I resist the urge to text her, while I’m speeding ten over the speed limit, to tell her I want her to meet me, but there’s the whole I’m-her-boss thing I have to figure out. I like her, yes, but do I like her enough to lose my job? Or cost her hers? No.
But, isn’t she planning on leaving in a few months, anyway?
Yes. She’s still leaving.
Wait, that’s not good. I don’t want her to leave. I want her here with me.
What if she doesn’t like me that way? And she still plans to leave? I can’t admit my feelings, make it awkward, then get no time with her before she goes back to her life. No way. I would rather have every second with her before that than none at all. I’d rather be close enough to Eleanor to just have her in my life than on the outside and not have her in any part of it. Admitting my feelings could push her away.
Sometime along the drive my internal thoughts became actual words and I find that I’m talking to myself like a crazy person. “Thinking out loud,” as my mom used to call it. I was so enraptured with my own thoughts that I didn't see the car behind me as I back into the spot.
I rear end the bumper,hard, and bend it in.
I mumble profanities as I climb out of my truck.
It’s an overly nice sports car parked right in front of Wafflin’.
Fantastic.
I throw my head back in frustration, feeling way too frazzled to leave a note. I snap a picture of the license plate and run inside the diner. I’ll look up the owner later.
It’s the active bar scene now—legal-drinking-age people chatting and laughing. I weave my way through the booths and meet Sam, the owner, at the bar.
“Thanks for coming, they’re in the back.”
“Thank you, Sam.” I pat his back and cross behind the bar into the back room.
The back-room light flickering, barely lighting the room. In the center there is a couch where I see Travis—laying there, knocked out—his face bloodied and eyes starting to swell. Garrett’s sitting on the floor next to the couch, Devon is in the back of the room pacing.
“About time.” Malcolm meets me at the door.
“What happened?” I whisper.
“The two got into it over something. Travis was drunk. I was heading home when I saw them pull-up in the back.”
“Thank you, Malcolm. Has anyone called Naomi?”
“No!” Devon yelled at us.
“DJ, we have to call your mom. You are a minor, and you assaulted someone.”
“He got mouthy and tried hitting me first! And he wasdrunk, what was I supposed to do?”
“Travis started it, Mr. B. I saw the whole thing. And D hasn’t drank anything, we’re sober! Travis is drunk off his ass,” Garrett says, using the couch to stand on his bad leg.
“I don’t care who did what. You are all underage, at a party withalcohol, it is my responsibility to call someone.”
“I already called her, no answer,” Malcolm says.
Sam walks in from the bar. “The doc is here. He’ll look over Travis.”
Dr. Steven Jones walks in behind Sam, wearing scrubs and carrying a dark green backpack, with a stethoscope draped over one shoulder. He walks over to Malcolm and I, shaking our hands.
“Long time, no see, Mr. Divata, Mr. Geer.”
“Thanks for coming,” Sam says. “I need you to check him out. Make sure he’s not dying so I can kill him myself.”
Steven laughs. “Please wait until I leave. I don’t want to be an accomplice.”
