Mona and her compatriots judged me from the floor as I walked past them, and I supposed they’d made their point, because I turned right back around and gathered my laptop and one of the befouledMona Lisasbefore leaving the apartment again. Once I made it to the patch of grass by the street where I kept my truck, I clambered inside, cringing at the sound of the door.
Ole girl needed some maintenance so badly.
I started her up and cranked the handle to roll my window down, thinking of calling Bree to see if she was awake. Maybe I could solve this now. I could always drive by her house and see if any lights were on, but I didn’t want to risk her grandmother calling the cops on me.
It wouldn’t be the first time.
Instead, I put the heat on and stuck my left arm out the window, letting my hand twirl in the breeze as I enjoyed the thick coastal Mississippi air. Within moments, I was cruising past the glittering marquees and flashing neon of the long strip of casinos and then pulling into the one place where no one would judge me.
Waffle House.
I parked in the mostly vacant lot, my mission to scout Miss Barb’s house forgotten, and made a mental note to text Bree when I got inside. There was something about the fluorescent lights and smell of grease and wafts of vanilla waffle batter that put its patrons in a confessional mood, so maybe this would be the perfect time for us to talk out whatever was bothering her.
Unfortunately, my mental notes tended to be written with chalk on an uncovered sidewalk moments before a torrential downpour.
I slipped my phone into my hoodie pocket and pulled my hood over my head, tightened the strings down, and grabbed my stuff. Then I made my way inside, the buzzing and flickering of the streetlamp guiding the way.
I’d barely slid into the booth when a waitress appeared and wordlessly laid down a napkin and topped it with a fork, spoon, and knife.
I frowned at the utensils, wondering if I’d ever used a knife here.
“What’ll ya have?” she drawled, notepad in hand.
I smiled faintly at her before answering, “The All-Star, please, scattered, covered, and peppered. Eggs scrambled with cheese. And a coffee and a water.”
I didn’t come here nearly as much as Dawn’s—Fortuna Casino & Resort’s retro diner—but Waffle House was where Bree and I usually went when we needed a break from who we were atthe casino—the kids who’d raised themselves in neon lights and then made the insane choice to work under them as adults.
My dad had worked at the casino for as long as I could remember, and Miss Barb, Bree’s grandmother, spent more time in front of a slot machine than anywhere else.
I leaned back against the hard booth seat and stuffed my hands in my hoodie pockets, one of them brushing against the crumpled paper inside. With a long-suffering groan, I took my hands right back out of my pockets—Mona in tow—and remembered the assignment. After I opened a wireless hot spot and signed into the class portal, I glanced at my setup and realized I hadn’t brought my charcoal pencil.
Or paper.
Jesusfuckingchrist. I was acouyon.
That’s exactly what my Memere, my French Cajun grandmother,God rest her soul,would’ve call me if she were here.
An idiot.
An idiot who was sitting alone in a Waffle House with an assignment due in…. I glanced out the foggy window, frowning when I realized I hadn’t even checked the time before. “Night” had seemed like enough information.
I tapped my phone to bring the screen to life.
4:17 a.m. No wonder the waitress hadn’t been chatty.
Some days I was really tired of being around myself.
Other days I wondered if there were a way to leave it all behind.
Those other days were becoming more frequent.
A steaming cup of coffee, a plastic cup of ice water, and a glass dispenser of syrup appeared in front of me, rerouting my pity party. I mumbled my thanks as I set to pouring a barrel’s worth of sugar into the mug followed by a whole-ass cow’s worth of cream. That should make it drinkable. I stirred the coffee untila light-brown vortex formed, letting myself zone and watch the spiral until it died out. Then I helped myself to several long sips, my aura instantly brightening.
A loud clank served as a prelude to a waft of heat, grease, and grilled jalapeños hitting me square in the face.
“Anything else?” the waitress asked, hovering over me.
I took another sip and eyed my food lovingly, then glanced up at her, surreptitiously squinting at her name tag en route. “Thank you, Stacy. This is just what this growing boy needs.” I gave her a broad smile and patted my stomach to make sure she knew I wasn’t being an asshole.
