one
. . .
High school is so overrated.The people, the parties, the boys. Ugh. Teenage boys suck! Like a lot. I mean, I get it; we’re all hormonal, but they act like caged zoo animals.
It’s clear I’m in a real mood today, and my dad can sense it.
“Lainey girl, is there anything you want to talk to your old man about? I won’t even say anything. I can just listen.”
My dad is the best listener. Where my mom wants to find solutions to every little thing, my dad will let me vent and talk things out. Even when he knows the solution, he doesn’t give it to me. He prompts me and nudges me in the right direction until I get there myself. I know this because I’ve seen him do it with my mom and my older brother, Owen, letting them sort through a problem over minutes or days, depending on what it is. He could just give us the solution, be a typical problem-solving dad, but he goes about it in a roundabout way. He never takes credit for it, either. He just smiles this proud, crooked smile, pats us on the shoulder, and sends us on our way. God, he’s amazing. I wonder if he also acted like a chimpanzee with rabies when he was eighteen.
“Lainey?” He asks as he looks over at me from the driver’s seat of his older-than-dirt forest green GMC Jimmy that he refuses to give up. It smells like pine and coffee. It smells like my dad. I secretly love it and hope he never ever gets rid of it.
“Teenage boys are the worst, Dad. They’re gross and they smell terrible. Plus, they’re mean and rude and–”
“Wait. Elaina, is someone being mean to you? I know I said I wouldn’t talk, but if someone’s upsetting you, I want you to tell me.” He keeps his eyes trained on the road, but I can feel his worry as his expression grows more serious. His dark eyebrows come together, forming a deep ‘V’ that I’ve come to know well as my dad’s serious face. Usually it means I’m in trouble, though.
The fact that he’s just addressed me using my first name instead of the nickname he usually reserves for me, does make me anxious, though, and that's when I realize my hands have twisted themselves into tight knots in my lap.
I look at my dad and calmly tell him, “No, Dad. No. They’re just gross and mean and rude. Like in general. I just thought high school would be so different, you know? I thought I’d be going on dates with cute boys. Slow dancing in the gym at homecoming. Giggling in the halls with my girlfriends. But everyone is in these little groups, and they refuse to even look at anyone who isn’t a part of their crew. The jocks stick together like they are literally glued to one another. They're always on top of each other with headlocks and pats on the back—or the ass, which is so weird. The geeks all huddle in their group, like a school of fish, using their strength in numbers to ward off the enemy—a.k.a. the bullies, that have nothing better to do than pick on people for what they look like or what they’re wearing. It’s like, who cares, you know? None of this even matters! A year from now, we’ll all be off living totally different and separate lives. Why can’t we just be nice to each other while we suffer through the torture that is high school?”
Dad keeps looking at the road. He narrows his emerald-green eyes and twists his lips to one side. “Hmm.”
“Hmm? Dad, come on. You can say more thanthat.” He wasn’t expecting me to request a response, obviously, but I’m feeling like my ragey rant needs more than just listening ears today. I urge him to keep going by saying nothing else and just looking at him, waiting.
He huffs. “Well, Lainey girl, high school has kind of always been like that,” he says in a low voice. “People stick to the groups they feel most comfortable in. I’m not saying it’s right, though. As for the boys, they’re hopeless until at least 30. But what about that Brandon boy? I like him. He seems nice.” His eyebrows arch way up when he asks me about Brandon like he fears what I’m going to say next. He knows I lack any kind of filter.
“Brandon is such a nice guy, but we’re just friends. I mean, the dude didn’t even kiss me for those three months we went on dates last year. He was just a friend who picked me up every Friday night, bought me fries and a milkshake and always got me home before curfew. Sometimes he held my hand, but it was always a bit clammy and it always felt like I could have been holding literally anyone else’s hand. Annnnnnd, I can see why you like him so much now.” I smile and roll my eyes at him.
My dad lets out a soft chuckle, and I immediately feel my mood lift. Is it weird for an 18-year-old girl to feel like her dad is also her best friend? I mean, I have friends but not likebestfriends, and he just gets me, and I get him. It’s so easy with dad. I wonder if it could ever feel this easy with anyone else.
I don’t think it could.
“Well, kiddo, you’re right about one thing. One day, none of this petty high school stuff will matter, so don’t worry so much about crossing things off your list. You’ll get to slow dance and then giggle with your friends about the cute boy you like. Just give it time. And make sure that boy is worthy of your slow danceand your attention because you’re wonderful and you deserve the world. Do you know that?” He’s stopped the car, so he turns to look at me.
We’re at Betty’s Diner where I work three days a week waiting tables. I love it here. Betty still runs the place after 41 years in business and she’s one of my favorite people. She also has no filter, swears like a sailor, and takes no shit from anyone. She’s sort of my hero.
“Thank you, Daddy. You always know just what to say.” I give him a quick kiss on the cheek. “See you at 4:00.”
“See you then, sweetheart.” He kisses me on the temple and squeezes my hand. “Say hello to Betty for me. I’ll come in to see her when I pick you up, but if I don’t get back home and fix that leaky sink right now, your mother might leave me.” He lets out another soft chuckle, and I laugh with him. He’s been telling her he’ll fix that thing for weeks. Mom might be the only person not remotely impressed by my dad’s PhD and the fact that he’s one of the most celebrated professors at MIT. She’s not letting him get through another Saturday without getting this done. I wave goodbye then shut the truck’s door before sauntering into the restaurant, that weight in my chest already so much lighter.
two
. . .
“Hey, there darlin’.”Betty’s loud but friendly voice greets me as I step in. “I was just talking about you! Come on over here!” I drop my purse and jacket behind the bar, then head over to the table she always sits at. Right as I get there, I sense another body walk up next to mine. He’s standing too close to me so I can’t catch a glimpse of his face, but I can see his very toned forearms with soft, blonde hair.
His shirt is tucked in, and there is an obviously rock-hard stomach under his slightly too-tight light blue polo, which matches mine—the shirt, not the 6 to 8-pack likely lurking beneath the cotton. He's wearing the diner’s uniform. He smells like fresh laundry and some kind of manly deodorant, and as if I’d never caught whiff of a guy before, I take a deep breath.
“Elaina, honey, you have a trainee today,” Betty says. “You know we’ve been getting real busy lately and we’ll need the help come summer with all the tourists. Andy here just moved into town.” She casually points up towards the stranger's face without actually looking at him, her eyes locked on whateverpaperwork she’s probably going to swear at any given moment. Betty hates any and all forms of paperwork.
I look up. He’s a few inches taller than my 5’7” frame, maybe 6’ and he’s got a tight smile on his face and his eyes come down to meet mine. They’re so beautiful I almost let out the gasp caught in my throat. It’s impossible to look away from the amber with flecks of yellow and green.
“He’s a sweet kid,” Betty continues. “I know his aunt, Mel, very well and I figured he could help you with the lunch rush today since he has some serving experience. He’ll be shadowing for your next few shifts. So, Elaina, meet Andy.” She waves her finger back and forth between us, still looking down at the papers she’s intently studying still.
He holds out his hand to me, and I look down quickly to shake it. When I lift my eyes again, I notice that his gaze hasn’t left my face, and it makes my cheeks heat uncomfortably. That tight smile is still on his face, though it falters the moment our hands touch. Neither of us says anything, and neither looks away.
“Now go on, you two,” Betty says while doing her best to pretend she can actually see the tiny numbers on the paper in front of her. “Get to it. I’ll be doing inventory in the back if you need me.”
