CHAPTER
SIX
I hate Friday shifts. And I have to work every single one.
I didn’t think missing football games would be all that bad when I started at Hot ’N Crusty, but I’ve yet to make a postwork hang happen. And this week is Bearden Week, when we play our big rivals from the next town over at Bearden Falls High School. I say “we” like I’m going to suit up and kick a field goal, like I’ve ever given half a crap about football. But that’s what Bearden Week and all its spirit days and pep rallies and sign painting will do to you. Suddenly you’re bleeding school colors while chanting the fight song like you’re about to follow Braveheart into battle.
Only, Hot ’N Crusty has taken both my life and my freedom. Because all my friends are at the game. And I’m not. Which means I’m not taking the next steps with Mac, whatever those are. Natalie swears they’re coming, but I’m starting to think the thing holding us back now is this stupid job. I mean, the only time I get to see him anymore is at lunch, and the Brook Park cafeteria, with its sticky linoleum floors and the smell of gravy in the air at all times, is not exactly the stuff of romantic dreams.
Nope, once again I’m at the counter beside Julianne taking orders from the steady stream of customers that are parading through Hot ’N Crusty. First it’s the families trying for early dinner before the kids melt down for the night (only about half of them make the deadline, as evidenced by the sheer volume of pizza crusts and spilled soda beneath the booths). Then we get everyone who skipped the game, plus some stray college kids on a date night. And I can tell when the game is nearly over because people in blue and white, temporary tattoos on their cheeks and pom-poms stuffed in their back pockets, start streaming in.
All evening I’ve been getting updates from Natalie about the game. It was close, and everyone was jacked up to eleven. By the fourth quarter, my phone was pinging with random strings of emojis and increasingly insane selfies. Natalie and Cora faux biting their nails. Tamsin with her mouth so wide I can count her fillings. Colin and Eli and Mac cheering at the field, their arms overhead, a sliver of tan skin peeking out above the waistband of Mac’s jeans that yes, I stare at for way too long. For the first time in my life I was sad to be missing an actual football game. And then we won. Natalie sent a selfie of the whole gang crammed together in the frame, cheek to cheek, taken with the aid of Mac’s long arm held high overhead. Everyone was grinning.
Everyone except me.
I text Natalie and ask her what everyone’s doing now. I still have another hour until close, and then at least another half hour after that to do closing duties. And then I click back to the photo of Mac and take another quick peek at his abs.
“Excuse me, can I order, please?” The annoyed tone of voice comes from a girl I recognize from ecology class freshman year. She spelled fir tree with a u. She’s wearing someone’s letterman jacket and practically swimming in it, her black hair pulled up in a high ponytail and secured with an explosion of blue and white ribbons.
“Yeah, go ahead,” I say, and punch her order in on the touch screen, scanning her card and flipping the screen around for her to sign. My phone feels like a brick in my pocket. I’m dying for Natalie to text back, to figure out how I can meet up with Mac and his abs. But when I finish with ecology girl, I check my phone. No text.
I don’t get a text back for nearly an hour, and by then my shift is almost over. My nerves are tied up in knots as I gradually try to psych myself up for seeing him. Maybe this is the night. Maybe tonight I can make a move. Tonight. Tonight. Tonight.
When my phone finally buzzes in my pocket, I leap like it’s an electric shock. I pull it out of my back pocket with such gusto that it goes shooting out of my hands and skitters across the floor, coming to a stop under a booth where Fur Tree and her boyfriend (the hulking owner of the letterman jacket) are parked on the same side of the table, attached at the tongue, making out like it’s their last night on earth. I creep up and drop to my hands and knees, reaching for the phone, and end up accidentally brushing the exposed ankle of the girl, who yelps. I dive backward onto my butt, my phone thankfully still in my hand.
“What the hell, creeper?” she cries, staring down at me.
“Sorry,” I say, holding up my phone. “Just dropped this.”
And then I scramble to my feet, ignoring the damp spot blooming on my butt from lord knows what was in a puddle on the floor. I’m too busy tapping and swiping until I can see my text message.
Night ended early. Have to help with mom’s gluten-free piecrusts at the ass crack, and Colin failed a calc test so he’s grounded. Eli and Core left for a late movie. See you tomorrow? After I get released from pie jail?
I notice she doesn’t mention what Mac’s doing, but without everyone else, there’s no good, organic reason for us to hang out. Not unless I really want to put myself out there. So I guess tonight is just another bust.
You win again, Hot ’N Crusty.
In my text message haze, I managed to forget to bring anything to the table game. Jason wins with a retainer in a cup of soda and sticks me with trash duty. I think the only reason I don’t wind up on bathrooms is because Jason seems to be feuding with Frank over something Apex Galaxy related. I escape the suckiest of suck jobs, and instead wind up with the suck-lite job.
I’m muscling the last bag of trash out the back door to the dumpster. It’s weirdly heavy and unwieldy, but I try to ignore it. I don’t need my brain trying to figure out what’s in there that’s causing it to sway like a steamship. Some things are better left a mystery. I just need to heave it into the dumpster. No thinking, just swing. Only when I swing, something in the bag gives way, and I feel my shirt get wet before I even realize what’s happening. Within seconds, I’m coated in garbage juice—what smells like a noxious mix of soda and marinara.
“Ugh! Gross!” I drop the remains of the bag, and all the wet napkins and other detritus that were once inside it topple out onto the pavement. I’m going to have to clean all that up eventually, but now I can only focus on trying to get as much of the garbage juice off me as possible. I grab my shirt and pull it away from my body, wondering if I can whip it off without getting the grossness in my hair. Or if anyone will be around to see me standing by the Hot ’N Crusty dumpster wearing just my bra.
I glance around the parking lot, which is thankfully empty, and then across the street to the Margaritas parking lot. They stay open later than we do, so they’re still fairly bustling, though the action seems to be mostly inside. Except for the couple coming out and heading to their car. I squint, wondering if I know them. If they’re strangers I’ll never see again, then maybe it doesn’t matter if they see my heather gray cotton laundry-day bra. They look like they might be older, but when they walk to a familiar hunter-green Range Rover, I realize they’re not strangers. Not at all.
They’re decked out in blue and white from the game. I can see Tamsin’s sparkly makeup from here, a temporary BPHS tattoo on her cheek that, on her, somehow manages to look chic. Mac walks Tamsin to the driver’s side door of her car. But before she can get in, he puts his hands on her hips and spins her around, leaning her against the door. He takes a step closer, right into her personal space, his hands still resting on her hips. Tamsin is slight, but tall, so Mac only has to duck his head a little bit to kiss her—which he does, quickly at first. But then she snakes her hand up around his neck and pulls him down, so that soon they’re engaging in a full-on make out. For just a quick moment I sigh at the sight, like I’m watching a movie and imagining myself up there making out with the leading man. Only it’s not a movie, and it’s definitely not me.
It’s Mac and Tamsin.
Tamsin and Mac.
Making out.
Everything suddenly clicks into place, my focus becoming razor sharp. Because of course they are. Of course Mac likes Tamsin, with her skinny jeans and her lithe dancer body. Of course he wants her, with her Range Rover and her giant house and her red hair and her big pe
rsonality. I was such an idiot for even thinking there was a universe in which he had a crush on me.
But it really seemed like he did.
Apparently I was wrong.
I drop down onto the curb, forgetting that my shirt is soaked with garbage juice that’s now adhering to my torso. Soon it’ll be soaking into my bra. There are wet napkins and soggy pizza crusts all around me, and if a breeze comes by, the torn trash bag is going to blow across the parking lot like a tumbleweed. But I don’t notice any of that, because I’m too busy feeling sorry for myself. When I feel the first tear wind down my cheek and drop from my jaw, I realize that I’m crying. I’m hurt. And the more I think about it, the angrier I am. At myself, and maybe at Mac, because he totally made me think he had a crush on me. I know I didn’t imagine that. Natalie saw it, too. And for a moment—just a really short, brutal moment—I wonder if Natalie knew. If that’s why she didn’t mention Mac and Tamsin in her text. But it’s a dark thought, and I shove it out of my mind as fast as it arrives. Natalie would never do that to me. Right?
The slam of the metal door jerks me out of my misery spiral. I swipe at the tears on my cheeks and glance up to see Tristan, the black straps of the red delivery bag in his hand. Great. Because this is what I need right now.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asks.
“Nothing.” I glance up at him and try to arrange my face into something that resembles casual, but I’m pretty sure I fail. He studies me for a moment before following my gaze, turning over his shoulder until he’s got them in his sights, too.
“What, is he your boyfriend or something?” He tosses it off like a joke, but too soon, dude. Too soon. I hiccup back a sob.
“Clearly not,” I finally manage to sputter.
He turns and gives me an up and down, taking in my tear-streaked face, my wet, stinky shirt, and the literal pile of trash I’m sitting in.
“But you like him?” he asks.
I don’t say anything. I feel like the scene pretty much speaks for itself. And having to share this moment with Tristan feels like the universe really giving me the middle finger.
There’s a long beat of silence, then he says, his voice dripping with condescension, “You shouldn’t waste your time or your tears on Mac MacArthur.”
Am I seriously getting crush advice from Tristan Porter? Tristan, who can barely spare a kind word—hell, any word—for me? He’s going to advise me on my love life? What in this lifetime or the next possibly qualifies him to comment on my friends or my crush? No way. Eff that.
“Why the hell not?” I shoot back, feeling my anger and misery finally point in a productive direction—at his smug, stupid face. It feels good to let it fester in his general direction, because at least it can distract me just a little bit from what’s still going on across the street.
“Well, to start with, his name is Mac MacArthur. Nobody with two first names is worth whatever this is,” he says, waving at me and then at the mess around my feet. What a fucking metaphor.
“Shut up” is my biting retort. I sniffle, willing the tears to stop, but of course the more I try to tell myself to stop, the more they come. The more I feel embarrassed by them, the harder they fall. I guess the seal is broken now, and all I can do is stare at my shoes and cry. I am completely defeated. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, so just leave it, okay?”
Tristan sighs. He shifts back and forth on his feet, shaking his hair out of his eyes. Then he shifts the pizza bag to his left hand and takes a deep breath. “The Golden Girls theme song makes him cry. In third grade, he peed in his sleeping bag at camp to avoid walking to the bathhouse, which, by the way, was right next door. And he once referred to the Beatles as ‘whatever.’” He makes the requisite air quotes, adopting the laid-back, faux-surfer tone that’s Mac’s specialty. I never realized quite how stupid it sounded until I hear Tristan mocking it.
A smile starts to tug at my lips. It makes me feel better, but just a little. Because, dammit, I still like him. If he walked over here right now and told me that kissing Tamsin was just performance art or rehearsal for a play or, hell, even practice for kissing me, I’d wipe the crusted marinara off my T-shirt and pucker up.
I swipe at the tears on my cheeks, which thankfully have slowed to a halt.
“How do you know all that? About Mac?”
“We used to hang out.” His voice is flat. I couldn’t be more surprised if he told me they were long-lost brothers. I can’t reconcile a friendship between the two of them. Mac, who is basically a human golden retriever, and Tristan, who seems like a more-pissy-than-usual stray cat.
Across the street, I hear the slam of car doors as Tamsin and Mac get into the Range Rover. The engine roars, and then they’re pulling out of the parking lot. Probably off to suck face in front of her house until curfew.
Ugh.
“Are you okay?” Tristan asks.
I sniffle again, then take a deep breath, nearly gagging on the smell of the open bag of trash next to me—and all over me.
“I’m fine,” I say. I rise from the curb and dust myself off, then start trying to shove the detritus back into what’s left of the torn bag. Tristan puts the delivery bag down on the curb and comes over, wordlessly taking the trash bag from my hands and holding it open so I can scoop up the garbage.
“If you really want to make me feel better, you’d let me hold the bag,” I say.
“I’m not that nice, Pizza Princess,” he says.
Pretty soon, I’ve gotten most of it off the ground, and Tristan gives it the final heave into the dumpster.
“Thanks,” I say.
“No problem,” he replies, which is literally the nicest thing he’s ever said to me. “Listen, I gotta go deliver this pizza before it gets cold. But forget that guy, okay? You don’t need him.”
I nod, unable to work up any kind of smile. I want to believe him.
But I really, really don’t.
I turn to head back into the kitchen when I hear a strange chugga-chugga sound, and then an old van comes careening around the corner of the restaurant. It’s one of those hippie vans from the sixties that make you think of Woodstock and Haight-Ashbury and free love.
It’s Tristan. The windows are down, and some wild electric guitar is blaring from the tinny speakers, making the song practically unrecognizable. And even if I knew it, it’s gone before I can identify it, because the tires go squealing out of the parking lot, taking the turn so fast I’m surprised the van doesn’t tip over. Before it disappears down the road, I see the back window is decorated with a collection of brightly colored decals and bumper stickers, none of which I can read or recognize. He’s gone too fast, leaving me alone again in the back parking lot.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Natalie’s been texting me all morning, and I haven’t responded once.
They started out normal, then got sort of pathologically perky. Lots of exclamation points. She even deployed the unicorn emoji. Three times. That’s when I knew she knew. And that’s when I knew I didn’t want to talk about it.
Because, honestly, I have no idea what to say. Natalie and I have spent hours breaking down Mac’s flirting. She knows how deeply I want him and all my crazy fantasies, which now seem next-level pathetic. Like how I wanted to go to prom with him and get him to wear a bow tie and white dinner jacket like James Bond. Or how I cropped a group picture so it looked like we went to see Spider-Man by ourselves. See? Pathetic. And now she knows it was all for nothing, that I was completely imagining it all.
And so I tuck my phone under my pillow and sprawl out on the floor of my bedroom with my laptop, notebook, and US history textbook. I have an essay on manifest destiny due on Monday, and I’m going to make sure it’s the best damn essay I’ve ever written. Because the only thing that could possibly crowd out all the dark thoughts about Mac and the images of him kissing Tamsin is some mind-numbingly boring colonial history.
When Mom stops in to ask if I want to go with h
er to the grocery store, I point at my textbook. When Dad pops his head in to ask if I want to “binge some AxGx” (I deeply regret telling him about that nickname), I shake my head. By two o’clock, I’ve ignored roughly eleven billion text messages and managed to avoid saying any words out loud. Except for the random swears I mutter every time the image of Mac and Tamsin slices its way into my brain—which is often.
But when I hear the doorbell ring once, then twice, without hearing Dad answer, I know I’m about to break my streak. Especially when I pull the door open and see Natalie standing there with a foil-covered dish in her hand and the hardest-working smile in the history of friendship on her face.
“You weren’t answering my texts, so I had to go old school and just show up,” she says.
“Please tell me you don’t think a casserole is going to make this better,” I say. I nod to the dish as I step aside and let her in. I’m suddenly aware that I’m wearing a ratty old pair of flannel boxer shorts and one of my dad’s T-shirts from the U. My hair is still hanging on to the messy bun I threw it into last night, but at this point I’m pretty sure it’s mostly supported by tangles. And my breath is, I’m guessing, eau de sewer system.
“Natalie! Good to see you,” Dad says as he strolls into the foyer. I shoot him a glare for not answering the door, and he winks at me. Because he’s a crafty bastard, my dad, and something tells me this was his plan all along. My parents like to pretend they’re not meddlers, but they definitely are.
“My mom sent this over,” she says, passing the dish to Dad. “She was working on her vegan potpie recipe, so she made four, and they don’t freeze well, so here you go!”
Dad lifts the foil and gives it a tentative sniff. “Vegan potpie? Dare I ask?”
“The sauce is made from almond milk and pureed cauliflower. It’s also low-sodium and keto, whatever that is. And the good news, the crust is gluten-free!” Natalie just barely sells that last point, her smile morphing into a pained grimace. “It’s, um, not bad?”
It's Kind of a Cheesy Love Story Page 8