Ugly(87)

“What’s your soup of the day?” I ask as I keep looking straight at her. But out of the corner of my eye, I see Max turn his head to look at me, and his face breaks into a large smile.

“Today we have two. We have tomato and chicken noodle¸” she says and smiles.

“Hmmm,” I grumble as I consider which one to have. “I’ll have a hot chocolate, with extra marshmallows and I’ll think about which soup to have.”

“I’ll be back in a moment.”

I’m smiling, because I can see Max looking over to me and he’s trying to hold in his smile. “I h-hear the t-t-tomato soup is the b-best,” he says as he slightly leans in toward me.

“Really?” I turn to look at him and feign surprise he’s sitting beside me. “Max,” I say and smile.

“Y-you saw me f-from the w-window.”

“What? I did not,” I tease.

“I-I know y-you d-did, because I s-saw you s-stop walking.” He winks at me, and turns back in his seat, all cocky he caught me.

“That’s not fair. You weren’t supposed to know.”

“I-I can p-pretend. Look.” He faces forward, looks to the opposite side then slowly turns his head to face me. His eyes light up and he smiles at me. “Lily, s-so n-nice to see you,” he teases, pretending to have seen me for the first time.

“Cheeky,” I add. The waitress brings over my hot chocolate and puts it in front of me. “I’ll have the tomato soup please, I hear it’s excellent.”

“It’s our most popular. One tomato soup, coming right up,” she says and goes to enter my order into their computer system.

“You’re not working today?” I ask Max as I wait for my food. I stand and take off my coat, gloves and scarf.

“N-not until l-later. Are y-you on y-your l-lunch break?” he asks as he takes in my uniform.

“I am. I was actually going to forgo lunch and go get a new cell phone, but I saw you and thought I’d come in.”

“A n-new c-cell phone? Wh-what h-happened to your old one?”

I look away, avoiding his intense green specked, brown eyes. “Um,” I mumble, not really wanting to say anything to him.

“Wh-what is it?” he asks in a concerned and deep voice.

I look around the café, making sure no one can hear me, and then I whisper, “I left Trent. I walked out and left everything behind.”

Max’s eyes light up and he kind of moves away, as he mouths, “Wow.” The waitress comes over and places a bowl of tomato soup in front Max. “Th-thank you,” he says to her. But he doesn’t pick up his spoon and start eating, instead he sits quietly and stares at it. “Y-you l-left him?” he asks as he continues to look at his bowl.

I just nod and don’t say anything. It seems like hours pass, but of course it’s only a few moments before Max goes to say something, but the waitress places a bowl of tomato soup in front of me. “Here you go, enjoy,” she chirps happily and leaves.

Max picks his spoon up and stirs the soup before turning to face me. “You re-really left?” He eats some soup waiting for my response.

“I did.” I hold my breath and wait for his reply. But he continues to eat, obviously considering what I said to him. “Are you mad?” I ask when the silence becomes unbearable.

“Am I m-mad?” He looks at me and places his left elbow on the counter and has two fingers tapping his chin. “Am I mad?” he asks again, this time I know it’s rhetorical. “I’m the f-furthest th-thing from m-mad.” He watches for my reaction. I’m not sure what to think or even say, so I just eat my soup in silence. “I’m a-actually r-really p-p-proud of you. It t-takes a lot of st-strength to leave.”

“Thank you,” I quietly respond. “But I don’t feel strong today. I may have a few days ago, but today I’m feeling vulnerable and somewhat stupid for trying to make it on my own.”

“There’s n-no reason to feel like that.” His stutter fades to almost nothing. “F-finding the st-strength to leave is the most c-courageous thing an abuse survivor can ever do.” He eats the last of his soup. “My m-mom tried leaving, but sh-she kept coming back to him. It w-was hard for her b-because she h-had me. Sh-she thought it was better to st-stay with him, then f-force us to be ho-ho-homeless. Th-the last time she tried leaving, was the l-last breath she t-took.”

“Oh my gosh,” I say as I sip on the last of my soup. How does someone deal with such intensity, and survive it?

“It took me y-years b-before I was able to t-talk about it. I had a therapist wh-who helped me once I went to live with my d-dad. I used to wet the bed, too,” he says.