Page 19 of Within These County Lines

I swallow, hard, while tracing the veins around his knuckles with my eyes. “Is that all? We could’ve done this over the phone.”

“I’m so, so sorry,” he repeats. “Everything came to a head this past weekend and . . . I broke.” He talks softly, which is unlike him, and the conversations drifting into our booth from nearby tables make it almost impossible to hear what he’s saying. But I refuse to lean closer. “I want to talk about how we can get past this.”

My eyes widen. “Murray, how many times do I have to tell you? We’re not staying together.”

A familiar waitress appears at our table. She places a basket of heavily peppered curly fries in front of me.

“Thanks,” Murray says. “He’ll like those.”

I tap my foot.

“You need anything else?” the waitress asks. “We got the Penango Grits on special.”

“This is good,” Murray says.

I snarl my lip. Why did he want to talk with me if I’m not even allowed to speak?

Murray looks out the window, then taps his phone to check the time.

“Do you have somewhere else to be?” I ask.

He shakes his head and sighs.

“If you want to talk, let’s talk,” I say. “Here’s a recap for you.” I toss the sugar packet over my shoulder. “You’ve literally been whining about me leaving town for the past year when it’s all I want. I asked you to stop and you didn’t.”

“I can’t believe this is happening,” he whispers. He looks out the window again and his eyes well with tears.

“It’s not my fault you couldn’t connect the dots of what would eventually happen this summer when I decided to leave, and you chose to stay. If you were nicer about the whole thing, I wouldn’t have thought twice about being with you through college.” The words come out quickly. Spit pools between the corners of my lips.

Murray doesn’t respond. He just stares at me with blank, hollow eyes, the same ones from Sunday when his face turned into a stranger’s. The spark that used to guide me has been swallowed up by a black hole.

Then his mouth twists, not into a frown or smile but a scowl.

“Damn it!” he shouts, standing up and lifting his arms.

I flinch, bracing myself. Without another word, he swipes the basket of fries from the table, and they scatter across the floor like the broken pieces of our relationship.

The waitress glares at us from behind the counter, her fingernails tapping its surface. “You still need to pay for those,” she says.

“It doesn’t look like he’s coming, so they would’ve been wasted anyway,” Murray mumbles.

“What?” I ask. “Just because this conversation isn’t going how you want doesn’t mean you can pretend that I never showed up.”

Murray tosses some money on the counter. “If Stetson Delancey comes by here looking to talk, tell him I’m sorry.”

“Murray, quit the shit!” I yell.

He doesn’t respond again; rather he exits like he can’t hear me. The bell above the door jingles as it swings open, an innocent sound that feels out of place, like wedding bells at a funeral.

“It appears he’s ignoring you, honey,” the waitress says with a frown.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” I say, sighing.

I press my palms to my temples, feeling the pressure of Penango’s last-ditch effort to hold on to me.

11

I climb into my truck with my head low. That didn’t go well.