by Kayt Miller
“Yo, get me some fries.”
I look behind me and see a group of guys sitting at the bar. They’ve been here a while, probably too long. Since the bar is loud, I raise my voice and say, “No fries today.”
He yells back, “Okay, then rings. I’ll have some onion rings.”
I shake my head and step closer so I don’t have to raise my voice. “No rings either. No food.”
“Did you hear that, guys?” He looks at his friends, then back at me. “No food. She ate it all.”
I blink for a second or two, trying to wrap my head around his words. She ate it all? “No, I—”
“Yo, Luke,” the guy yells.
Luke steps over to the group, the usual scowl on his face. “What?”
“You’d better keep an eye on that bottom line because this one”—he points to me—“is going to eat all your profits.”
I’m holding my breath. My face has got to be magenta, because it feels like it’s burning up. Tears are sitting right below the surface, so I blink a million times to keep them from falling. Why? I mean… I’m going to eat all the profits?
Who says shit like that to people?
This guy doesn’t know me. He knows nothing about my life. I mean, what if I’d just lost 100 pounds? What if I had a thyroid condition that prevented me from losing weight? This asshole doesn’t know; he just sees my size and judges me based on that.
I’ve taken in some much-needed air now that I’ve worked through some of my thoughts, but I still don’t want to say anything especially with Luke right there.
Ugh, Luke.
How embarrassing. He just had to hear that guy’s words. Of course he already knows I’m fat, but still. When someone says something rude like that to your face, you don’t want anyone else to hear it. Worse still, the guy’s dick friends are all laughing and slapping the guy on the back like he just won a championship. Yeah, if there was a world series of douchebags, this guy would win. No contest.
Just then, I’m pulled away from my thoughts by Luke. “Get out,” he snaps.
“Wh-what?” the champion douchebag sputters.
Luke points one long finger at the guy. “You don’t say shit like that to a woman, especially Quinn. Get the fuck out.”
“Luke, man… listen.”
“Don’t fucking Luke me, asshole. Who says shit like that? Huh?”
The guy tries to reply, but Luke keeps going.
“This girl”—he jerks his thumb at me—“is the sweetest, hardest-working girl I’ve ever met. And besides that, she’s fucking beautiful. You’d be lucky to have a girl like that, you pecker-head.”
“Whoa, man, I didn’t know—”
“Didn’t know what, fucker?”
“That she’s your girl.”
“She’s not my girl, but that doesn’t matter. Grow up, dickhead. This ain’t middle school. A real man never demeans a lady, especially that lady.” He points to me again. “Now get the fuck out of here. The next time you come in, you apologize.”
“I’ll do it now,” he sputters. “I’m sorry, Luke.”
Luke rolls his head around in a circle. “Not to me, you fucking dumbass. Her.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Next time. When you’re sober. And you’d better mean it, or you and your fucking pussy-whipped followers are banned. For. Life.”
“Luke…,” the guy whines.
“Out!” he shouts so loudly that the people lined up at the bar immediately stop talking.
“Fine,” the guy grumbles as he stands up from his seat at the bar. “Fuck you,” he mutters.
“Banned!” Luke shouts even louder. “All of you.”
He glares at me. “Thanks a lot, you fat bitch,” he spits.
Oh, like I’m the one who got him banned. I’m getting looks I don’t deserve. “I didn’t—”
“No worries, Quinn,” Luke says, patting my shoulder. “Get back to work.”
So I do. I play barback, pour beers, and mix drinks—the ones I know, anyway. The ones I don’t, I get Luke or Chris, the other bartender, to make. The night is hectic, but it seems to be flying by.
Until I see him with her. I glimpse Bryant from the corner of my eye. I turn to smile at him, and that’s when I spot Kara. She sees me too. And when she does, she wraps herself around him like a python, pulls his head down to kiss him. With tongue. The sad part? He kisses her right back. He kisses her like he’s done it before. Lots of times.
I watch for a second or two, but as soon as I gather my wits about me, I run down the basement stairs as fast as I can, almost taking a tumble. At the bottom, I take in deep breaths and release them slowly. “I will not cry.” I won’t shed tears over the guy I thought I was supposed to marry because he’s kissing someone else. And not just someone else. Her. He was kissing Kara.
Once I’ve gathered myself, I find what I need and head back upstairs. Tromping up the steps, I whisper to myself, “Think happy thoughts.” I squeeze my eyes shut and do my best to think of something happy, but nothing comes to me because all I can see is how my life is a fucking failure. How did I get to this place? The one where I put all my hopes and dreams in the hands of one guy. I know it isn’t realistic, but when you lose your heart to someone, how can you be realistic?
“Why doesn’t he see what I see?” I mutter to myself.
“Quinn!” shouts Luke. “Hurry the fuck up.” At the top, Luke is waiting. “What’s the matter?” he asks, taking the case of beer from me.
I must look flushed or something. “Nothing.”
He looks nervous, and it surprises me. I’ve never seen him look tentative about anything. “You sure?”
“Yeah.”
His tentativeness gone, he snaps, “You can’t let shit get to you here, Quinn. People are assholes.”
“I know.” He thinks this is about the other guy. “Thanks.” I pass him and wait by the fridge for the case so I can get right to work restocking the refrigerator. I do my best to stay busy, but every now and then, I see them. One time, she’s sitting on his lap. She looks over at me every few minutes, and when we make eye contact, she smirks. At one point, Bryant approaches the bar. I hear him call out my name, but I pretend not to hear him, and Chris waits on him.
The next time he comes right up to me. “Quinn?”
I give him my best ‘I’m surprised to see you’ look. “Oh, hey, Bryant. When did you get here?”
“Halftime.”
“Oh, well, what can I get for you?”
“A pitcher of Busch Light.”
I quickly pour the pitcher. “Need glasses?”
“One. For you. Why don’t you come over and hang with us for a minute?”
I pause for a moment, looking at Bryant, maybe for the first time. And it hits me. He has no idea. He has never seen me as more than a friend. Why else would he invite me over to his table to hang with him and his girlfriend? I raise my palm and place it on my chest, right over my breaking heart. It hurts. Pain is radiating from my center outward. No, I’m not having a heart attack, but I suspect it feels a little like this.
“You okay, Quinn?” Bryant asks, concern crossing his face.
No. “Yeah. Just tired.” Sick and tired of being the last person anyone would ever want. “Thanks, but I can’t while it’s this busy.”
“Oh, sure. Right. It just looks like you’re not really doing much.”
I swallow and it’s painful. “It probably seems that way.” I look to my left, where Chris and Luke are quickly making drinks and pouring beers, essentially doing all the work while I stand off to the side waiting for Luke to tell me what to do next. It’s true. They really don’t need me. Nobody does.
“I can’t. Not until later.”
“Okay. Well, I’ll hang on to this.” He holds up the glass. “Come over when you get the chance.”
“Sure thing.” I nod and put on a fake smile just as Luke yells for me to head to the basement again.
Time to get back to work.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Have you ever had one of those days where you think things couldn’t get any worse? Well, I’m having one of those. Luke finally kicks out the last remaining stragglers at one forty-five in the morning. We’d been able to get things restocked and cleaned up as we went along, so I’m out the door by two. Exhausted, I cover my head with a plastic bag I found in the kitchen at Cy’s and walk as fast as my tired, sore feet can carry me toward the spot where I parked my scooter.
I turn left onto Lincoln Way, and that’s when I see it—my scooter. Or what remains of it. I stop dead in my tracks. Dropping the plastic bag, I walk slowly to the wreckage. My scooter is totaled. I can’t be sure, but from the looks of it, I’d say someone ran over it. Several times. The handlebars are several feet away from the main part. What used to be the trunk is shattered into pieces. I look around and frown. “Where’s my helmet?” I turn left and right, but there’s no sign of it. It’s gone. I loved that helmet. It was retro and cool—a jet helmet reminiscent of those from the 60s. I splurged on it with the money I made working at the Iowa State Fair, and now it’s just gone.
I stand completely still like an idiot because I’m not sure what to do. I can’t carry it home. It’s too heavy and in too many pieces. Not to mention, I’m too tired. I sniffle. Not because I’m crying but because I’m waterlogged. This rain is unrelenting. Okay, there are one or two tears. Don’t judge. I’m mourning the loss of Frankenscooter. Just thinking his name makes me want to sob. I lift my head and peer down Lincoln Way in the direction of my house. It’s a good three miles home. I’m sure I could make it, but I can’t just leave him here. It’s not right. Someone could scoop him up and throw him away. Besides, maybe some of him could be salvaged. Maybe my brother Steve could rebuild him. I stare down at the motor and wince. It’s completely crushed. Flat as a pancake.
“Now what do I do?” Technically, it’s a vehicle accident. I have insurance but only liability. That means they won’t replace him. “I should call the police.” Pulling my phone out of my bag, I remember I’ve got Officer Golden’s card. I’ll call him first.
I move to stand beneath an awning that hangs over the door of a little coffee shop. Once I’m out of the rain, I dig through my bag and find the card in my wallet. Taking a deep breath for courage, I dial the number on the back.
After only one ring, he answers, “Golden.”
I wasn’t ready for him to answer so fast, and I can’t manage to form words.
“Hello?” he prompts.
“Um, Officer Golden?”
“Yes.”
Sniffling, I say, “It-It’s Quinn Maxwell.” How must I sound?
“Quinn? What’s wrong?”
“M-My scooter.”
“Your scooter?”
“Someone broke it.” Broke it? God, that’s a dumb thing to say. “It looks like they ran over it. A lot.”
“Where are you?”
“Lincoln Way and Welch.”
“I’m on patrol. I’ll be there in ten.” He hangs up before I can even thank him.
Leaning back against the glass, I’m tempted to call Tayler, but I can’t. Not at this time of night, and not yet. She still hasn’t made a move to contact me. In all the years we’ve been friends, this is the longest we’ve gone without speaking.
Without another thought, I open my FaceChat app and hit Cooke’s number. For some reason, I feel close enough to him to tell him my current woes. He’ll make me feel better. He’ll say all the right things. Maybe Patsy’s right and Cooke has a crush on me. That would certainly cheer me up. What if he jumped on the first plane out of England and made it here by tomorrow to save the day?
Oh my God, Quinn. What the hell are you thinking? He’s not a superhero, and he certainly doesn’t have a crush on you.
He’s my friend, at least. Thinking of him as more than that is fairy-tale land, a fantasy.
His phone rings several times, and I worry I called too early. It’s after eight in the morning there, but it’s Sunday in England. Maybe he’s sleeping in or at breakfast or church.
Just then, the screen comes to life. “Cooke?” I say frantically. I’m blubbering more like it. My nose is all runny, and I sound hoarse.
“Allo?” says someone who is definitely not Cooke. Hell, they aren’t even male.
I stare at the screen, shocked by the sight before me. She’s gorgeous and perfect. Just Cooke’s type. There goes my fairy-tale land. Why does that bother me so much? It shouldn’t. We’re just friends, after all.
“You there?” she asks in a perfect English accent.
“Cooke.” It’s all I can choke out between sobs. This day has sucked beyond belief. Hell, my entire life keeps getting worse and worse.
“Oh, dear. You’re upset. You want Cooke?” asks the woman. When she says something like “Cooke, bruv…” that’s all I need to hear. I hang up. She called him “bruv.” I’m sure that’s just a term of endearment for them.
When I hear sirens, I know it’s for me. I look down at the phone and turn it off in case he tries to call back. I need to cut my losses. Facing Cooke now is not the answer, especially if he has company. He isn’t going to want me to interrupt him now.
As the police SUV pulls up, I step out from beneath the safety of the awning.
“You’re soaked,” Officer Golden says as he climbs out. “Here.” He jogs around the SUV, opening the passenger door. Get in.”
Without a word, I slide into the car. The next thing I know, I’ve got a blanket wrapped around me, and he turns the heat up in the car. I watch through the window as Officer Golden walks around what’s left of my only mode of transportation. At least he’s got on rain gear so his uniform won’t get soaked.
I’ll have to take the bus now. Everything gets more complicated without my scooter like getting to class and to work.
As I do my best to get myself under control, I watch as Officer Golden gets pummeled by the rain as he takes photos of the wreckage. After that, he begins to pick up the pieces to place them in the back of the SUV. I open the door to help him, but he waves me off. The main part of the scooter has to be heavy, but he’s able to roll it—drag it, really—to the back of the police car. He must be strong to be able to lift the carcass into the back of the SUV. When everything’s picked up, he hops back into the car. I hand him the blanket, and at first, he waves that off too, but he finally takes it to wipe off his face and hands.
When he finally speaks, his words shock me. “Your tires were slit.”
“What?”
“Someone slit your tires.”
“Why?”
“And it appears they may have run over it. More than once.”
I swallow. “Who would do that, Officer?” My poor scooter.
“Call me Gage.”
“Gage Golden?”
He shrugs. “All my siblings have G names. So… have you seen Kara lately?” he asks quietly.
“Tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“She was at Cy’s tonight.”
Turning his head, he scowls, “You been drinking?”
“No. I work there. Bartender.”
“Oh, good. You saw her there?”
“I did. Strangely, she was with… well, with a friend of mine.”
“Why strangely?”
“Well, I introduced them a while ago. I knew he liked her, but I didn’t think they were dating or anything. Not until I saw them tonight.”
Then Gage asks, “Did you tell your friend about the attack?”
Attack? I don’t know if I’d use that word. “No, I haven’t. Not yet.”
“Perhaps you should warn your friend.”
How do I do that? He’s going to think… oh, what does it matter what he thinks? “I will.” The car is quiet. “Do you think she did that to my scooter?”
I watch as Gage grabs a clipboard from beneath his seat. “I’m going to write up a report. Since I don’t feel comfortable speculating, I’ll investigate it. May I ke
ep your scooter so I can look it over more closely?”
“Sure. Of course.”
I answer each question Gage has for me, and then I sign the report.
“I’ll give you a copy for your insurance,” he tells me.
“I only have liability.”
“Keep it for your records, then.” He clears his throat. “Maybe get full insurance next time?”
“My brother built that for me from parts.” I shrug. “Nothing to insure.”
“I get it,” he says, putting the car into gear.
Pulling out onto Lincoln Way, I stare out the front window as we move west, in the direction of my house. When he pulls into our driveway, I look over at him. Releasing a shuddered breath, I say, “Thank you for helping me.”
“Anytime, Quinn.” Opening the car door, I feel his hand on my wrist. I look up at him as he repeats, “I mean it. Anytime.”
“Thanks, Gage.”
Sliding out of the SUV, I wave.
Rolling down his window, he says, “I’ll let you know what I find out.”
I feel like I need to say something before I shut the door. “My helmet was missing.”
He looks back over the seat where the scooter parts lie. “It is?”
I shrug. “It was pink and super cute.” Using my hands, I attempt to help him visualize it. “It’s sort of a half helmet, but they call it a jet helmet too. Just thought you should know.”
He chuckles. “Pink? Jet helmet. I’ll keep an eye out for it. Night, Quinn.”
“Night, Gage. Thanks again.”
“Anytime.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
