Something Like Normal

by Monica James

  I remember Hank mentioning him knowing Bobby Joe. And that explains why Quinn helps him out. Hank is a friend of Quinn’s grandma.

  “Yeah.”

  Just when I think he’s not going to elaborate, he continues, “My grandparents opened up Bobby Joe’s in the 50’s, and my grandpa, being the old romantic that he was, named the diner after my grandma. Not long after, they had my mom, Donna. Her whole life, my mother was told that when she was older, the diner was going to be passed down to her. But my mom wanted to go college, wanting to experience something new, as she had worked at the diner all through her teenage years. Anyway, that’s where she met my dad.”

  I instantly notice the animosity that rolls off Tristan’s tongue at the mention of his father.

  “My dad, Paige, he’s a deadbeat. Always has been, always will be. Anyway, my dad saw a good thing in the diner as it had a great rep, loyal customers, and he knew all the hard work was done for him. So he convinced my mom to drop out of college and take over from my grandparents. My grandparents were happy to hand it over to her, as they were ready to retire and enjoy the money they made after all the years of hard work they had put into the place. But they weren’t thrilled when my mom told them my dad, Ben, had proposed to her and that she was pregnant with Quinn.”

  “Oh,” seems to be the only response I am capable of tonight.

  “My mom, she is the sweetest lady you’ll ever meet, so I just dunno what she saw in my dad. Anyway, a couple of years later I was born, and by the time Quinn and I were old enough to understand, we knew that my mom wasn’t happy… but she stayed with my dad.”

  “Why?” I whisper, as I can’t understand why his mom would stay, and mine… wouldn’t.

  “Because of me and Quinn. She would never leave without us. She knew this was our home. Dad sometimes pushed us around when mom was working fourteen hour shifts at the diner, threatening Quinn and I with a beat down if we told my mom. He was a mean drunk with a heavy hand and had a huge gambling problem.”

  Images of Quinn as an intelligent, emerald-eyed child, and Tristan, an innocent, younger brother, clinging to his older brother while their drunken father storms around in a rampage, breaks my heart.

  What also is a kick in the guts is that no matter what, Donna stayed for her kids. She pushed through because that’s what mothers do.

  But mine didn’t, and suddenly I have an epiphany.

  What if my mother didn’t want to stay? What if she was leaving my dad and me?

  Tristan continues, deep in thought. “When Quinn was ten, he stood up for me and my mom. My dad came home, drunk as usual, and started pushing my mom around. This was something he had never done before. I mean he screamed at her and verbally abused her, but he never touched her until that day. And that was the day that Quinn had had enough. He got into my dad’s face and he pushed him. I still remember the rage in Quinn’s eyes, and my dad also saw it. He was stunned that Quinn would stand up to him, and warned him to step down, but when Quinn wouldn’t back down, promising to protect me and my mom, my dad hit him. And I don’t mean a slap. He hit him so hard, he split Quinn’s forehead open.”

  I cover my open mouth with my hands, my eyes wide.

  Tristan looks over and shakes his head. “I dunno why I’m telling you all this,” and he gives me an apologetic smile.

  “No, please continue,” I whisper, as I know this is something Tristan needs to get off his chest.

  He nods, thankfully, as I need to know how this story ends.

  “That day my mom left my dad. She told him to leave and never to come back. And if he did, she would go to the police and press charges for what he did to Quinn. Dad knew she was serious and he left, but I doubt he ever wanted to be with us, anyway. Mom raised us as best she could, but, well, something happened a few years later, something that changed us forever…” He pauses, looking sad by what comes next. “I’m sure I’m boring you. Some stories are better left untold,” he concludes, pulling into the parking lot.

  I’m all but jumping up and down in my seat. No, I am far from bored! His story has left me with so many questions, but I can tell we’ve pulled into Night Cats by the red flashes passing over Tristan’s face.

  I need to get out, but I am stuck to my seat.

  “Thank you for listening,” Tristan says, unbuckling his seatbelt, turning to look at me. “I’ve never told anyone that before. I’m sorry to lug it all on you,” he confesses, pulling in his lip.

  “Don’t apologize. I’m glad you trust me enough to tell me something so personal. Sometimes, it’s easier to tell a complete stranger your story, than it is your friends,” I reply, knowing all too well how he feels.

  “I’d like you to be my friend,” he says with a smirk, and I realize what I just said.

  “Oh, right. Well, we are. Friends, I mean,” I reply and I can’t believe I actually mean it.

  “Good.”

  There is a silence between us, and just as I’m about to unbuckle my seatbelt, Tristan confesses, “I guess I knew that deep down, you’d understand. You’re not like all the flaky girls here. You’re real.”

  I look at him, stunned.

  “Thank you,” I reply softly, slightly embarrassed by his honesty. “That’s a really nice thing to say, Tristan.”

  Tristan smiles, which lights up his handsome face. “Anytime. Here,” he says, extending his hand out. “Give me your phone.”

  Funnily enough, I don’t question him why as I slip it into his palm.

  “Now, if you feel the need to bare your soul,” he says with a chuckle as he begins tapping on the screen, “you’ve got my number.”

  He hands me back my phone, and I can’t help but notice how gentle his fingers look. A stupid thing to notice really, but I notice it nonetheless.

  “Thanks, Tristan,” I reply, looking at his number.

  I know I should give him mine, but I can’t. It just feels too personal.

  “See you tomorrow,” Tristan says, acknowledging my sudden discomfort.

  I unbuckle my seatbelt and give him a small nod goodbye.

  “Goodnight, Tristan.” I hop out of the truck, giving him a final wave before he drives off.

  As I drag my feet over the asphalt on the way to my room, I am deep in thought.

  So many questions are plaguing me: Where are Donna and Ben now? Where are Tristan’s grandparents? Why doesn’t Quinn work at the diner? Where does Quinn work? What happened to Ben? And more importantly, what happened a few years later that changed everything? The list is endless.

  I then realize that Tristan’s past is also Quinn’s past. Although he wasn’t the one to give me the information, I now understand why Quinn is so guarded, as I have a sneaking suspicion Tristan doesn’t know the whole truth.

  Speaking of truths, there is one truth I don’t want to give too much attention to, and that is about me and my situation. Donna stayed for her kids. Regardless of how unhappy she was, she made that sacrifice for her children.

  So, what does that say about my mom, who up and left a three year in the hands of a monster?

  My whole life I’ve put my mom up on a pedestal. She was my prize at the end of all this shit. But what if I’m wrong?

  What if my mother left me, and hasn’t looked back?

  Chapter 19

  Lucky

  “You sure you got a place to stay?” Grandpa asks as I walk into the tiny office, hanging up the room keys.

  “Yes, Hank, I told you, all good. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I reply casually, while I actually feel like a total ass for lying to Hank.

  “Okay, you call me if you need anything. You got the number I gave you?” he questions, looking down his glasses at me, pinning me with an authoritative stare.

  “Yes and yes,” I reply, patting my back pocket. “Stop worrying, I can take care of myself.”

  I make sure I give him a small smile, as I appreciate the concern.

  “I know you can, but…”

  “No buts,” I reply q
uickly and pat his hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  ***

  The diner was crazy busy and I worked the late shift, which is good, as it gave me a place to be. But now that it’s closing time, I got nowhere to be.

  “Whatcha up to now?” Tabitha asks, tossing her apron into the dirty laundry basket.

  “I might hit the gym,” I reply, tying back my long hair. “Did you wanna come with?” I ask, as I remembered I promised she could come with me the next time I go.

  “Oh, I’d love to, but Mother needs me to watch her practice some boring speech she has to deliver tomorrow night at some charity event.”

  I try and hide my distaste, but obviously fail miserably.

  “Trust me, I’d much rather hang with you,” she says with a frown.

  “Next time,” I reply, and I can’t believe that I’m actually kind of disappointed.

  “Okay, it’s a date.”

  We say our goodbyes and I bump into Tristan in the hallway on my way out.

  “Goodnight, Paige. Thanks for tonight.” He smiles, his dimples punching me in the guts with their cuteness.

  After my chat with Tristan two nights ago, I’ve kind of been looking at him differently. Not how I look at Quinn, of course, who still has been MIA. But after someone opens up and shows you a little of their soul, the way Tristan did, it’s kind of hard not to see them in a different light.

  “No worries. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I reply, still itching to ask him where Quinn is, but I don’t.

  I hit the gym, and after being on my feet all day, I have no energy to workout. But I do some cardio, trying to burn a hole in my brain to stop thinking about Quinn. I’m slightly disappointed that he hasn’t dropped past Hank’s or the diner. He doesn’t have my number, but he knows where I am.

  But where is he?

  After our talk, or whatever the hell it was a few nights ago, I thought I’d at least see him, but he’s been a ghost. After his whole, ‘Trust me’ speech, I thought that maybe we’d hang out, or at least talk.

  I still don’t know what to make of these ‘feelings’ I have for him, and even though I told myself to stay away from him, I can’t. But the fact he’s avoiding me is troubling, as I’m starting to believe there may be some truth behind what Amber said, which deep down hurts.

  Using that as motivation, I kick the shit out of the bag for forty minutes, feeling slightly better, but the emptiness in my gut is still lingering like a bad smell.

  It’s now 12:02 a.m., and I have the whole night to decide what the hell to do.

  Grandpa insisted I take his truck, which I’m so grateful for, as I would be walking the streets aimlessly otherwise.

  Hopping into the truck, I look over the steering wheel, drumming my fingers against it and contemplating where to go. I decide just to wing it, but I don’t want to drive around too far, as I don’t wanna use up too much fuel.

  I’m getting my next pay check in a few days from the diner, as they pay every two weeks, which is great—my money from the motel is running thin.

  After dinner, small supplies, and my unplanned shopping spree with Tabitha, I don’t have as much left over as I thought I would. But why doesn’t that thought worry me like it should? I guess because deep down, I know it means I’ll have to stay here longer, something which doesn’t sound so bad.

  I start up the Old Girl, and decide to take a drive around, park it somewhere inconspicuous, and sleep in the truck for the night.

  I’ve slept in worse.

  South Boston is really beautiful. The further you drive out, the greener and more isolated it becomes. A perfect place for one to get lost in.

  The conversation with Tristan has been playing on repeat the whole drive, and this is the problem with not being busy, I have time to think about things I don’t want to. Like my mom, my dad, my life—things I can usually drown out with noisy restaurants and vacuum cleaners.

  The only thing I can hear out here is well… nothing. That is, until I hear a gunshot.

  I yelp in surprise, as it seemed to be amplified out here in the silence. I know it came from behind me, so I pull a U-turn and drop my speed to a crawl while looking out my window to determine where the noise came from. I don’t have to look far.

  My headlights illuminate a black and white Border Collie running for dear life toward my truck. I brake quickly, put the truck into park and jump out hurriedly.

  The dog looks petrified, his pink tongue flopping out the side of his mouth as he runs toward me, full speed. Wide eyed and shaking, he charges into me, knocking me back with the force of his jump.

  He lets out a small whimper as I pat his head and crouch down to meet him, face first.

  He’s emaciated, hollow-eyed and scared—I know the feeling too well, and I wonder what monster he’s running from.

  My question is answered as I see a man wearing blue overalls over a dirty white t-shirt, which is way too tight for his heavy frame. He hobbles up the road with shotgun in hand, and a mean scowl plastered all over his dirty face.

  Mine and the dog’s hackles rear up when we see him limp up the rocky road, eyeing us both.

  I hate this redneck the moment he opens his mouth.

  “You fucking mutt, get back ’ere!” he shouts when he sees the dog backing away from him.

  I instantly stand in front of the dog, protecting him against this man, who looks way too similar to Phil in his dirty clothes.

  “Move outta the way, bitch. That dog ain’t good for nothin’,” he spits out the side of his mouth, and glares at me when I don’t move.

  Nor do I intend to.

  I look down at the shotgun and know if I make a sudden move, he will blow my head off without thinking twice about it, so reaching for the knife out of my boot is not going to work.

  With no other choice, I use my street smarts.

  “How much do you want for him?” I ask, my hands raised, showing him I mean no harm.

  “You wanna buy him?” he asks, his eyes widening at the prospect of making some money.

  We live in a sad, sad world, where the universal language of money is everybody’s first spoken language.

  “Yes. I’ll give you fifty dollars,” I say quickly.

  “A hundred,” he pipes up, leaning on his shotgun and scratching his round belly.

  “Fine, one hundred it is,” I reply, knowing all too well how these crooks work.

  Whatever you offer, they always want more, and will barter with you so they feel like a ‘Big Man’ when they make the deal.

  Little does he know, I was willing to pay anything for this little guy.

  “My money is in my boot,” I say, hands still raised in the air.

  He nods and points the gun at me.

  “Slow,” he sneers.

  Crouching slowly, with one hand still raised, my eyes lock with his as I drop the other hand to pull the one hundred dollar note out of my boot. My fingers skim over my blade, offering me comfort by knowing it’s there.

  I stand up quickly, showing him the note in my hand as I hold it above my head.

  “Walk it over,” he shouts, gun still aimed at me.

  “Fine. Let me put the dog in the truck,” I say, not wanting to give him the money and he shoots the dog anyway.

  Trust me, I’ve seen it happen.

  He nods, his brown, greasy hair catching in the wind.

  “Here, boy,” I say, walking backward to the passenger door, my eyes never leaving the shotgun as I open the door for the dog.

  The dog can’t get into the truck quick enough, but I notice him limping just before he jumps in. He lies on the seat, head resting between his dirty paws, and he looks at me with big, chocolate eyes, wanting to get the hell out of here.

  I take a few steps forward and look down the barrel of the gun and shiver, as it brings back a memory I wish I could just forget.

  Throwing the money at his flabby chest, I see that his name is Jimmy, which is printed on the front of his overalls. I walk away h
astily, as I need to get away from him, because the closer I get to him, the more and more I can see Phil.

  The smell.

  The look.

  Everything reeks of greed.

  Thankfully, I hear his boots crunch over the gravel, his footsteps echoing away from me.

  Rounding the car, practically sprinting, the door whines in protest as I yank it open. Only when I close door and lock it behind me do I let out a relived breath.

  Looking over at the little dog near me, lying on the bench seat and gazing up at me with big, puppy dog eyes, I now know where the saying came from.

  The engine roars to life and I hightail it out of there, leaving a cloud of smoke behind me.

  After my hands stop shaking, I realize I need to give this guy some food. Sadly, after the redneck took all my money, I’ve only got about six dollars to my name, but as I look into the dog’s chocolate eyes, I know it’s so worth it.

  He edges closer to me, laying his small head against my knee and my heart skips a beat at the gesture.

  “I know,” I say, smiling down at him. “You would have done the same thing for me.”

  With no other choice, as I don’t want this little guy sleeping in the truck as he’s covered in sores, and he looks dehydrated and hungry, I pick up my phone, punching out a text. Within a minute, I receive a reply.

  Sure :)

  ***

  “So, I bet you regret giving me your number,” I say as Tristan opens his front door.

  He greets me with a sleepy smile, and I feel like a jerk for asking him to help me out. But I didn’t know who else to call.

  “Don’t be silly. Come inside, its cold out,” he yawns while rubbing his arms.

  The dog stays close to my heels as we enter Tristan’s house, which looks a lot less crowded than when I saw it last.

  Tristan notices the dog limping as he closes the door behind us.

  “Oh, poor guy,” he says, his mouth dipping into a frown as he leads us into the living room.

  He pulls a rug out from the cupboard, laying it on the floor in front of the bare mantel. The dog lies down on it and lets out a contented sigh, while I crouch down low, rubbing between his ears.