“Water for me.”
I can see them whispering through the window in the kitchen as I’m getting their drinks. I know they are talking about me, because they keep briefly looking this way.
Back at the table, I hand them their drinks. Brady still looks shocked that I’m here.
“Are you ready to order?” I keep my eyes on my notepad as I wait.
“Why are you working here?” Regan asks. I finally look up and crease my brows together. Would she just order instead of asking these stupid questions?
“Some people work for a living, Brady. You going to order something or not?” I snap.
Her friend starts to order. “I’m going to have the Reuben, and Regan, what about you?”
“Cheeseburger for me,” she finally says. I head back to the kitchen to place the order, and lean on one of the counters. I can’t believe someone I know found this place.
Of course ithadto be Brady who walked in the door.
I bring out their food on a large round tray to their table,placing their plates in front of them. Before I’m able to turn away, I feel a warm hand on my wrist preventing me from leaving. I look down and see Brady’s smaller hand wrapped around my wrist. I never noticed how small her hands are, or the polish that dons her nails—blue. I feel a spark emanating from her touch that simmers all the way into my chest. Just like it did when my arm was around her for the photos at the hospital.
The little boy from the hospital floods my memory. He reminded so much of Daniel, not only because of the shared name, but because they shared that love of racing. I could see that same spark of joy in his eyes my brother had. I know Brady wanted to pry more about it then, but she was nice enough to let it go.
“You’re allowed to ask for help. You know that, right?” she asks, her grip still on my wrist.
Help? She thinks I need help because I work at a diner? Because I don’t have access to her privilege? How narrow-minded can she be?
Rage starts to take over the warm buzz from her soft skin touching mine.
“I don’t need help, Brady.” I rip my wrist from her grasp. It isn’t hard, her fingers don’t even fully reach around it. “Do you need anything else?” I bite out. That makes her sit back into the booth. She shakes her head, and I storm back through the kitchen.
I don’t look at anyone, I don’t talk to anyone, even as I hear one of the line cooks call out to me. I push through the back door that leads to the alleyway that houses the trash cans. I lean back against the cool brick wall, trying to steady my heartbeat and the rage boiling behind my ears. The door that I just came from creaks open, and a soft voice calls out.
“Dean?” It’s Ms. Rosa.
Ms. Rosa has worked here probably since the diner originally opened. She keeps her hair perfectly coiffed like it’s still 1988,always a full face of makeup, and she probably doesn’t even reach five feet tall. Don’t let her short stature fool you, though. Never cross her. If you mess with anyone in this diner, she won’t hesitate to throw your ass out. And she is scary when she gets mad.
She’s the diner mom to all the employees and regulars here. Always ready to listen to your problems and give advice, even if you don’t want to hear it. She has been more of a mom to me in the past year than my own mother has.
“I’ll be back in a minute, Ms. Rosa,” I call toward the door. Next, I hear footsteps coming in my direction. Shit. As much as I probably need a motherly talk right now—I don’t want one.
She comes to a stop next to me and leans against the wall next to me. “Are you going to tell me what that was all about?”
I take in a sharp breath. I really don’t want to talk about it, but I know she won’t let it go until I do.
“That’s Regan Brady.” Her first name tastes foreign on my tongue. I’m not used to saying it unless I have to. “She’s also racing for the Cup series spot I’m trying to get.”
“That’s Regan Brady? The one who punched you?” she asks in surprise. “And her being here makes you angry? Isn’t competition the whole point of racing?” Ms. Rosa doesn’t know much about racing, but has always supported anything I’ve wanted to do. Unlike my own parents.
“One.” I hold up a finger. “She snuck up on me,” I counter. “Two.” I hold up another finger. “It is. Her dad is a racing legend. She uses her dad’s name and status to get almost anything she wants.” I look at Ms. Rosa, but she stays silent, indicating for me to keep going. “She asked me if I needed help. Like working here is a cry for help. She forgets that not everyone has the resources that she does, and that we have to work to get what we want.” I finish and Ms. Rosa isstill silent, seemingly taking in all the information that just spewed from my mouth.
“Maybe she wanted you to know that asking for help is an option,” she says, her voice soft and caring.
“I don’t need her help,” I grit out.
“Maybe not hers, but someone’s. Asking for help isn’t a crime, Dean.”
I look down at my shoes, scuffing them along the ground. “I know. I just don’t need it fromher,”I say. “She just knows how to get under my skin.” I place my head back onto the wall, looking up at the clear blue sky, closing my eyes.
“Or she genuinely wants to help,” Ms. Rosa says matter-of-factly.
