by K. A. Tucker
“How will you get here? Do you have a car?”
“With Misty, for now. And I figured I could buy something cheap after a few months.” Diamonds is a fifteen-minute drive from Balsam, on Route 33, way too far to bike.
Lou’s pen shifts back to my education. She frowns. “You haven’t finished high school?”
“No, ma’am.”
She peers up at me from behind thick-rimmed glasses, her curly mouse brown hair framing her face in a short crop. If I had to guess, I’d put her in her midfifties, though it’s hard to say. “Don’t you know how important having your high school diploma is?”
I swallow against the rising shame. “I do, but . . . I decided to take a year off.” I’d thought of lying about it on my résumé, but Misty warned me that Lou’d fire me for lying if she ever found out.
Plus, there’s no way Lou hasn’t heard about “the Philips mess,” as my mother likes to call it. Everyone around here knows about it. It’s been the talk of the local news since Scott was arrested nine months ago.
“People makin’ it hard on you, are they?” She poses it as a question, but I get the feeling she already knows the answer.
I nod.
“That whole business with that teacher is . . .” Lou purses her lips, and I grit my teeth, waiting for her to say something like “What kind of girl are you?” or give me a stern “You should be ashamed of yourself” frown. She would be far from the first. I’ve heard it plenty and from every direction, it seems, especially after I recanted my statement ten days later—after I learned that no DA would force a seventeen-year-old “victim” to testify—and the charges against him were dropped. At the store, where Scott’s family and friends have more than once passed by me, making comments about how I deserve to be punished for trying to ruin his reputation, how I should stick to boys my own age, how someone needs to teach me to close my legs. At school, where the many students who adore Scott trail after me in the halls, hissing “slut” and “skank” and “attention whore.” Walking down Main Street, where strangers point me out to their friends.
I’ve become a local celebrity, as ridiculous as that sounds.
“You and him . . . it’s over and done with, right?” Lou says instead.
I open my mouth to deny that it ever started, but her eyes narrow, as if calling me on the lie. And so I answer with a small nod instead, even as my throat tightens and the first prickles of tears touch my eyes. Great, I’m going to cry in my interview. I’m sure Lou will be chomping at the bit to hire me now.
But the whole ordeal still stings today, even more than it did the day Scott was let go on bail and wouldn’t answer my phone calls and texts. I convinced myself that he had no choice but to avoid me, that it must be a condition of his release.
And it was . . . partly.
The rumors began quickly and spread like a stomach virus at a day care, just as nasty. Whispers in art class—but not so quiet I couldn’t hear them—about how I had thrown myself at him and then accused him of rape; how he turned me down and I was so mad I decided to destroy his life; how I was a stalker who’d lingered around his house late at night, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. If anyone considered the alternative—that Scott and I had been together, that I’d been forced to give a statement—they kept it to themselves.
The charges were dropped and Scott’s job was reinstated, only he was no longer teaching my art class. He was no longer glancing my way as we passed in the halls.
It was as if what we’d had, had never happened.
As if I didn’t exist.
Lou clears her throat. “Well, that’s for the best. Nothing was ever going to come of that, anyway.”
“No, I guess not,” I agree softly. Too bad it took me so long to see.
A waitress strolls past with a plate of fried onions and my stomach does a full flip with the smell.
“You okay? You’re awful pale all of a sudden.”
“I’m fine.” I glance over at Misty, punching an order into the computer. She grins and gives me the thumbs-up. I wish I could be as confident as her.
A woman at the table two over from us is staring at me. That’s Dr. Ramona Perkins, my dentist. Or ex-dentist. In April, we got a phone call to tell us that her office was reducing its patient load and that she would no longer be able to accept my family for appointments. In a town of three thousand, Perkins Dentistry is the only office. Now my family has to drive almost thirty minutes away, to the far side of Belmont, to get their teeth looked after.
My mother was in shock at first, given she started with Ramona’s father, John Perkins, when she moved to Balsam twenty years ago. But after a few questions, she found out that Dr. Perkins is best friends with Scott’s mother, Melissa Philips.
The other two women have the decency to look away, but Dr. Perkins spears me with a haughty glare and then offers loudly, “Wives will have to hold on to their husbands when they come in here, with that one serving them.”
“You know what? I think we’re better off talkin’ in my office.” Lou heaves her squat, plump body from the booth, collecting my résumé on her way past, not so much as glancing Ramona’s way. She leads me through the kitchen, where a heavy-set, ebony-skinned man is flipping pancakes through the air with one hand and stirring a pot of grits in the other with deft precision. “That’s Leroy. He’s the head cook around here.”
“But she takes me home at night and does my laundry. Occasionally refers to me as ‘husband’ too.” Leroy winks, and then his face splits into a wide grin.
I force a returning smile, but I’m afraid it’s unpleasant at best because the overpowering stench of grease from the deep fryers is making saliva pool in my mouth.
“Three tables of four just came in,” Lou warns him. “Don’t know why it’s so damn busy all of a sudden. I should be out there coverin’ tables. We’ll wrap this up quick. Here’s my office, right . . .”
I lose her words as I shove through the door marked STAFF RESTROOM, making it just in time to dive for the toilet before my oatmeal makes its reappearance.
Lou’s waiting for me when I step out a few minutes later, her arms folded over her ample chest, the look on her face unreadable but alarming all the same.
“The smell of sausage must have gotten to me.”
“You can’t handle the smell of breakfast sausage and you want to work in a diner?” I can almost hear the “you idiot” that she mentally tacked on to the end of that.
“I don’t know what happened. I guess I’m just really nervous.” I really need this job. “I promise it won’t happen again.”
She twists her lips in thought and then heaves an exasperated sigh. “Stay here.” She disappears into her office and returns a moment later. “I keep a box of these in my office. Between all my waitresses, we have at least five scares like this a year. I’d rather make my girls know one way or another than have them droppin’ dishes and forgettin’ orders all day long because they’re eaten up by worry for the wonder. So do me a favor. Go on back in there and pee on this.”
I stare at the thin foil-wrapped package she just shoved in my hand, feeling my cheeks burn. “No . . . I’m not . . . This isn’t . . .” I’m on the pill.
“You a hundred percent sure of that?”
I quietly do the math in my head. It’s been how long since . . .
Oh, my God.
“Yeah, thought so. Go on, now.” Lou ushers me through the door with a forceful hand, pulling it shut behind me.
With a flushed face, I quietly fumble with the wrapping, though I don’t know why. It’s not like she doesn’t know what I’m doing. “This must be the worst interview you’ve ever had?” I call out with a weak giggle as I position myself on the seat, stick in hand, hoping I’m doing this right.
“Nope. A girl from out near Sterling has you beat. Cops came in and arrested her right after she finished tellin’ me how trustworthy she is. Turns out she robbed her previous employer the weekend before.”
“I gues
s she didn’t get the job.” And, I suspect, neither will I.
Over the flush of the toilet, I hear Lou call out, “Two minutes for the results!”
I take my time washing my hands as I wait, avoiding the little strip that sits on the back of the toilet, forming its answer. The sense of failure overwhelming me. I spent a lot of time getting ready for today’s interview, ironing a simple white blouse I borrowed from Misty, curling the ends of my ash-blonde hair so it falls nicely over my shoulders. Misty said Lou likes subtle makeup so I skipped the black eyeliner and stuck with lip gloss rather than the bright pink that I usually wear.
Pots are clanging and loud voices are calling out orders in the kitchen. “I know you’re busy. It’s okay if you have to take care of your customers. I’ll show myself out.”
There’s no response, and I start to think that Lou is gone until she calls out, “Time’s up!”
Taking a deep breath, I reach for the stick with a trembling hand.
“No, no, no . . .” My back hits the wall and I slide to the floor, my eyes glued to the second dark pink line. There’s no mistaking it.
Oh, my God.
But how? I’m on the pill! Granted, I missed a few here and there, especially over the past couple of months.
Hot tears roll down my cheeks as I grip the test, thinking back to the only night this could have happened. I was so hurt . . .
So drunk.
So stupid.
As if I haven’t fucked up my life enough. How am I going to do this? I can’t live at Misty’s with a baby, and there’s no way I’m crawling back home. I don’t have a job and now who the hell is going to hire me?
The door opens without warning and Lou steps in, peering down at me with my arms wrapped around my knees, sobbing uncontrollably. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out the results, I guess.
She hesitates, but only for a second. I get the impression Lou isn’t the type of person to beat around the bush. “Do you know who the father is?”
Fair question to ask the town slut, I guess.
I bob my head.
“How far along are you?”
I quietly do the math. “Seven weeks, maybe? Or eight?”
“You gonna tell him? Get him to help?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s only right.”
I avert my gaze to the faded rose linoleum floor. I think I’ve sufficiently screwed up my chances at getting this job.
Misty comes barreling into the tight space. “Leroy said you were—” Her voice cuts off when she sees the test in my hands. “Oh, no . . . Cath!” Her hands go to her stomach, pressing against it. “Oh no, oh no, oh no!” After a moment, “This is all my fault!” She looks about ready to burst into tears.
“You’re not exactly equipped to be blamed for this, Misty,” Lou points out.
“No, but I’m the one who convinced DJ to bring his friend from New York to that party, so he and Cath could meet.”
“DJ, your ex?” Lou spits out his name. I’m guessing she dislikes him. Most people do. DJ Harvey is a snake disguised as a hot guy. If cash goes missing from your house at a party, you can bet it’s in his pocket. If there’s a fistfight and he’s around, you can bet he provoked it. Smashed window or spray-painted wall? Check for his fingerprints. I never understood how Misty could ignore the shadiness. It has only hurt her reputation.
Misty’s blonde curls bob with her nod.
Lou sighs. “And I suppose the guy who got arrested with him is this friend from New York?” Everyone around here has heard about DJ and another guy getting busted for dealing marijuana and coke in Belmont the very next day after that party. It was a reprieve for me, because it gave people something else to talk about. Misty was smart enough to dump DJ right away, though she cried for a week after.
Another head bob.
Another heavy sigh. “On second thought, I wouldn’t be too quick to say anything. No one needs to know your baby’s daddy is a drug dealer. Not like he’s gonna be able to support you from jail anyway, and it sounds like he’s gonna be there awhile.”
“People saw me get into his van, though.” Actually, they saw Matt drag me into his van after I lunged for a girl who spat in my hair. In all the months of gossip and sneers since Scott was arrested, it was the first time I had physically lashed out. I was drunk and so angry; I couldn’t help myself.
Matt lit a joint and we hung out in the back of his VW van for hours, complaining about how fucked up life is as the party raged around us. It felt good talking to someone who didn’t know a soul around here besides DJ and didn’t seem to give a shit whether I slept with my teacher or not.
He wasn’t bad-looking and had me laughing by the time he leaned over to kiss me . . .
And now I’m pregnant.
As if I haven’t provided these people with enough to gossip about. Not that I should be worrying what people say or what they think about me anymore. I have a bigger issue now. Another human being to take care of, when I can’t even take care of myself.
“Don’t matter what they saw, as long as you don’t admit to anything. It’s none of anyone’s business,” Lou tells her. “Misty, you’ve got tables to take care of. And you keep your trap shut about this if you’re a real friend, got it?”
Misty offers me a sympathetic smile and then ducks out of the bathroom.
“Okay, let’s get some saltines and water in you to settle that stomach, and then you can sit down with the menu. It’s big, but the sooner you learn it, the faster you can move from hosting and bussing to waiting on your own tables.”
Wait . . . I stare up at the woman who hovers over me in the tiny but clean staff restroom. “You want me to work?”
She shrugs. “Better to stay busy than to leave free time for regrets, I always say.”
“But, I mean, you’re actually giving me the job? Why?” I can’t help sounding incredulous.
She twists her lips. “Well, I’d say you need this job more than you did when you walked through my door twenty minutes ago, wouldn’t you?”
“Yeah, but . . .” Dr. Perkins’s words come to mind. “Aren’t you worried what your customers will say?”
She snorts. “I don’t have any use for those kind of customers. They’re the same kind who think I shouldn’t be married to my husband for the color of his skin. Besides, anyone who can’t see how that teacher used you for his own needs is a damn fool.” She rests her hands on her hips. “So, do you want the job or not?”
“Yes.” I furiously wipe the tears from my cheeks with my palms.
“Well, all right, then. And no more cryin’. Leroy doesn’t allow cryin’ in the kitchen. Gets him all flustered and then he starts droppin’ pancakes. Ask Misty, she’ll tell ya.”
I force a smile and pull myself to my feet, trying in vain to ignore that voice in the back of my head, screaming at me.
Telling me how badly I’ve fucked up my life.
Chapter 2
May 2017
Tonight is a night of firsts.
And lasts.
As in, I will never agree to a blind date ever again.
“So I says to the guy . . .” Gord’s fleshy hands wave over his dinner plate—he’s a hand-talker—“I says, ‘Walkin’ out that door without buying this car would be a travesty I can’t allow you to suffer.’ ” He pauses and leans in, to build suspense, I guess, before slapping the table. “He drove off the lot with a mighty-fine Dodge that same afternoon.”
Gord Mayberry, future owner of Mayberry’s New and Used Vehicle Dealership when his father croaks—information he shared three minutes into our date—is a self-proclaimed master car salesman. The doughy thirty-five-year-old has regaled me with countless dealership stories while sucking the meat off his rib bone dinner, and I have smiled politely and nibbled on my french fries, struggling to keep my gaze from the prominent mole perched above his left brow, the two dark hairs sprouting from it begging to be plucked.
I wish I didn’t have to drive so
I could drown my disappointment in a bottle of cheap house chardonnay.
Why Lou thought her nephew and I would mesh, I can’t figure out. I’m trying my best not to be vain, to get beyond the utter lack of physical attraction, and focus on the positives—the man owns a house, he has a great job, he’s educated. He has all his teeth.
He’d provide well for Brenna and me. A helluva lot better than I can do on my own.
And seeing as I’m a twenty-four-year-old truck stop diner waitress with a tattered suitcase’s worth of baggage in tow, who hasn’t so much as kissed a man in over three years, maybe I don’t have a right to be judgmental.
The server comes around to set a dessert menu on the table and clear our plates, earning my soft sigh of relief that I’ll be going home soon. “Can I get you something else?”
Gord yanks the napkin out from where he tucked it in his collar and rubs his sticky BBQ sauce–covered fingers against it. “I’ll have some of that divine blueberry pie of yours. How about you, Cathy?”
“No, thank you. I’m full.” I stifle my groan. He’s one of those people who assume Catherine and Cathy are automatically interchangeable. Maybe I’ll tack on a “Gordy” to see how he likes it.
“Watching that gorgeous figure of yours, aren’t you.” He grins and reaches across the table. I panic and quickly occupy my hands with my dishes.
“Thanks, doll. But I’ve got it,” the middle-aged woman chides with a wink, collecting the cutlery from me, freeing my hands for Gord’s waiting grasp.
I tuck them under my thighs instead.
He finally relents, leaning back into his side of the booth, checking his sparse blond hair in the window’s reflection. He’s not fooling anyone with that comb-over. “So . . . Catherine Wright.” His emerald-green eyes—really, the only appealing attribute this man has—study me with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. We’ve sat at this table for almost an hour and he has yet to ask me a single thing about myself.
