by Beth Michele
THE DINER IS jam packed when I arrive and I hurry through the side entrance so I can get to work. This place has been in my family for a long time but things went downhill after my mom died seven years ago. My father lasted all of a year, before his twice a week evening whiskey turned into daily drinking binges. He couldn’t handle her death, the diner, or apparently his two sons, so he left.
Jordan stepped up, just like he always did, and dropped out during his second year of college so he could take over the diner and look after me. But the signs of destruction were everywhere.
In the aftermath, we were pretty fucked up and drowning in grief, albeit for different reasons. Jordan, for losing parents who loved him. Me, well, I had my anger and chose to rebel with drugs and a side of alcohol. At age fourteen, that didn’t bode well for me or my future.
I no longer gave a shit about getting good grades, nor did I have to worry about vying for attention anymore, and I was too young to know where to draw the line.
The irony? I still wanted it. After all, my father taught me that negative attention was better than no attention at all. So I acted out, started spending time with twenty-year-olds who were getting high and doing lines of cocaine. There I was, stupid enough and so messed up in the head that even drug-induced hallucinations seemed like a better choice than my reality.
When Jordan finally caught on to what I was up to, he pulled me out of there so fast it made my head spin. I was embarrassed and pissed off, but truth be told, he saved my ass.
Of course, it didn’t end there. When I realized drugs were too dangerous, I turned to alcohol—the lesser of two evils. I should have known better, especially given my father’s plight. But I didn’t give a shit. Carrying a small bottle around in a paper bag seemed discreet, until I got busted with one during school.
Being suspended by Principal Dixwell was a walk in the park compared to what happened next, though. My fists became my only outlet. I used them to take out my anger and aggression on anyone who pissed me off.
That was the last straw. Jordan forced me to go to an after-school program at a nearby center for troubled kids. Grandma Molly, our closest relative from my mother’s side, came to stay with us for a while. Between the two of them, they made sure I had plenty to do when I got home: yard work, laundry, even cleaning toilets. There was never any down time for me to stop and think, and while I was angry as hell back then, I get it now. He probably saved my life, and that’s exactly what I owe him.
So when Jordan decided he wanted to honor our parents and keep the diner, I knew I had no choice but to help him. Except it wasn’t without sacrifice. He gave up his dream of being an engineer, and I decided not to go to college last year. It just wasn’t an option. Especially after everything he’s done for me.
“You’re late.” He tosses me a knowing smirk as I enter the kitchen, the smell of burgers hitting my nose with a fury. “Let me guess. Chatting it up with Evie?”
“Damn straight, but just for a few, she was making time with Harrington. I can’t stand that asshole,” I reply, and without realizing it, I’m gritting my teeth, trying to figure out forty different ways to annihilate him.
“Dylan,” he stops flipping burgers and turns to face me, “why don’t you tell her how you feel? I just don’t understand you. Life is too short and I think we’ve learned that the hard way.”
“Yeah, I know you’re right. It’s just that she looks at me like the brother she never had and I know I’m setting myself up for disappointment.” I can’t tell him the real reason—I’m inadequate. So, instead, I get to work. I throw on an apron and knot it around the back before washing my hands in the large sink behind the grill. Preparation for our not-so-world-famous French fries has begun.
“Well, you’ll never know unless you say something. What have you got to lose? You know,” he waves a greasy spatula in my direction, “you crack me up. You’re outspoken in every other aspect of your life… except with her.” He’s right. My ability to form complete sentences disappears whenever she’s around. “If you can’t say it, why don’t you draw her a picture.”
Something about the way he says that sends me back in time—and I’m nine years old again. The truth is, I love to draw. It was a dream of mine when I was young to go to art school and become a graphic designer. But that’s on the back burner. Just like everything else.
“Order’s up for table two,” I yell, after loading two plates with burgers, fries, and a side of pickles.
Wanda, a waitress who has been with us for fifteen years, comes to stand in front of me. With her dark hair lined in gray, weathered, brown eyes that crinkle at the corners, and petite five-foot-four frame, she looks like she could be my mother—until she opens her mouth.
“Hey, doll. You’re looking H-O-T today! What say after work, you and I?” She winks and elbows me in the ribs.
“Wanda, Wanda, Wanda,” I scold, “you look so matronly until you open that mouth of yours.” I laugh and hand her the plates of food.
“Matronly?” she scoffs. “Who the hell wants to be matronly?” She scrunches her face in disgust and marches off, but not before shooting me a hard stare over her shoulder. “Our date’s off.”
Damn.
A few more hours go by and I glance at my watch. Evie usually comes in around three o’clock and it’s two forty-five now. I figure I’ll get a head start on preparing her milkshake. After all, I want it to be just right.
I finish blending the milk and the ice cream as Wanda walks through the kitchen doors. “Your sweet young thing is here,” she says flatly and I grab her arm.
“I’m sorry if I wounded you earlier, Wanda. You know I love you.” I offer an apologetic smile, pressing a kiss to her cheek.
“You’re forgiven.” She grins, touching her thin fingers to her hair. Still, as she walks away I hear her mumble something about being twenty years younger.
I wash my hands again in the sink and dry them on a clean towel, take my apron off, and run my hands through my hair a couple of times. Picking the milkshake up off the counter, I throw a couple of cherries on top and head out to find Evie. She’s hard to miss and I take a moment to soak her in like a bright ray of sunshine. She’s such a rare beauty. She doesn’t wear a lot of makeup, but she doesn’t need to. In fact, I can’t stand girls that have layers of shit on their face so thick they look like a Barbie Doll. It’s such a turn off.
But Evie, she’s naturally pretty. She has high cheekbones, creamy skin, and a pink flush to her cheeks. Her eyes are a deep shade of blue and I lose myself in that bottomless ocean every time she glances my way.
I watch intently as she eyes the menu, her long hair falling around her face in waves, and let out a sigh as I approach. “Hey, Evie,” I greet, and she drops the menu on the table.
“Hey, Dills!” That smile of hers spreads clear across her face, and hearing my nickname—from the only person allowed to use it—makes my lips turn up as well. She’s been calling me that since we were kids. It actually started out as dill pickle, but it was annoying so she changed it to please me. I just wish she wanted to please me now. My distorted mind can count the ways.
“One chocolate milkshake, made just how you like it. Oh, and with extra cherries.”
“Thanks.” Her bright eyes rise to meet mine and I can’t help but smile. Damn, she’s insanely cute. She waggles her finger at me to come closer and of course I don’t hesitate. “Your hair is too long. You need a haircut.” She smoothes the hair away from my temple, my skin tingling at her feathery touch.
I suck in a breath and hope she doesn’t notice before clearing my throat in an attempt to get my bearings. Jesus, she’s barely touching me. I’d probably spontaneously combust if she had more than her fingers on me.
God, I want her.
“Really, you think so?” The pitch of my voice changes and I suddenly sound like a teenage boy going through puberty.
“Oh, I know so. Why don’t you stop by after work and I’ll cut it for you? Even th
ough I’m still an assistant at the salon, I do Zoey’s hair and you know I’ve done Wanda’s as well.” She takes a drink of the shake and my eyes are immediately drawn to her lips. I love how her cheeks pull in when she sucks. It’s like my own secret wet dream yet I’m wide-awake.
“Yeah. You’re right, I do need a haircut. But… I also seem to remember you massacring the hair on that doll you had in fourth grade. What was her name?” My eyes wander upward. “Abigail, I think.”
Her gaze narrows and she teasingly flicks my arm. “Well, that was practice, and I was ten. I’ve come a long way since then.”
I smile on an exhale of breath. “Okay, I… guess I’ll let you cut my hair. I’ll stop by… later.” I drag out the words, trying not to sound too eager. But any opportunity to have her hands on me, I’ll take. My whole body is alert now, knowing I have that to look forward to at the end of the day.
Maybe I’ll dig deep for courage and finally tell her how I feel.
AFTER TAKING A long, steaming-hot shower to wash every last trace of the diner from my body, I turn off the water and wrap a towel around my waist, stepping in front of the mirror. Moisture builds up around the edges and I use the bottom of my fist to wipe it away. I stare at my reflection for far too long, no longer seeing myself. Instead, I see a man, overbearing and critical. A man who with one look could tell me everything I’d never be.
I clench my jaw to stave off the pain of my father’s brutal glare and harsh words the night before he left us. ‘You’re worthless and you’ll never amount to anything.’ Granted, he’d been drinking, but what if he was right?
My eyes hone in on the thin, jagged scar running the length of my jaw. A constant reminder of how I almost let him destroy me, and motivation to never go there again.
With my hands on my hips and defeat dragging me down, I breathe out a heavy cloud of air, expelling all the bullshit from my body for the time being. All I want to do is obliterate those memories. And I’m about to do just that—with the only person who has the power to make me forget.
That’s what I’m focusing on as I slide on a pair of jeans and a clean white t-shirt. I even spray on some cologne. If Evie’s cutting my hair that means she’ll be close to me, and I want to smell good.
I lock the front door and jog across the street. I’m kind of hoping Zoey isn’t home so we can be alone. Evie’s mom and dad died three years ago in a car accident so it’s just the two of them now.
The front door is ajar and I walk in, throwing my keys on the side table next to it. “Hey, Hopper, where are you?”
Zoey walks out of the kitchen in her trademark tattered jeans and a Maroon 5 t-shirt, her chestnut waves piled into a messy bun. “Hey, dickweed, what’s up?”
She and I have had this ongoing, I guess you could call it friendly, rivalry since we were kids. She’s four years older than Evie and me, and she’s always insisted on busting my balls.
“Always a pleasure, shitbird.” I chuckle as she grabs her purse from the couch.
“Later, Evie,” she calls out, then slaps my ass on the way to the door. “Bye, DW.”
“See ya, Slim,” I mutter, as Evie bounds down the stairs and nearly knocks me off my feet with how sexy she looks. Her hair is drawn into a ponytail with wispy strands falling in her face, a tight purple tank top clings to her breasts, and she’s wearing these skimpy shorts that make her tanned legs look like they go on for miles.
“Hey, Dills!”
I’ve never in my life wanted another person the way that I want her. Desire and longing consume me night after night, my heart beating loudly against my chest, my body restless and on fire all at the same time. The need for her drives me crazy, leaves me dazed. She’s everything I’ve ever wanted and I know that everyone else in my life will be compared to her, and no one will ever match up. That’s why it has to be her. It just has to be.
“I only have like an hour because I’m going for a run before I go out with Jamie tonight.” She says it with a sparkle in her eye, and suddenly there’s a bitter taste in my mouth. I’ve gone from turned-on to turned-off in a matter of seconds.
“Hopper, what the hell do you see in him? He’s a total loser,” I hiss, unable to hold back my hatred for the guy.
She playfully smacks my arm. “Hey, don’t talk about him like that. You know I like him.”
“Yes, I know you like him.” I heave out a frustrated breath. “I just don’t know why you like him.”
“If I didn’t know better,” she arches her brow and purses her lips, “I’d think you were jealous.”
“Shit, Evie. You’re my best friend, and I just don’t think he’s good enough for you.” And yes, I’m so jealous I can’t think straight. The thought of his hands, lips, or any other part of him touching her makes me want to hurl.
“Aww… I love that you care so much.” She comes over and throws her arms around my shoulders, and I freeze for two seconds before wrapping mine around her waist. I want to bury my face in her neck, inhale her sweet vanilla scent, slide my tongue over her skin.
“Of course I care, Evie. I care a lot.”
Say it, Dylan. Just fucking say it.
“Dills. You can let go now.” Her unwelcome words snap me from my thoughts. She takes my hand and leads me upstairs to the bathroom. “Come on, let’s go cut some hair.”
The upstairs bathroom is small, entirely purple, and most definitely Evie—a stark contrast to the one downstairs that Zoey occupies. Various creams line the counter, a basket of paperbacks sits beside the toilet, and framed book covers hang on the walls. I’m going to be stuffed between the toilet and the tub but I’m keeping the best company, so it’s all good. Evie leaves me for a minute and comes back with an old wooden chair, pushing it into the cramped space.
“Sit,” she directs, and I won’t deny I like it when she’s forceful.
“Yes, ma’am,” I reply with a snort, taking a seat so she can work her magic.
“If you call me ma’am again, I’ll shave your head.” She grabs the scissors from the counter, wielding them with an agile hand.
“I’m a bit worried about my hair. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” I look up at her with a defiant grin. “Just don’t give me the Abigail special.”
She scissors the blades a couple of times and swings them close to my face. “Oh, yes, I know exactly what I’m doing.” Stepping forward, she stands so close to me that her breasts are at eye level and if I wanted to, I could take her in my mouth, through her tank. I swallow, trying to banish the image from my mind.
Fortunately, my eyes close the moment her hands move through my hair, a tingle working its way up from the base of my spine. She shifts it around, pulling pieces out and snipping then letting them fall to the ground.
“So where is dickhead taking you?” I ask off the cuff, and she stops cutting, placing her hands on her hips.
“Could you not call him names, please?” she huffs, tapping her foot lightly on the tile floor.
“Fine,” I concede, as she smiles and resumes cutting. “So, you didn’t answer my question. Where are you guys going?”
“He mentioned going to the movies.” She picks up a water bottle from the counter and sprays my hair, squirting me in the face. “Sorry,” she giggles, “what about you?”
“I don’t know. Jordan and I might hang out or something.” My voice shifts, suddenly edged with sarcasm. “It won’t be nearly as exciting as your night, I’m sure.”
“Why don’t you ask that girl out who is always hanging around the diner? The cute one with the blonde hair.”
“Wanda’s niece?” How could she even think I’d be interested in anyone else. My insides are screaming right now, yelling that they want her, that they love her. But, as always, the words are not reaching my lips. “No, I’m not interested. She’s not my type.”
“Dills. You’re such a great guy. I’m sure there are a million girls who would kill to go out with you. I don’t understand why you’re not dating anyone.” S
he sighs, and I find myself desperate to inhale it.
“Well, there’s no doubting I’m a great guy,” I joke, wishing I felt as confident as I sound. “There’s just no one right now that catches my interest.”
Except you.
“There!” she exclaims, placing the scissors next to the sink and combing through my hair. “All done. What do ya think?” She moves to the side and I glance in the mirror. It looks pretty much the same, but a bit shorter, and now you can see my eyes.
“It looks great. Thanks, Evie.”
“Sure. I’ll be right back.” She prances out of the bathroom, returning a moment later with a hand broom and a dustpan.
“Here, let me help.” I bend down, my face dangerously close to her hair, and inhale a subtle breath through my nose. That vanilla scent taunts me, drawing me into her delicious web until I can’t take it anymore.
“Evie,” I murmur, and my voice sounds strained, like there’s something caught in my throat. I dive into endless depths of blue dotted with silver as I’ve done so many times before. I’ll never tire of looking into those eyes. “Evie.” My gaze drops to her mouth, lingering there. I desperately want to know what she tastes like, what those full, red lips would feel like moving against mine. But my father’s words haunt me, monopolizing my thoughts and stripping me of my courage.
“What are you looking at?” he asked in that all too familiar condescending tone. I let the curtain fall quickly and turned around.
“Nothing.”
He didn’t listen of course, because he had to see for himself. Sidestepping me, he yanked the curtain back. Evie was in her front yard, helping her dad trim the bushes. “That girl… again. She’s not for you, so get over it. Look at her, she isn’t lazy. She’s the type of girl who will make something of herself, and you, well, the writing’s on the wall.”
Evie looks up at me expectantly. “Yeah?”
