front of me when I go to set the pot in the dishwasher. “Look,” he says, “about the other day… I wasn’t trying to—you know. Overstep. I just really can’t stand that guy.” That guy being Lowell, I assume.
I roll the rack in and fold my arms over my chest, waiting to see if he has more to say. He does.
“I know, you don’t want me fighting your battles, and I won’t anymore. I promise.” He tucks his chin to his chest, wiping his hands on his apron, and then looks up at me. “I just want you to know, I’m on your side. Okay?”
I nod a little so he knows I understand. I appreciate what he’s trying to do. But he’s right. I don’t want him fighting my battles. There doesn’t need to be another person getting caught in the crosshairs.
Usually the diner closes at ten, but on Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays, Dex keeps it open until two in the morning. It’s a haven for the burnouts—clusters of kids filter in after midnight, coming down from their highs and seeking to fulfill their munchie cravings. They all order the twenty-four-hour breakfasts and black coffee.