“Oh, well, what can I get for you?”
“A pitcher of Busch Light.”
I quickly pour the pitcher. “Need glasses?”
“One. For you. Why don’t you come over and hang with us for a minute?”
I pause for a moment, looking at Bryant, maybe for the first time. And it hits me. He has no idea. He has never seen me as more than a friend. Why else would he invite me over to his table to hang with him and his girlfriend? I raise my palm and place it on my chest, right over my breaking heart. It hurts. Pain is radiating from my center outward. No, I’m not having a heart attack, but I suspect it feels a little like this.
“You okay, Quinn?” Bryant asks, concern crossing his face.
No. “Yeah. Just tired.” Sick and tired of being the last person anyone would ever want. “Thanks, but I can’t while it’s this busy.”
“Oh, sure. Right. It just looks like you’re not really doing much.”
I swallow and it’s painful. “It probably seems that way.” I look to my left, where Chris and Luke are quickly making drinks and pouring beers, essentially doing all the work while I stand off to the side waiting for Luke to tell me what to do next. It’s true. They really don’t need me. Nobody does.
“I can’t. Not until later.”
“Okay. Well, I’ll hang on to this.” He holds up the glass. “Come over when you get the chance.”
“Sure thing.” I nod and put on a fake smile just as Luke yells for me to head to the basement again.
Time to get back to work.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Have you ever had one of those days where you think things couldn’t get any worse? Well, I’m having one of those. Luke finally kicks out the last remaining stragglers at one forty-five in the morning. We’d been able to get things restocked and cleaned up as we went along, so I’m out the door by two. Exhausted, I cover my head with a plastic bag I found in the kitchen at Cy’s and walk as fast as my tired, sore feet can carry me toward the spot where I parked my scooter.
I turn left onto Lincoln Way, and that’s when I see it—my scooter. Or what remains of it. I stop dead in my tracks. Dropping the plastic bag, I walk slowly to the wreckage. My scooter is totaled. I can’t be sure, but from the looks of it, I’d say someone ran over it. Several times. The handlebars are several feet away from the main part. What used to be the trunk is shattered into pieces. I look around and frown. “Where’s my helmet?” I turn left and right, but there’s no sign of it. It’s gone. I loved that helmet. It was retro and cool—a jet helmet reminiscent of those from the 60s. I splurged on it with the money I made working at the Iowa State Fair, and now it’s just gone.
I stand completely still like an idiot because I’m not sure what to do. I can’t carry it home. It’s too heavy and in too many pieces. Not to mention, I’m too tired. I sniffle. Not because I’m crying but because I’m waterlogged. This rain is unrelenting. Okay, there are one or two tears. Don’t judge. I’m mourning the loss of Frankenscooter. Just thinking his name makes me want to sob. I lift my head and peer down Lincoln Way in the direction of my house. It’s a good three miles home. I’m sure I could make it, but I can’t just leave him here. It’s not right. Someone could scoop him up and throw him away. Besides, maybe some of him could be salvaged. Maybe my brother Steve could rebuild him. I stare down at the motor and wince. It’s completely crushed. Flat as a pancake.
“Now what do I do?” Technically, it’s a vehicle accident. I have insurance but only liability. That means they won’t replace him. “I should call the police.” Pulling my phone out of my bag, I remember I’ve got Officer Golden’s card. I’ll call him first.
I move to stand beneath an awning that hangs over the door of a little coffee shop. Once I’m out of the rain, I dig through my bag and find the card in my wallet. Taking a deep breath for courage, I dial the number on the back.
After only one ring, he answers, “Golden.”
I wasn’t ready for him to answer so fast, and I can’t manage to form words.
“Hello?” he prompts.
“Um, Officer Golden?”
“Yes.”
Sniffling, I say, “It-It’s Quinn Maxwell.” How must I sound?
“Quinn? What’s wrong?”
“M-My scooter.”
“Your scooter?”
“Someone broke it.” Broke it? God, that’s a dumb thing to say. “It looks like they ran over it. A lot.”
“Where are you?”
