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Oh Luna. That’s what’s bothering you? Isn’t that exactly what you think? That people don’t change?
No, it’s the fact that he doesn’t seem to get it. To grasp the concept of the problem, that hurting others isn’t okay. Maybe not everyone changes, but I’d hoped so badly that he had.
Who needs such things explained to them, anyway?
...someone who was never taught right from wrong, a small voice whispers in the back of my mind. Someone who grew up with an asshole, who taught him that to love is to hate, that to love is to hurt. That love is pain, and pain is the only language he was taught to speak. And now everyone expects him to speak something else entirely and he doesn’t know how.
You can teach him.
No, no. This is crazy.
But as more days pass and I still don’t see him, worry comes back to bite me in the backside, and I’m starting to get itchy.
“Hey...” I approach Dena who’s counting items in the diner pantry, nervously wiping my hands on my dress. “Have you seen Ross?”
She tosses me The look over her shoulder. “Ross? As in Ross Jones, the hot stud you were fussing over here in the diner kitchen the other day? The one you love and hate?”
“Dena.”
“Luna.” She mirrors my stance, hands on hips, and pouts.
“I don’t do that. I don’t make that face.”
“You think you don’t.”
Unable to hold back a snicker, I lean back against the bar, surveying the tables. “It doesn’t matter. I take it you haven’t seen
him.”
“As a matter of fact, I have.”
“Oh?” I do my best not to look too eager—then again, I asked. Hard to pretend indifference now. “Where?”
“His dad’s garage. I’ll bet he’s tinkering with something in there. He spends more time there than at home.”
I think of the way he talked about his home. “Dad’s house,” he’d called it. I wondered about that, and about the fact that he didn’t seem inclined to go inside at all, despite the chilly night air.
Or maybe I’m reading too much into this. Maybe it meant nothing.
“Did he look okay to you?”
“Who, Ross? More than okay.” She runs her tongue over her lips and winks at me. “Hot.”
Yeah. Ha. Very funny. “I mean, did he look sick or anything?”
She narrows her dark eyes at me and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I dunno? He was too far to tell. Why? Did he give you cooties?”
“Shut up,” I say, disgusted when she giggles. “He just keeps getting the crap beaten out of him. Someone has to ask if he’s okay.”
“But you are the one asking, so...” She blows on her nails, then buffs them on her skirt. “What does that tell you?”
“That this conversation is over,” I say firmly, “and I’m not asking you anything ever again.”
“Oh come on... Don’t be like that.”
“Like what? Oh, look! Customers. Go, shoo.”
“You have a crush on Ross Jones,” she wags her finger at me even as she walks away, “and one day you’ll accept it.”
