Minutes blend together. Orders pile up. The bell rings. Wes yells. Someone drops a plate outside and curses loudly enough for everyone in the diner to hear. Wes yells again.
Aubrey walks in with a stack of plates balanced against her hip.
At first, she doesn’t see me.
Her black hair is tied back, her expression focused, as she moves quickly to dump the plates into the gray plastic tub. She scrapes leftovers into the bin with sharp, efficient motions.
When she finally turns and sees me there behind the grill, her face falls flat.
No smile.
Just that look.
She doesn’t like me. Not even a little. Never has. She knows what I am. The guy you warn your friends about.
“Aubrey, you got a sec?” I ask, flipping a burger before it burns.
“No,” she replies instantly.
“It’s important,” I tell her.
“So is getting food out before the old guy at table six dies of starvation.”
I glance toward the pass. “He looks sturdy.”
She doesn’t crack a smile. She keeps scraping plates and doesn’t look at me.
“Have you talked to Lola?” I ask.
Her movements still. Just for a second.
“I said,” I start again.
“Mind your business, Jace,” she cuts in, voice icy.
I stare at her, the heat from the grill blasting my face so hard that my eyes sting. Grease snaps and pops against the metal.
“She doesn’t want to talk to you,” Aubrey says, shoving the plates into the tub harder than necessary. “So take a fucking hint.”
The words land clean, sharp, meant to cut.
I open my mouth to respond with something sarcastic that would make me seem untouchable. But nothing comes out. And that frustrates me more than what she said.
She grabs three plates loaded with burgers and fries and walks out without giving me another glance.
I flip another patty and press it down. I watch the grease spit up around the edges as I think about this morning, about how Bells told me her friends are wrapped up in their own little world now.
If Aubrey had been paying attention, she would know that Bells has been completely alone for weeks now.
Chapter Seven
Lola
I’ve been sitting in my dad’s chair for two hours.
I know this because the clock on the wall keeps ticking loudly enough to feel personal, and the moon outside has shifted just enough to cast shadows across the carpet. I have not moved or eaten. I haven’t even turned on the television. I am just sitting here, curled into a chair that’s too big for me, staring at the blank wall across the room as if it might hold an answer to a question I cannot voice.
The house has a faint hospital smell. I think I brought it back home with me.
