The fact that I spent my entire life training cautiously, just to lose it all to an illness.
That I stood by every single person on my team when they needed it, but when it was my turn, nobody showed up.
That I dreamed of escaping the constant Seattle rain, only to end up out here, walking through it with a woman I can barely stand on a Thursday night.
A hollow laugh slips out before I can stop it. I shake my head.
“Nothing matters,” I answer. It’s the kind of thing I would’ve said back in middle school, the angsty, melodramatic version of myself. But itdoesfeel true. Everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve sacrificed—it’s all gone now. So why did it matter?
And if Peyton wants to push herself until her career burns out early? That doesn’t matter either.
Peyton stands beside me, squinting into the rain as it picks up. We should turn around, head back to the party, so she doesn’t catch a cold. But she doesn’t even seem to notice. She’s focused, set on whatever thought is running through her mind, and for a second, I wonder if she even heard me.
Finally, she glances up, her arm looping through mine. Without a word, she tugs me across the street.
I let her.
Our boots splash through the pooling puddles, raindrops pummeling our skin, but somehow, Peyton’s arm still feels warm against mine. It singes the fabric, igniting my nerves and stinging my skin against the contrast of the frigid air.
The ground tilts beneath my feet and I struggle to find my balance, the world around me swaying as my rigid, uncoordinated legs fight to keep up. We hop back onto the sidewalk, bodies moving fast, my heart even faster. I try to slow the palpitations, but then her arm tightens against mine, pulling me closer.
My heels dig into the ground. It takes a sharp pull for Peyton to notice I’m not moving anymore. She stumbles, caught off guard, and falls back into me. Confusion pools in her eyes as she catches herself, turning to face me.
“Where are we going?” I shout over the rain.
Peyton uses the sleeve of her shirt to wipe droplets from her face, the green paint trailing down her neck, nearly gone now. Above us, a neon sign flickers, a glowing cherry red bleeding into her dark lashes as she blinks.
It makes her look dreamlike. Sultry and velvety. I can’t help but wonder what she might look like under every hue of light.
“You’re in the depressing stage of drunkness,” she explains, and a small smile edges at her lips. “Which means it’s time for food.”
Eleven
Darcy
The Puget Diner is a hole-in-the-wall, mom and pop, delightfully disgusting establishment. The booths are practically begging for retirement, with threadbare upholstery that’s seen better days. And by “better days,” I mean whatever day in ancient history the fabric didn’t have holes big enough to give you a clear view of the yellowed foam cushions beneath.
Despite it being completely empty when we walked in, not a single table is free of crumbs. There’s a thick layer of grime on the floor, and you could hear the bottom of our shoes sticking to the tiles with every step we took before collapsing into the booth. It’s no wonder I haven’t heard of it until now. My mom’s pretty big on health code violations.
I squint at the laminated menu, a thick layer of dried, unidentifiable residue sticking to it. “What the hell is a—” I pause, trying to decipher the letters through the grime. “A Grilled Cheesus?”
Across the table, Peyton’s eyes light up as a smile breaks across her face. “Oh! That’s one of Bailey’s creations.” She reaches behind her head and pulls off her mask, revealing a little indentation on the bridge of her nose where it’s been pressed for too long. For some bizarre reason, I feel this overwhelming urge to smooth it out with my finger. I ignore it. “It’s a grilled cheese with six different types of cheese, paprika, breakfast sausage, green onions, garlic butter, and crushed X-tra Cheddar Goldfish,” she says, counting off her fingers. “Oh, and it’s dipped in gravy.”
My stomach grumbles at the mention of food, followed by an involuntary protest to the sickening combination. “That sounds disgusting,” I say, raising an eyebrow. But the low gurgle from my gut betrays me, a sobering reminder that I’m starving, and have just enough alcohol left in my body to convince me that grease is a current necessity. “I’ll have it.”
Peyton grins. She strides up to the counter to place our order, returning shortly after with two steaming mugs of hot chocolate, each crowned with a mountain of whipped cream spilling over the sides. I can’t help but raise an eyebrow as she slides one of them over to me.
“I know, I know. Athletes and their diets,” she says, blowing gently on the rim before taking a sip, leaving behind a fluffy whipped cream mustache.
I take my mug, slightly skeptical about the cleanliness of it, but I’m not one to pass up chocolate. “Actually,” I start, taking a cautious sip, only to scorch the tip of my tongue. “I was going to say that hot cocoa should always be fifty-percent whipped cream.”
Peyton’s grin widens as her brows shoot up in approval. “Exactly!” she exclaims, slapping the table with a little too much enthusiasm. From the counter, an older man glares at us. “Sorry,Gerald!” Peyton calls with a half-hearted wave. He just grunts and buries himself deeper in his newspaper.
“Wait, you said Bailey invented the—what was it called again? Cheesus Christ?”
“The Grilled Cheesus,” she corrects, giving her cocoa another casual blow. “And technically it was a group effort, but yes. Bailey’s the grill cook here on weekends.”
I blink. “Huh. Didn’t know that.”
