by R. S. Lively
I see that she is wearing a wedding band. It's the classic, very traditional gold. Her engagement ring is a big solitaire. "Your husband must love you very much. Look at the size of that thing!" I whistle, trying to make her laugh. I could use a little laughter, and I want to get to know her a bit better.
"He did, yes."
Did. Did. I sigh. Of course, I bring up something painful. "I'm so sorry for your loss. I didn't mean to bring it up."
"Oh, dear. It's fine. We were married for fifty-two beautiful years. The cancer got him, you know."
I smile. "No, I didn't. I'm sorry to hear that." The cancer. I’m reminded of Tops.
She waves the sadness of my voice away. "It's fine. We had a happy life. I mourned him for a little while, but now I just remember the happy times and the laughs. The milestones we had together. Our adventure was quite beautiful."
People huff again and I turn around. "Are you really in that much of a hurry to get home to your three kids who’ll just yell and scream? Give me a break,” I scold, shutting the people up. They mumble to each other, but I don't care. I like listening to the older lady. Geraldine is her name. A classic name to go along with a classic ring.
"You have fire, girly. That will get you far in life, but it’ll also stop you from a few things."
"I have everything I want. I'm fine."
"I wasn't born yesterday. You're sad. You're angry, but you're young. You'll figure it out. It’ll be seven dollars, dear."
I slide my card through the machine and lean against the old grey counter. It’s probably been around as long as Geraldine has been alive. "Any advice on how to find a husband like yours?"
"Your heart will tell you when you find the right person to love. Trust yourself."
"It's myself I don't trust. I was hoping to count on you for that,” I respond with a laugh, taking the receipt out of her hand.
"You don't trust yourself because you fight what you feel. Don't fight it. Trust yourself. Don't fight yourself."
Damn old lady and her wisdom. What does she know?
Everything, apparently.
"Thanks, Geraldine. Have a good rest of your day."
"You too, Red."
I roll my eyes and laugh again when I push the cold metal of the door to the post office and walk out. Everyone loves to call me Red.
My phone buzzes, and I see it's Logan. Again. He’s been calling and texting me for days, ever since our date. I ignore it, sliding the decline button to the side, and unlocking my 2004 Honda Civic. Once I sit down, I sigh. I never knew ignoring what the heart wanted could be so damn difficult.
My phone rings again. This time when I go to turn it off, I see that it's Dylan, another man in my life who thinks low of me.
Decline.
I connect the aux cord to my phone and press play on the pop-punk station, but the music keeps getting interrupted. My phone dings, and dings, and dings, and it keeps dinging until I'm hitting my head against the steering wheel.
Is it Drive Whitley Crazy Day?
I glance at the screen and see texts from Dylan, Logan, Charlie, Anthony, Kyle, Mom, and Dad. Jeez, did they all get together and decide to get a hold of me?
Taking a chance, I open the messages and scroll to Logan's text. I want to delete it. I do, but when the first thing I see is, "I'm sorry,” my damn bottom lip quivers. How did he get under my skin so fast? I wipe my tears away and click on it. I'm going to regret it, but I can't deny that I miss him.
I'm sorry.
Please talk to me.
I'm an ass, I know, and you know, but work with me.
Cherry, come on, talk to me.
I ignore his pleas—yes, I'm calling them pleas—because it feels good to know he’s begging for my attention. I click on the other messages. I ignore Dylan and my brothers. The ones from my parents just say hello. Charlie asks if I want to grab a drink later down at the new bar that opened in downtown.
Um, yes. I reply. Maybe I'll meet a new guy. One who isn't rich, chiseled, and hung. Well, he can be hung. That would be great.
I tap my fingers on the steering wheel before pulling out of the parking lot and driving to Tops’. I have a short shift today before starting the all-day shifts to help him out. I know I'll have to see Logan at some point, since he owns half of it. I can be professional around him, but anything personal is off the table.
Keep telling yourself that, Whit.
Five minutes later, I pull into the diner and hop out to find the diner closed. That's weird. It's noon on a Wednesday. It's our busiest time. I knock.
"Tops! You there?"
His plump frame fills the light coming from the kitchen as he walks through the revolving doors. I take my face away from the glass when he opens it.
"Whit. I called you and told you not to come in."
I ignore the snap in his voice because there is no way Tops would ever talk to me like that. "I had a bunch of errands to run. I didn't check my voicemail. What's going on? Why are you closed?" I've never seen the lively diner so dark and quiet before. I follow Tops through the grey doors and turn left into Tops’ office. He sits behind the desk, sighing and rubbing his temples like he’s stressed.
I sit in the same chair where he delivered the news that he had cancer. I hope he isn't about to tell me something worse. Anything worse than that—well that would have to be death, and that's something I don't know how to process. Not yet.
"Tops? What's going on?"
"Logan and I decided to close the diner down for the next few weeks. He paid me the income I'm going to lose and enough to cover your checks. We’re going to renovate. He is paying for a new kitchen and everything. He is going to bring this place to life."
I seethe. "Logan's money isn't going to bring this place to life. You do, Tops. You! Not him, not me. You! People come all over town every day, just to hear that special chuckle and to taste your cooking. You know that. Why are you letting him be part of this? I can take care of this place. I can take care of you."
He shakes his head. "I love you, Whitley, but it’s not your job to take care of an old man like me. You need to fall in love, go on dates, finish school. Don't let me hold you back."
My bottom lip trembles. It gives me away every time. "Tops. I don't want those things. I want to help you. I've already withdrawn out of my classes and everything. And I wouldn't change it. Please understand."
"You're as stubborn as he is."
I tilt my head with confusion. "Who?"
"Logan."
I scoff, shocked that he compares me to him. "I am nothing like him. That's just insulting."
Tops rolls his big eyes, placing his hands on his stomach. "Really? Can you tell me why you both have to have your way and your way only? Him, I can understand because he has more money than God. But you? You're a stubborn girl, Whitley Pope. It'll cause you problems someday."
"You're mad because I'm not bending to what you want. It seems to be a recurring theme in my life lately." I snip, crossing my arms over my chest like a child.
His gaze softens, and he leans forward, placing his hands on the table. "No. You just refuse to accept what people are offering and have to have the last say. I've known you for a long time, Whitley. You have a lot of pride, and sometimes, it’s just so maddening."
I click my tongue. "Well, I'll just go then since I'm so maddening." I get up and grab my purse, but his deep voice stops me in my tracks.
"Sit your ass down, Whitley Pope. I'm not done talking to you. It's time you stop avoiding things that get you mad and talk them out with people instead of getting smart with that mouth. Grow up. Stop acting like a child."
I plop back down in the chair, keeping my gaze locked on the floor. Jeez, I can't win lately. Again, another person is right, but I can't accept it. If anything, I refuse to accept what they have to say.
Another thing I do when authoritative figures are around me and talk to me like this: my eyes tear up. I need to change that about myself and get some backbone.
>
"Whitley, I'm dying of cancer. I don't have time for this. Logan owns half the diner. Deal with it. I don't know what your issue is with him, but it's time to get over it because honestly, I don't have the energy to keep fighting you on this."
I feel terrible. I'm such a jerk. Of course, he doesn't have the energy for my nonsense. "I'm sorry, Tops. It won't happen again."
He smiles, showing his dimples in his fat cheeks. "Yes, it will. But it's another reason why I love you. Now, come over here and hug me. Enjoy your few weeks off. Go do what girls do."
I run behind the desk and give him the biggest hug I can muster. I squeeze hard, trying to convey how much I care about him.
"I know," he whispers, patting my back. Somehow, he knew exactly what was going on in my head, even though I didn’t say anything.
I shed a few tears on his shirt, and I pull away. Man, I am so tired of crying. “Call me if you need me, okay? And you aren’t dying. I don’t want to hear that from you again. You’re going to beat this.”
He dips his head, but I can see in his eyes that he isn’t sure. It shatters me. How am I supposed to keep it together and have hope when he doesn't?
I blow him a kiss and stroll out of the diner that has shaped my life in more ways than one, trying to process everything. I do need a break. I don't have school anymore, and Tops’ is the only job I have right now. Suddenly, I can’t wait to go out tonight.
Tonight’s a bust. Charlie ended up getting food poisoning and has been puking all day. I’m on my way to the store about a block away to get her ginger ale and crackers when someone shouts my name.
"Whitley!"
I sigh. I knew I couldn't ignore him forever.
"Dylan." I spin around to look at him. He seems a bit out of it. He has dark circles under his eyes, weeks’ worth of stubble on his face, and his eyes seem a bit wild and unhinged. Almost like he’s high on something.
"Dylan, are you okay?"
"I'm fine. I've been trying to get ahold of you for weeks." He takes a step near me, and that's when I smell the alcohol on his breath.
I roll my eyes. "You're drunk, Dylan. We can talk later. I promise. Go get some sleep." I turn back around and take a step to keep walking when his arm lands on mine. He roughly yanks me, causing me to spin into his chest.
"Dylan," I say cautiously, taking a step back. He grips my arm tightly. I don’t know what’s gotten into him.
"Please, Whitley. Will you talk to me? I had to beg Charlie to tell me where you were."
"That makes sense. Listen, Dylan. You're my best friend. I didn't like what you said, but I've thought about it and everything you said was right. I was being dumb and immature. I'm trying to learn other things about myself."
He shakes his head. "No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have ever said those things. Those are my favorite things about you—the passion you have and the love you have for the environment. As a friend, I should have been more supportive, but I was fighting a few things, and I took it out on you."
"It's okay. Don't worry about it. I'll text you later." I yank my arm from his grip and rub the tender skin. I don't think he realized how hard he was clutching.
He grabs me again, but this time he pushes me against the brick of the building. The back of my head knocks against the wall, sending shooting stars of pain and panic through me.
I scream, but Dylan muffles my cries with his hand. "Shhh. Shhh. I didn't mean to do that. I just need to talk to you. I wanted to say more than sorry. I wanted to say that I love you. I love you so much. I've been in love with you for so long. I miss you. I miss you so much."
He lurches forward, forcing his lips onto mine. All I can taste is the lingering, foul flavor of cheap beer and cigarettes.
I place my hands on his chest and push him away as hard as I can. My hand goes to my head to see if I'm bleeding, but I'm not. My vision is a bit blurry and my mind is swimming. I can't believe he did that.
"Dylan, stop!" I try to shout, shaking my head, but that just causes more pain to shoot from temple to temple.
"Don't you get it? I love you. I know you love me, too."
"As a friend," I admit. My ears are ringing in pain now. I glance around to see if I can get out from him, but he has both arms extended forward, trapping me against the wall.
I do love him as a friend. Or did. But if this is going to be how he treats me, I don’t want him in my life anymore.
"Why are you making this so complicated, Whitley? We’ve been best friends ever since I can remember. Why are you doing this to me? I had it all planned out. You weren't—you weren't supposed to say you didn't love me."
"Dylan… you’re drunk. You aren't thinking clearly. You need to go home. I don't want to talk to you like this. You're scaring me." And there goes my bottom lip again. This time it isn't because he’s an authoritative figure, but because of fear. Fear and anger and sadness that someone I thought was my friend could do this to me.
"I'd never hurt you!" he shouts, spraying spit along the way.
I glance up and down the streets to see if anyone else is walking nearby, but it's nearly midnight. No one is out. Except for me, because I'm an idiot.
"You already have hurt me, Dylan," I say.
I glance to my right, trying to take small steps as close as I can to the side of the wall. I follow it, hoping to get to the store so someone can see me.
"Just listen, please," Dylan begs, gripping my arms tight with his hands.
I choke out a sob, terrified of what he might do. Is this the real Dylan? If so, how did I not see it?
"You have five seconds to get your hands off her," comes a familiar voice from the distance.
"Logan?" I gasp with surprise and relief, my voice shaking. Tears are running down my face.
"Four."
"Fuck you, man."
"Three."
"Who are you? Can't you see we’re having a conversation?" Dylan spits.
"Two. And you don't want me to get to one."
Logan
Fury doesn't begin to describe how I feel right now. Frankford and I had been driving to Whitley’s apartment when we passed her on the street. She was standing outside of a store, talking to somebody.
And then he had the nerve to put his hands on her.
This girl is going to be the damn death of me. After this, I'm never letting her out of my sight, so she can be safe, and I'm going to show her how a man is supposed to treat a woman.
So, here I am, standing on the sidewalk with my phone in my hand and ready to dial 9-1-1. This must be Dylan, who is one of Whitley’s best friends. Or was. I have a feeling after tonight, whatever thin ice he was on before is broken.
"I have the police on speed dial. I know Whitley cares for you, so I'm going to give you one chance to leave, or you're going to be arrested for assault."
"Assault?" he asks, whipping his head back to Whitley.
I'm not sure why, but it's like something snaps in him, and all the anger and tension in his body suddenly disappears. He stumbles back into the light, away from Whitley, with fear and regret in his eyes. "Whitley, I'm so sorry."
I sprint toward her, and she falls into my arms with relief. She sobs, hiding her face in my chest. I feel bad for initially thinking that she was having a lover's spat with this guy when I first saw them. My blood had started to boil at the thought of her with another man. But looking at him now, there’s no way she’s with this guy. He clearly can't and probably wouldn't ever be able to give her what she needs, wants, or deserves.
All bets are fucking off.
"Just go, Dylan," I say in my angriest, most menacing tone, shooing him along with the tilt of my head.
"Whitley," he pleads, a lone tear falling down his cheek.
"Go away, Dylan," Whitley replies, turning her head to the side so he can hear her.
"I never meant for this to happen."
She shakes her head, putting her hand up to the knot on the back of her skull. "Me either. Can you take me home, Logan?
" her green eyes beg me. They are filled with tears, and her lashes are wet.
I lock eyes with Dylan. A moment passes, neither of us moving a muscle. In my head, I’m already preparing for a fight. I won’t back down. I can, and will, do whatever it takes to protect Whitley from assholes like him. But then, without another word, he steps back slowly, vanishing into the darkness like a ghost.
The night is cool, and Whitley shivers in my arms. I unbutton my blazer, take it off, and wrap it around her.
"Come on, Whitley. We're going home." I wrap my arm around her, opening the door to the car that sat a few yards back. "Careful with your head." I make sure her head misses the top of the car, and she’s safely inside before I look out into the darkness and make sure that "friend" of hers is really gone.
Her teeth are chattering, clicking together like she’s frozen, but the shock and adrenaline must be wearing off. “Wait,” she says. “I told Charlie I'd get her ginger ale and crackers. She's sick.” Whitley stares at me with those eyes that arrest my heart every time she looks at me.
"When Frankford drops us off, I'll have him take your friend a few things, okay?"
"Okay, Logan."
I expected a fight. The Whitley from a few days ago would have argued that she is perfectly capable of doing it herself. "Let me check your head, Cherry."
She smiles and closes her eyes. "I've missed you calling me that."
My heart soars. I'm not sure if she knows what she’s saying, but I'm not going to question it. She scoots over and parts her hair down the middle, so I can see where the injury is. My hand cups her neck as I stare at the large egg sitting there. "What happened? I didn't see everything."
"He pushed me, and I hit the wall. Well, he grabbed my arm first. He smelled like he was drunk, which is unusual. I yanked myself away, but he grabbed me again and pushed me against the wall. My head snapped back and hit the brick. Am I bleeding?"
I bend down, kissing the swollen skin. "No, Cherry. You have a big knot, though. No sleeping for you for twelve hours. You might have a mild concussion."
"That explains the blurry vision."
"What! Can't you see? How many fingers am I holding up?" I put up my index and middle finger, waiting for her say something.
