I don’t cry.
I drive.
I forget about the gummy worms. I don’t go to work. Lottie doesn’t even call to check on me. I send her a text that says I’m sorry. But at home, dad hasn’t returned and I’ve not been to the store. Hunger makes me brave the storm.
The diner is packed when I stop later for a coffee I don’t need and a plate of fries I barely touch. Folks in Hell treat the diner like a second home. They come to watch and judge and gossip while chewing bacon.
I slide into a booth near the window and try to focus on my laptop.
I’m doing okay until I hear a chair scrape.
Someone slides into the booth across from me without asking.
Elijah.
He’s wearing a clean button-down and jeans, hair still neat like he doesn’t have to sweat for a living. He smiles like I’m a normal girl in a normal town.
“Hey,” he says soft.
My stomach flips. Stupid. Always stupid around him.
“Hey,” I answer, trying to play it cool like I didn’t daydream about him when I was fifteen.
He nods toward my fries. “You eating?”
“I was,” I lie.
He chuckles. “You look tired.”
“That’s just my face,” I say.
His eyes search mine, careful and watchful like he’s looking for bruises he can’t see. “You been alright?”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
Elijah’s gaze flicks to the booth behind me, to the counter, to the door.
He’s checking the room.
A chill crawls up my spine. “Why you looking around like that?”
He hesitates, and that hesitation tells me everything. “People talk,” he says.
“I know,” I reply, too sharp.
He leans forward, voice dropping. “I don’t like the way they’re talking about you.”
My pulse stutters. “Why do you care?”
His cheeks flush just a touch. “Because I’ve always cared.”
That hits me in the gut, soft and warm and dangerous.
I swallow hard. “Elijah…”
“You don’t belong in their world,” he says, and I hate that those words come out like he’s saving me. Like he’s rescuing me from something I chose.
“I didn’t ask to belong,” I snap. “I went to a party.”
