by R. S. Lively
"Cherry, sir?" he asks with his brows pinched.
"Right. Whitley. The redhead that jumped the fence last night."
"Ah! Right. The waitress. Yes, she did look familiar. Of course, sir. I'll be happy to check on Mr. Tompkins." He stands, buttoning his suit together and picking up his cup of coffee as he strides to the back.
I sigh as I push the glass door open to reveal the night. The air is cool, breezing over my skin and giving me goosebumps. The stars are out, lighting up the sky with their everlasting shine. I look to the right and see nothing but empty sidewalks. When I look to the left, I see an iron bench holding a very beautiful woman. Even in the dark of night, her red hair glows. A magnet carries me over; it's the only way I know how to describe it as I sit down next to her. I actually give a fuck about how she is feeling. I hardly even know her, and she is ruining me. In a good or bad way? I haven't decided yet.
"May I sit here?"
Her arms are crossed over her torso as she stares at her feet. "You already are."
I huff a laugh. "You aren't wrong."
"I have a feeling you wouldn't care if I said no."
"You aren't wrong there, either."
"What do you want, Logan?"
Jeez, I have never heard a woman sound so exasperated with me before. Women usually love to have a chance with me, but not this one. This one only wants to fulfill a deal we made, so I don’t call the cops. I never planned on calling them, but she doesn't need to know that.
"I came out here to see how you were doing. And to talk."
"I'm fine."
"Bullshit."
"Why the hell do you care?"
I've been asking myself that for the last few days. "I care about Tops. I know you see me as the kind of man that doesn't give a fuck about anything." That used to be true. "But I own half of the diner now, so your concerns are my concerns.”
She exhales, kicking the pebbles that are on the ground. “I’m worried about him. He is losing so much strength, so much energy, so fast. I can't fix that. But what I can fix is the amount of time I'm here, so he doesn't have to be here."
"I agree with you. He agrees with you. He doesn't want you to worry."
Whitley snaps her head in my direction, and those emeralds are so bright, they are nearly glowing. That's when I notice the tears falling off her face and chin.
"Doesn't want me to worry? Doesn't want me to worry?" she mocks me. "That's a damn joke. Of course I'm worried. He’s the grandfather I never had. I love him. He is my family. This place is more of a home than my own house with my parents. I'm accepted here. All my weird quirks and passions. No questions. No doubts. Of course I'm worried. He can't manage this place on his own anymore. I'm okay with taking a semester off school. It will always be there. Tops might not be, and I want to spend every moment I can with him. Just in case."
The last words are a whisper. A little hush in the breeze that was choked with emotion. Just in case. We all know what those words mean. Just in case cancer gets the best of him. Just in case he dies, and we wake up in a world where Tops isn't here. It's devastating, but I also know it's the way of life. I had to come to terms with it when my father died. We were born to live. We were born to die. It's as black and white as that, but I have a feeling she wouldn't want to hear that right now.
I wrap my arm around her and pull her into the crook of my arm. To my surprise, she comes willingly, resting her head over my heart as we sit on the bench. We’ve never done it before, but somehow it feels like a routine, a habit, something we have formed over time—like a tradition. And it feels—nice. "Tops is going to be okay. He’s a tough old man. He survived the war, the death of his wife, the death of his best friend. And he will survive the death that is knocking on his door right now."
She wails. Her heartbreaking sobs shoot directly into my heart as she tries to suffocate the sound by smothering her face in my blazer. "I don't want to lose him. I can't. He is the only one that’s there for me. He supports me. He is in my corner. I'm not ready. I'm not ready, Logan." But my name sounds like a broken plea, a word I hardly understand through the agony that she’s going through.
On instinct, like I've done it a hundred times before, I kiss the top of her head. "You aren't going to lose him."
"You don't know that. You can't know that."
"I can, and I do. You need to think positive. Tops needs it, and his diner needs it. Okay? Wipe those tears." I pry her away from me, and I hold her chin with my fingers. I want to kiss her so bad, but I don't want our first kiss to be while she is vulnerable.
She stares at me with those broken green gems and wipes her face. It does something to me to know that she listened. She wipes her nose on my expensive blazer, and internally I cringe, but I don't say anything. Dry cleaning can fix that.
She nods, clapping her hands. "You're right. You are right."
"I know. It's rare that I'm ever wrong. Really, it's impressive."
She rolls her eyes and play punches me in the arm. "Whatever." Whitley's laugh echoes throughout the night, and she wipes away a few more tears. They have slowed down, and that's what matters.
"You're okay, though? Really?"
She stares at me like I'm a wonder. "Yeah, I'm fine. Tops holds a very special place in my heart. I'll have my good days and my bad days until he is better. It's hard to wrap my head around. I'm used to the short, plump man laughing like Santa every morning when he gets his coffee just right." Her bottom lip starts to quiver. "I haven't heard it in a few days."
Oh man, no. Not the tears. Not again. I can only stop tears so many times before I run out of ways to fix them. Then I remember a story my dad told about Tops. "You know, he had that laugh since before we were born."
She looks at me like she doesn't believe me. "How would you know that?"
"My dad was his best friend. They grew up together, in the toughest times. They beat the odds, and they became friends from the time they were kids up until my dad died a few years ago."
"I'm sorry, Logan. I had no idea." Her hand lands on my arm, making my breath catch, and I feel another chunk of the wall that guards my heart crumble.
"It's okay. I've made peace with it. Anyway, it's a good story. Well, maybe. I don't know."
"Get on with it!" she says as she brightens the night with her smile.
"Alright. Alright. So, I don't know. I must have been around twelve? We were here, sitting in that back corner booth."
Her eyes soften when she learns the meaning of why I always sit there. I love that look. I want her to stare at me like that every day. I clear my throat from all the emotions I don't want.
“We were sitting in the corner booth, and Tops brings out me and my dad's favorite. My dad got coffee, black—”
"—Gross."
"Right? It's so bitter,” I chuckle. "He brings out two sets of hash browns. Mine are boring because I'm twelve, so I only got cheese on them and loaded them with ketchup. My dad, on the other hand, got them loaded. He had steak, onion, green pepper, tomatoes, I mean he had Tops run through the kitchen sink every time. Then, he would drench it in A.1.”
"That also sounds gross."
"You know, for about six years I thought the same. Now, I love it." I rub my hand over my mouth to hide my smirk when I see her horrified expression. "Don't knock it till you try it."
"Oh, I'm knocking it. Bye-bye."
"Anyway, I'll never forget the first time I heard his laugh. He watched my dad pour on that A1 sauce and grabbed his belly as he tossed his head back and laughed. I was in awe. I thought he was Santa."
"Wait. You still believed in Santa when you were twelve?"
My cheeks heat under her scrutiny.
"Oh my god, you did! That's adorable." She tosses her head back and laughs, and the moon takes this exact moment to shine on the pale column of her neck, tempting my lips to strike, and make my mark.
"That's not the point of the story. The point is I asked him if he was Santa, and his laugh got even louder.
My dad said he had laughed like that since they were fifteen. It's a signature thing."
We don't say anything else for a few moments, and I become a little self-conscious. I don't ever reveal personal stories about myself. I don't know why I did right then. "I know, the story wasn't all that great, but I don't know, I thought it would be fun knowing that he’s had that laugh for so long."
"No! No. It was great. I was sitting here, imagining what a young Tops would have looked like back when he and your father were friends."
"There's a picture hanging on the wall of him and his wife with my mom and dad. They were sitting on the tailgate of Dad's old Ford."
Her jaw drops to the floor. "That's Tops and your father! I didn't even recognize him. I thought it was some random picture. I never thought that it had meaning. Wow." She slumps back against the bench. "It makes me want to look closer at all the photos hanging on the wall."
"You should. There are some great photos."
She grips my hand and squeezes it. "Thank you, for not letting me wallow in my sadness."
"Eh, it's nothing."
"I have a feeling that for you, it's everything."
She is right, but I don't tell her that. She doesn't need to know that I told her one of my favorite memories of my dad and me. We would come to this diner every Tuesday and Friday. We would order the same things. And we would laugh about whatever happened that day. Hell, I've been such an ass over the last few years, I haven't even been here all that often. My dad would have been so disappointed in me.
But Tops called me, and I came.
He shouldn't have had to call, though. I should have just been here every Tuesday and Friday, like old times.
Whitley
"You're going out with Logan Stone?" Charlie asks, shoving a spoonful of cereal into her mouth.
"Yes," I grumble, pouring my coffee into my mug. I can barely concentrate, and her perky morning self is too much for me right now.
"The Logan Stone? Of Stone Enterprises? The company you hate."
I hold up a finger, telling her to wait as I sip the beautiful, life-changing nectar. I sigh. "Yes."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why are you going on a date with a guy you can't stand?"
"Charlie. It's too early to talk about this right now. I can hardly think. Half my brain is still sleeping."
"So use the other half," she says around a mouthful of Cheerios.
I palm my head with my hand. "Gosh. I didn't know it was so easy."
"I'm just saying."
"You're just saying what?"
"I'm just saying maybe you should call Dylan."
My mug pauses at my lips. "That isn't what you were saying at all."
"Don't you think you should talk to him? It's been like four days. You guys never go that long without talking."
My head starts to throb from the early morning conversation I'm having. This is too much, too fast. I haven't had enough coffee for this conversation. "No, okay? No. He said what he said, and even if he is right, how he said it…" I tap my fingers on my bright purple mug.
"I don't know if I can forgive him for how he said it. He said it so discouragingly, like it had been building up for so long. His tone was harsh. He was harsh. And he dismissed one of my biggest passions like it means nothing. It's as simple as that, and I don't know how to approach it, okay? He made me see myself differently, and that's great, but he didn't need to bring me down as he did it."
I take another sip of my coffee, and the warm liquid hugs my heart, comforting me since my friend seems to make such a bang-up job of it. Hell, Logan, a man I barely know, comforted me better than Dylan did, and Logan is way more of an ass, naturally, than Dylan is.
Thinking of Logan makes me remember our conversation the other night. I bite my lip, circling my finger around the edge of the cup, thinking about Logan's demeanor, how he walks, how he talks, how he would have sex. Oh, I bet he knows how to make a woman go crazy in bed—something I've never experienced. He might have believed in Santa until he was twelve, but here I am, a virgin at twenty-two. Freaking pathetic.
Between my brother always cockblocking me, and focusing on my studies and protests, I never had the chance. Thoughts of losing my virginity to him making my clit throb. I bet he has a huge cock. He has to, with that tight, round ass that I like so much. Okay, love so much. I love his ass. I want to bounce a quarter off it.
"Earth to Whitley." Charlie snaps her fingers in front of me, bringing me out of my coffee-induced sex dream.
"What?"
"Whoa, what are you thinking about?"
"Nothing."
"Bullshit. Look at the red on your cheeks! You were thinking about Logan and doing the dirty."
"Was not!"
"Was too!"
I sigh, taking another sip of my coffee. "Maybe."
"Wooo! My girl is finally gonna give it up!" Charlie dances around the kitchen with her bowl of cereal in hand, shoving a spoonful of Cheerios in her mouth as she jigs.
"Now, hold on. I don't know about all that. There's a difference between thinking it and doing it. Plus, I'm only going out with Logan so he doesn't press charges against me." I instantly wince. I wasn't supposed to say that.
"What! Why the hell would he press charges against you?"
I set my cup on the counter, swirling my finger around the rim again. "I might have trespassed onto his property."
"Whitley…"
"With a bag of sugar."
"Whitley!"
I groan, letting my head fall onto the counter. "I know. I know. I swear I wasn't going to use the sugar. I got more curious about all those big machines than anything else, I swear it."
"I can't believe you actually went out there. Dylan is going to flip when he hears this."
I have had it with Dylan. I slam my mug against the counter, and the lukewarm brown liquid sloshes over onto my hand.
“I don't know how many times I have to say this, Charlie, but Dylan and I aren't talking!” I yell. “He isn't going to know because I'm not going to tell him, and you aren't going to tell him. If I find out you did tell him, I won't talk to you either, okay? It isn't his business. You know, it's no one's business except mine and Logan's. If Logan decides to press charges, then that's something I’ll have to deal with. Don't bring up Dylan again, okay?”
"Okay," Charlie says in defense.
"I'm serious."
"Okay, Whitley. I'm sorry. I won't bring up Dylan."
"Thank you." I huff and put my coffee in the microwave to warm it up. We don't say anything for a few moments as the hum of the microwave fills the room.
"So, have you seen it?"
"Seen what?"
"You know…"
I tilt my head as I look at her, confused to what she is asking. The microwave dings, and the heat of the mug seeps into my palms, causing me to relax.
"His cock. Have you seen it?"
I spew my coffee out of my mouth, and it flies, hitting Charlie in the face. I watch as she closes her eyes and wipes the coffee off her face.
I throw a dish rag at her. "Gosh, no! Nothing like that. I haven't even seen him without his blazer off. We are hardly friends, Charlie. Really. It's nothing like that."
Despite the coffee still on her face, she winks at me. "I hear, you know, from the underground, that he has the biggest cock on the East Side."
"Charlise Williams!"
"What?" she laughs.
"Don't talk like that. It isn't your business." Gosh, am I that much of a prude? Yikes. Maybe it's because I've never seen a cock, held one, sucked one, had sex with one. I wonder if my thought process will change when talking about sex once I’ve actually had it. Would he want to have it on the first date? Oh god…
"Hey, whoa. Calm down. Breathe. Follow my breaths. Watch my chest." She grabs my arms, looks into my eyes, and starts to breathe. I watch her chest rise and fall, and I try to match my breathing to it until I'm calm.
"What if he w
ants to have sex?"
"Do you want to have sex, Whit?"
Do I? I know I do, but with Logan? I never thought that opportunity would come around.
"Okay, this conversation is over. You know my morning routine, and you have ruined it, Charlie," I pout as I pour my coffee down the drain and make a fresh cup. I need to wake up slowly. Starting the morning off with deep conversation never sits right with me.
"Gosh, maybe if you had sex, that stick would come out of your ass a bit." She stares right into my eyes as she fills her mouth with more Cheerios.
My mouth falls open in a loud chuff. "Well, that is just… Very accurate."
I laugh, slowly at first, but the speed builds until finally I'm cackling so hard tears are running down my face. "I do have a bit of a stick, don't I?"
Charlie starts to laugh, too, nodding her head. A bit of milk spills down her chin as laughter gets the best of her. "You can't say stuff like that while I'm eating!"
Our moment is interrupted by the buzzer. I glance at my watch, but it's only ten AM. Who the hell would be knocking on my door at ten in the morning? The soft click of the intercom button sounds as I press it. "Um, hello?"
"Is a Miss Pope available?"
I slide my eyes over to Charlie, who isn't paying attention, but filling her bowl with cereal again. The girl needs a new food group.
"Hello?"
Right. The man on the other side. I press the button again. "This is she. Can I help you?"
"I have a delivery from Mr. Stone. He said you were expecting it."
"Yes, of course. Sorry. I'm buzzing you in."
A few minutes later, a knock bangs against the door. I slide across the floor in my socks and check to make sure that my T-shirt does go to my knees.
We're good.
I open the door to greet the person, but no one is there. I turn left and right, but it's only an empty corridor. When I peer down, I see a few boxes stacked upon each other. They are plain, simple, elegant, and expensive. I can tell by the feel of them that they are luxury. These aren't cheap, flimsy boxes. No, they are smooth, like butter. Is it possible for cardboard and silk to blend? That is exactly what it felt like.