Peyton shrugs. “Didn’t expect you to,” she says nonchalantly, her eyes catching mine. She doesn’t mean anything by it, I know that. If she wanted to poke at me, she’d just do it.
But still, it stings a little.
Whywouldanyone expect me to know anything about them? I’m not exactly winning any team bonding awards. I’ve never really made the effort to get to know anyone off the ice. Not anyone here, at least. But as much as I complain about this job, there’s a part of me that wants to be good at it. And knowing the little details—the stuff that makes themthem—matters more than I care to admit.
I shift in my seat, the worn booth groaning beneath me, a sharp spring digging unceremoniously into my hip. The silence between us stretches, the soft buzz of the overhead lights, and the occasional page flip of Gerald’s newspaper the only sounds. We sip our cocoa, the warmth spreading down my esophagus, expanding through my chest, but even that can’t chase away the uneasiness settled in my stomach.
Finally, the plates arrive.
Gerald sets them down with a grunt, and I stare at the monstrosity of the so-called Grilled Cheesus in front of me, its greasy steam rising to my nostrils. The other dish—a weird amalgamation of breakfast and appetizers—sits in front of Peyton, a heart attack on a plate.
“Thanks Gerald.” Peyton smiles. Gerald cocks a bushy gray brow at her.
“How’s Bailey feelin’?” he asks. Peyton pulls some napkins out of the dispenser beside her as she answers.
“Oh, she’s good. Having fun at the party that’s for sure!”
A frown conquers Gerald’s already-less-than-friendly expression. “Party?” he asks gruffly, folding his arms. “She told me she was sick. Jasmine called out, I was hoping she’d cover.”
A red hue washes over Peyton’s cheeks, her honeycomb eyes widening. Then she clicks her tongue once against the roof of her mouth. “Oh! Oh.” She chuckles nervously, and I tip my head into my hands. “She is.Supersick actually. You know—” She feigns a gag, and Gerald and I exchange a glance at her theatrics. “Practically on her deathbed.”
Gerald isn’t amused. “You just said she was at a party.”
“She is! It’s a uh—like aGet Wellparty. You know, tea, naps, Nyquil. All the rage these days.”
“Mhm,” Gerald mumbles before strolling away. Peyton lets out a relieved breath, her body relaxing.
“Do you think he bought it?” she whispers, and it takes me a moment to realize she’s serious.
I blink. “The Nyquil party?”
She nods.
“No.”
Her expression drops, and a heavy sigh tumbles out of her as she picks up her fork. It clinks against the plate, and I finally muster a meager “Thanks” before adding a slightly stronger “For walking with me.”
Peyton glances up from her plate, a lazy smirk tugging at her lips as she shovels a forkful of the grotesque food into her mouth. “Anything for Disney sensation, teenage spy Kim Possible,” she mocks.
I flip her off.
My gaze falls to the sandwich in front of me, and I hate to admit it, but it looks good.Reallygood. I pick it up, slowly dipping the corner of the garlic-buttered toast in the cup of country gravy, letting the thick sauce absorb into the bread. Then, I pause, staring at the mess. Peyton’s watching me with an amused look.
“It’s not going to kill you.” She rolls her eyes.
“It might,” I gesture to the diner.
Her gaze drops to my hands, a valley forming between her brows as she studies me. “Aren’t you going to take off your gloves?” she asks, that little indent on her button nose deepening.
I look down at the black pleather, the grease already seeping through my fingertips. I shake my head. “Nope.”
Her frown deepens, and she points a finger toward the stains already starting to settle into the gloves. “But you’re getting them all greasy.”
“I leave them on while I eat,” I lie. Obviously, that’s completely unhygienic. I never,evereat with my gloves on. But it’s better than watching her reaction when she sees my bent, swollen, discolored fingers. It’s easier than explaining why they look the way they do. My stomach twists, my throat constricting, and I grip the sandwich tighter, the toasted edges crunching beneath my fingers. “It’s a texture thing.”
She doesn’t say anything. Her eyes just dart silently between my hands and my face skeptically. But after a moment, she just turns back to her food, letting it go.
I take the first bite of the sandwich.
