Speechless(88)

                “There we go,” he says softly. He closes the cupboard but                     doesn’t move back right away.

                “I need, like, eight million cigarettes,” Lou moans. The sound                     of her voice startles me, and I quickly duck under Sam’s arm and hurry out to                     the front. Dex and Andy refill and swap out the condiment bottles while Asha                     sits on top of the counter, legs dangling. It would seem inappropriate, except                     there are no customers left except this old guy in the corner booth, eating a                     plate of scrambled eggs with coffee. Breakfast at night. People are weird.

                “I thought you quit,” Dex says to Lou.

                “It’s a process.” She comes up to him and links her arm through                     his, leans her cheek on his shoulder. “Besides, I deserve a relapse. Tonight was                         brutal.”

                “Yeah, but it’ll be fun to count the drawer,” he points out.                     Lou rolls her eyes.

                Asha kicks her heels lightly against the counter. “Chelsea                     really helped. It would have been way worse without her,” she says, and I shoot                     a surprised look her way, a little embarrassed.

                “I noticed,” Dex says, and then to me, “Thanks for jumping                     in.”

                “You pretty much saved my life,” agrees Lou. “Or at least my                     sanity, if nothing else. Too bad we can’t have you around all the time.”

                Dex twirls the ketchup bottle around in his hand, considering.                     “Maybe we can.”

                Wait—what?

                “What do you say?” he asks me. “Want to be our new dish                     girl?”

                The thing is, I do like this place                     and everyone who works here—well, okay, so maybe things are kind of complicated                     when it comes to Andy—and they all know about the no-speaking deal, so obviously                     it isn’t a concern. It really shouldn’t be, since as far as I can tell, the                     duties of a dish girl don’t require much verbal communication, anyway. And maybe                     it would convince my parents that I’m not only sane but responsible. That I’m                     displaying maturity. Something they’re always saying is oh so important and that                     I’m oh so lacking.