The Way We Are

by Shandi Boyes

  “Thanks, Sugar,” Marnie, a newly recruited waiter at Bob’s praises with a flirty wink.

  She adds an extra swing to her hips while delivering the burger to a dark-haired man sitting in the far corner of the restaurant. I don't know if the extra shake of her impressive curves is for her customer or me, but they gain the attention of nearly every male in the room.

  After scraping chunks of grease into the trap at the bottom of the skillet, I yank off my apron, dump it on the counter, and head to the back entrance of Bob’s.

  “I’m going on my break. I’ll be back in ten,” I advise anyone listening. With the lunch rush keeping me well occupied, I’m overdue for a break.

  A refreshing ocean breeze smacks my face when I swing open the back door of Bob’s. The contrasting temperatures between the kitchen I've been slaving in the past six hours and outside is unimaginable. It feels like I’m walking out of a sauna to jump into a freezing lake. It's divine.

  I've barely sucked in a non-greasy breath when Marnie says, "Not so fast, Sugar. You've got a visitor."

  I try not to get my hopes up that my visitor has honey-colored hair. When I crank my neck back to Marnie, she nudges her head to a booth in the far right corner. Disappointment slashes me open when I notice the person seated at the back of the restaurant has hair as dark as mine.

  “Not happy with his burger?” I pace closer to Marnie, recognizing it’s the same man she just finished serving. “I cooked his order as requested: medium rare, the onions extra burned. I even buttered his bun, for fuck’s sake.”

  Not bothered by the curse words, Marnie shrugs, her confusion as apparent as mine.

  “Please play nice,” she begs when she spots the annoyance crossing my face. “This guy screams big tip.”

  “That’s not the only big vibe he’s screaming,” Pattie adds on, the seductiveness in her tone making me gag.

  Pattie is the manager at Bob’s. She’s also older than my mother—enough said.

  Shaking away the scary thoughts, I make a beeline for the disgruntled customer. The faster I get our exchange over, the faster I can clear the confusion still muddling my mind from last night. I doubt hours of deliberation can clear my bewilderment—but I’m hopeful.

  “Is there a problem with your burger?” I keep my tone low, hoping the cap on my head will conceal my age.

  Any time Bob’s has a disgruntled customer, the male staff handles them. Considering I'm the oldest male on the payroll, nearly all the fire-dosing tasks get shunted to me. A majority of the time, the customer accepts my offer of a refund before moving on. Sadly, some think an overcooked patty is a good excuse for a war of words. Then there are ones who want to take it even further. With my mood teetering, I hope this guy is a walk away with a lousy tip type of customer.

  “The burger is fine. Cooked as requested,” the man replies, his tone as deep as mine. “I’m more interested to hear how you faired last night?”

  My brows furrow as I dip my chin to get a closer look at the man’s profile. The reason for his imposing question comes to light when a pair of steel-gray eyes stare back at me.

  “You secured a fight?” I ask, glancing down at Isaac’s busted knuckles while sliding into the bench seat across from him.

  He smiles, his face as youthful as it was last night. “Not in the ring, but a win’s a win.”

  “That it is,” I reply with a nod.

  Most people would see Isaac’s confidence as off-putting. I don’t. It’s addictive. It stokes the fire in my belly with fresh wood, awakening my ego from the hazy cloud it’s been hiding in the past twelve hours. I’ve always been a little competitive, and Isaac’s cockiness enflames it. Not in a bloodthirsty, cutthroat type of way, just a bit of friendly competition between two equal counterparts. Isaac is obviously wealthier than me, and he's a couple of years older, but seeing how successful he is fills me with hope that I’m not going to spend the rest of my life flipping burgers.

  I hook my ankle onto my knee when Isaac slides a plain white envelope across the table. “What’s that?” The curiosity I was hoping to conceal with my laidback approach echoes in my tone.

  Isaac quirks a brow. “Why don’t you open it and find out?”

  Never patient, I rip open the unsealed flap in less than two seconds. My already wild heart rate kicks up when bundles of hundred dollar bills reflect back at me.

  “What the fuck is that?” I ask Isaac before my gaze darts sideways, ensuring no one is witnessing our exchange.

  This looks so fishy, I’m anticipating an undercover officer jumping out of the bushes to arrest me for conspiracy to commit a crime.

  “That’s your take from last night,” Isaac informs me, his deep tone hindered by a small bout of laughter from my panicked scan of our surroundings. “I removed Cormack’s cut, and put aside a little for the next round. Nothing against you, I just wasn’t sure if you had the means of storing five thousand dollars safely.” He shrugs his shoulders, lessening the severity of his words.

  Even with his assumption being dead accurate, a little bit of annoyance still thickens my blood. I don’t know why. “So after all that, how much am I left with?” I ask before I can stop my words.

  I should hand the money back to him and walk away. But no matter how many times I try to push the envelope to his side of the table, my hands refuse to budge. I’ve never seen this much money, let alone had the opportunity to grasp it in my hand.

  Isaac scrubs the back of his hand over his mouth to remove some ketchup from his top lip before answering, “A little over 10K.”

  I choke on my spit, certain I heard him wrong. “What? 10K? Are you fucking serious?!”

  He must be joking. He has to be!

  Isaac rolls his shoulders before arching a brow. “Do I look like a man who jokes?”

  “No,” I answer without pause, my one word incapable of hiding the seriousness in my reply.

  I've never met someone as direct as Isaac, and I'm a regular visitor to the principal's office, so I'm rather familiar with authority.

  "But that don't mean shit. Maybe this is from your private stash, and you're fooling with me." I glance over his shoulder, anticipating seeing Cormack recording my gap-jawed response with his fancy phone.

  Isaac laughs, apparently amused. “Did you fight last night, Ryan?”

  When I nod, he asks, “Did you win?”

  I nod again. Although I would have preferred for last night to end differently, it was still a step in the right direction to fix the massive bridge that’s been lodged between Savannah and me the past five years, so I’ll class it as a win.

  Spotting my agreeing gesture, Isaac says, “Then that’s your money.”

  He lowers his eyes to the envelope I’m clutching like it's my lifeline. Although my heart has pumped blood for years before this envelope entered my life and will continue functioning for years after it's gone, it has added a massive surge of oxygen to my veins, reviving them from their faint, weak existence. I’d be an idiot to treat it as anything less than a miracle.

  I only remove my eyes from my one-way ticket out of this town when Isaac stands from his seat to put on a business jacket. Just like last night, he's wearing an expensive-looking suit, vest, and tie. And just like me, he uses accessories to conceal his age. His threads are just fancier than mine.

  “Holt... You’re Isaac Holt, aren’t you?” Although I’m technically asking a question, my tone holds so much confidence, you wouldn’t know I am.

  Remaining quiet, Isaac slips a hundred-dollar bill under the plate of his barely touched burger. He then heads for the exit without so much as a backward glance in my direction. I stare at the door he slid through without setting the bell off in shock and awe. Even without his confirmation, I am certain he is Isaac Holt. I’d even put money on it.

  I’m startled to within an inch of my life when Marnie plucks the hundred-dollar bill off the tabletop to scan it for authenticity.

  “Yippee!” she squeals when it comes up ge
nuine.

  Her excitement mirrors what I’m struggling to contain as the weight of the envelope grows heavier the longer I hold it. I have ten thousand dollars in my hand. Ten-motherfucking-thousand dollars!

  To say the next three hours of my shift dragged would be an understatement. It was the slowest and most mundane three hours of my life. If I hadn’t realized that ten thousand dollars would barely keep Savannah in the comforts she is accustomed to for a month, I would have handed in my notice. Fortunately, my senses woke up before I made a costly mistake.

  If I am being honest, daydreaming about riding off into the sunset with Savannah on a white horse isn’t the only inane thought I’ve had the past three hours. I also thought about my mom and the possibilities ten thousand dollars could open up for her. This money isn’t just a windfall; it's a gamechanger.

  While heading to my truck parked at the front of Bob’s, I drag my cell out of my pocket, preparing to call Chris. Since my shift started an hour before Chris hauls his sorry ass out of bed on a Saturday, I thought it would be polite for me to wait until after I finished work. It's the least I could do since he never accepts payment for his mechanical knowledge.

  When I flip open the screen of my phone, my heart gains an extra beat. There's a text message slashed across the screen from a number I know by heart: Savannah’s old cell phone.

  Savannah: Just because your truck’s engine is broken doesn’t mean she should be left unlocked. Her retro curves are worth more than her motor.

  Her comment makes me smile. I brought my truck because of her overworked fenders. Since she was a little girl, Savannah has appreciated the smooth lines of cars manufactured way before our time. Her love of classic vehicles rubbed off on me when I saw a rusty old 1934 Chevy Classic in the wrecking lot nearly two years ago. My truck still has a long way to go, but she's a lot prettier than she used to be.

  Although I should be calling Chris, I slide into the driver’s seat of my truck to return Savannah’s message in private.

  Me: They wouldn’t get far. The bitch won’t start.

  Since Savannah’s message was sent over four hours ago, I don’t expect her to reply instantly. So you can imagine my surprise when she does.

  Savannah: That’s probably because you called her a bitch. Try being more suave with her.

  My hearty chuckle bounces around the interior of my truck. Grinning, my thumbs frantically tap my reply.

  Me: I don’t know how to be suave.

  I stare at my phone like it’s moments away from giving the winning lotto numbers. Thankfully, Savannah’s second message arrives as quickly as her first.

  Savannah: Lying has never been your strong suit, Ryan. Even while shredding me with hurtful, but unfortunately true comments, you still made me swoon.

  I read her message three times, confused as to what she means. Is she referring to last night? Or something else?

  Like she can sense my confusion, another message pops up on my cracked screen.

  Savannah: I read your letters. They were beautiful. Painful, yet beautiful nonetheless.

  Fear grips my heart. Even via a text message, I can hear the turmoil in her words.

  Through shaky hands, I dial Savannah’s number and push my cell to my ear. Although I want to hear her voice, I’m shaking so much, I can barely hit the call button, much less the tiny letters on the pad of my outdated cell.

  It feels like the earth circles the moon a hundred times before Savannah finally answers my call. Neither of us say hello; we just listen to the other breathe. My breaths are husky, strained with worry she’ll never forgive me for the horrible things I wrote in frustration. Savannah’s are short, sharp pants that reveal she's moments away from crying.

  “Savannah, I’m sorr—”

  “No, Ryan. Don’t you dare apologize,” Savannah interrupts, her tone dipping as she struggles to hold in her sobs. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I should have talked to you in person. I should have explained what I saw firsthand. But instead of doing either of those things, I blamed you for taking their side. By the time I realized their stupidity shouldn’t have affected our relationship, it was too late. The damage had already been done.”

  I try to compile a response, but I can’t get my mouth to move. For months, I struggled believing Savannah threw away our friendship on a whim. But as the years rolled on, and no reason for her lack of contact came to light, I began to wonder if she did simply move on to greener pastures.

  When Savannah remains quiet, I drag my phone away from my ear, anticipating our call will be disconnected. It isn’t. The timer is still clicking down at half the speed of my heart.

  I push my phone back to my ear just in time to hear Savannah ask, "Can you meet me somewhere? Just like five years ago, this conversation should be happening in person.”

  “Yes,” I reply in an instant. “When?”

  Savannah exhales in a hurry. “Now?”

  Acting like my heart usually races a million miles an hour, I reply, “Okay. Where?”

  She coughs to clear the nerves from her voice before saying, “Umm...could you come to my house?”

  Even though she can’t see me, I nod, confident she will take my raging pulse shrilling down the line as an answer to her question. Instinctively, my hand shoots up to my truck’s sun visor to secure the keys I store there. I stab them into the ignition and twist before reality dawns: my truck is fucked.

  “My truck...” My words trail off when my engine unexpectedly roars to life. I thought I’d get the same dead chug it gave me last night. “... Works? What the fuck?”

  The violent churning of my stomach smooths when Savannah giggles at my shocked reply. Her husky laugh is ten times hotter than the one she recorded on a mixed tape she made years ago. Instead of burning a compilation of her favorite songs onto a blank CD, she produced an entire radio segment, corny laugh-at-your-own jokes and all.

  Brax, Chris, and I never laughed as hard as we did the night she forced us to listen to the three-hour long performance on a bitterly cold winter’s night. I’m glad she didn’t do it in summer, or we would have never survived her glare every time we laughed at the wrong section. Our response couldn’t be helped; she had recorded the entire skit at three times the speed. She sounded like a chipmunk on crack.

  I wait for Savannah’s laughter to settle before asking, "What did you do?" My tone is half-playful, half-annoyed.

  I'm stoked my truck is back in working order, but I'm peeved I didn't get to witness Savannah in her element for the second time in less than twenty-four hours. Cheerleading Savannah is every teen’s wet dream, but the visual of her getting dirty under my hood... Fuck! My dick turns to stone just at the thought.

  After adjusting my crotch, I glance over my shoulder, seeking a break in the stream of traffic clogging the streets of Ravenshoe.

  I find an opening at the exact moment Savannah informs me, “I taught Chris it isn’t just boys who know mechanics. Girls are just as crafty.”

  “You called Chris?” The happiness in my voice can’t be contained.

  I love that she called a member of our old group for help. It’s better than her asking Axel and his douchebag friends. I’m also relishing sparks of the old Savannah remerging. After watching her exchange with Axel last night, I was worried the girl I used to know was long gone. Now I’m not so sure.

  “Uh huh,” Savannah moans, making the temperature in my cabin suddenly stifling. “He’s still not a fan of mornings, is he?”

  Laughing, I roll down the window of my truck. With Savannah’s house on the ritzy side of Ravenshoe, I may as well get comfortable for my twenty-minute trip. Well, as comfortable as I can be with my heart sitting in my throat and my dick digging into the zipper of my jeans.

  8

  Ryan

  "Pull around the back of the main residence; there's an old oak tree at the side of the pool house that will give your black paintwork some shade."

  “Shade or concealment?” I ask, suspicion in
my tone.

  Savannah takes in a sharp breath. “Both.”

  I should be annoyed, but all I am feeling is gratitude. She could have lied to me. She didn’t. That's good enough for me—for now.

  After pulling my truck under the tree Savannah is standing next to, I shove the envelope Isaac handed me into my glove compartment. I'm so afraid of losing it, I'm tempted to take it with me, but with today being unseasonably warm, I'd look a little odd walking around with a jacket on just to conceal a wad of cash I amassed illegally.

  The rusty hinges of my truck squeak when I swing open my door. I hear its suffering twice since my cell is still pushed against my ear. Savannah and I continued our conversation for my twenty-minute trip. Although the reason for my trek across Ravenshoe was never mentioned, our conversation flowed freely. It probably helps that Savannah has fine interrogation skills.

  Her questions were just the standard ones you'd anticipate after a lengthy absence. Is Ms. Forrester still one screw away from insane? Is my younger brother still a spitting image of me but with ten times more attitude? And what am I planning to do once school is over?

  The first two questions I answered with ease. Yes and yes. The last one, that left me a little stumped. Although it sounded like a corny one-liner, Savannah accepted my “I’m still working out the details” pledge with more confidence than it was issued.

  My heart beats in a crazy rhythm when Savannah stops in front of me, her face still showing traces of her tears. Red rims circle her eyes, and faint white marks trail down her pink cheeks. My words hurt her as much as they scarred me to write, but she's still the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.

  Pulling my cell down from my ear, I disconnect our call and pull Savannah into my chest. Although she said I have nothing to be sorry for, I feel terrible that I’m the cause of her anguish.

  With Savannah's ear hovering over my heart, I'm sure she can hear the crazy effect she has on me, but I don't care. I hold on tightly, refusing to let her go for a moment longer than I already have. If we weren't both so stubborn, our argument could have ended years ago.