Chapter 8 – Beyond the Blue Line
Breakout play
Amelia
As I move around my bathroom, getting ready for the day, I hear my old NHL phone ping and pick it up. It's Jaxson's daily message that has an automatic reply programmed. I don't feel guilty because I think his message isn't actually from him. It's automatic as well. It always arrives at the same time every day and says the same thing.
Jaxson:Morning, Melly. Love you.
Me:Morning, J. You too.
When Jaxson insisted we install that GPS tracking app on our phones, I didn't mind. I wanted it. Itwas back before things became strained between us, and I was glad we had that connection. But after a while, it became obvious it was really there only for him to keep tabs on me. His signal is always off. The only time it shows his whereabouts is when it flickers on for a few minutes, long enough, I'm sure, to see whereIam.
So, I got another phone through CanMobile for when I travel or leave the house. That one has its own tracking app too, but only my close friends are on it for my safety. Jaxson doesn't even know it exists. When I go on trips for competitions, I leave the phone connected to him right here on my nightstand. Actually, it stays there permanently. The only one who really ever uses it now is Jaxson, for his daily obligatory texts.
Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't mind Jaxson knowing what I'm up to, except he's using this to control me. I don't know what he'd say if he knew I'm still competing, and I don't want to find out. It's just better this way.
Again… no guilt!
My CanMobile phone chimes with a message, and I smile as I read it. Bash also texts me every morning, but his messages aren't auto-sent. I know this because we can talk for hours about nothing and everything. In such a short time, he already feels like someone who seesme. He asks real questions, actually listens to my answers, and seems genuinely interested. He's considerate too, always paying attention to my feelings and wants. Or at least I hope so. I've been fooled before.
Pretty Boy:Morning, Beautiful.
Me:Hey, Pretty Boy.
Pretty Boy:Come on. I think my jawline alone earns me the title of lethally irresistible. Don’t sell me short, Beautiful.
Me:Good thing I'm immune to jawlines. Otherwise, I'd be in real trouble.
Pretty Boy:Ha! Ha! Are you ready for our next 'date'? Meet me at The Sandwich Shop on First and Main, Saturday at 1 pm.
Me:I'll see you there.
When Saturday arrives, Bash and I meet at The Sandwich Shop. It's one of those quaint, old-style Airstream diners.
It resembles a polished tin time capsule from the past dropped into the modern day. Bright in the midday sun, the corners rounded and curved. Red neon tubing edges the roofline, glowing softly, even in the daytime, giving it that classic roadside diner vibe. I smell warm bread and grilled meat even from outside.
There's a roller rink to the right that has been left behind from a bygone era. It still has an old sign with faded stars and missing letters. Although it's still standing, it looks like no one has been inside since the 80s.
Since I get here first, I slide onto a barstool just inside the door and text Bash.
Me:I'm here. This place smells amazing.
Pretty Boy:On my way. Be there soon.
The inside feels linear and surprisingly spacious for the concept. The bar runs the full length of the room, topped with a retro red Formica-look veneer edged with a band of chrome that catches the light. Bar stools with shiny red plastic seats and contrasting silver bases line the counter. It looks like the love child of a classic muscle car and a curvy milkshake machine. Sleek and sexy. Evoking a vibrant feeling reminiscent of the 1950s, you expect Leather Tuscadero fromHappy Daysto strut in at any moment.
The floor's red and white checkered pattern is overpowering with all the gaudy colors, but it somehow works and makes the vintage vibe charming.
Behind the counter, the cook flips a sandwich on the flattop and toasts it while a sweet-looking waitress fills the condiment and garnish station with more tomatoes and pickles.
The popular 1950s song,There'll Never Be Anyone Else But You,by Ricky Nelson, plays softly in the background, and I laugh at the irony. I find myself imagining girls with ponytails and poodle skirts dancing in front of that old-school jukebox with boys wearing rolled-up jeans and white T-shirts.
Bash shows up a few minutes later in a hoodie and sunglasses, almost as if he's trying to go incognito.
Why would he be hiding?
I frown, then shake my head to dismiss the thought.
