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“Yeah, yeah. I know,” she mutters. “Oh, and P.S., you’re welcome.”
My brow quirks. “For what?”
“I put your ex in Shelby’s section even though your table was up next, but I highly recommend you steer clear of the bar area.” She angles her head toward the opposite side of the restaurant to drive her point home. Sure enough, Wes is sitting there with three of his friends. His brown hair looks a little tousled, and his smile is as boyish and carefree as always. Thankfully, his back is mostly positioned toward me, but it doesn’t stop the slight dip in my stomach when I see him.
It’s still weird to think about. That I could’ve loved him. That he could’ve loved me. We hadn’t been dating for more than a couple months, but we were on the right track. And we could’ve made it there––to our happily ever after––if it weren’t for my condition.
I didn’t want to tell him I had epilepsy, but my roommates insisted he had a right to know. And in a way, I guess he did. Still, it doesn’t make the sting from our breakup hurt any less.
But the weird part? It’s figuring out how much I miss him versus how much I miss the idea of him. The idea of someone accepting me in all my messy glory. The idea of having someone by my side. The idea of having someone to call at the end of a particularly amazing or crappy day. That’s what I miss. And it’s what I was reminded I’ll likely never have when he broke up with me after Googling epilepsy and the side effects.
Yup. I’ve chalked it up to one more thing epilepsy has taken from me.
A relationship worth having.
Tearing my gaze from the shitshow across the restaurant, I look at Hazel again. “Thanks.”
She bumps her shoulder against mine. “I got you, girl. Speaking of guys, I literally just felt my phone buzz.” She juts out her bottom lip. “Do you know how much it’s killing me not to see if Johnny texted me back?”
I laugh. “I think you’ll survive.”
“Ugh. My dad used to always say the same thing. He had this rule where we were all supposed to put our phones in a basket during family dinner, and whenever I’d ask for it back or tell him why I couldn’t put my phone in the basket, he’d say,”––she drops her voice an octave and paints a stern expression on her face––“I think you’ll survive, Hazel.”
My lips lift in the corner. “And did you? Survive?”
She scrunches her nose. “Barely.”
With another laugh, I pat her shoulder. “And if you survived back then, I’m sure you’ll survive for another fifteen minutes until we close for the night.”
As I start to walk away, she quips, “Fingers crossed we don’t get any late walk-ins, Kate. ‘Cause if we do, I’m putting them in your section.”
“No, thank you!” I call over my shoulder and go back to work, grabbing the next order from the kitchen. It’s for a bunch of rowdy teenagers sitting in one of the back booths.
Balancing a plate of cheesy fries on one arm and a tray of drinks with the other, I head around the side of the restaurant when I run smack-dab into a hard body. The drinks stain my white shirt, soaking into the fabric almost instantly as the fries land on the ground in a scattered mess of cheese, chili, and chives.
“Oh, shit,” a familiar voice says.
I look up to find Wes Templeton standing in front of me.
Fan-freaking-tastic.
“Good to see you again too,” I mutter, my pulse thrumming with adrenaline as I bend down and start cleaning up the mess.
It had to be Wes, didn’t it? Yup. It’s official. Karma hates me. First, the legging debacle, then crappy tips all night, and the reminder of my lack of a love life. Now, this?
Stick a fork in me. I’m so done.
Scrubbing his hand over the top of his head, Wes asks, “Can I help?”
“Nope.” I pop the ‘p’ at the end, gathering the ruined food into a pile. The melted cheese cakes under my fingernails, making me want to squirm as I ignore Wes’s presence. I can feel him staring down at me, unsure of what to do or what to say. Hell, I can still see his shoes from the corner of my eye.
Go away, dude. I seriously don’t want to see you.
“How’ve you been doing?” he asks. I can’t decide if it’s out of obligation or if he’s genuinely curious. Regardless, it doesn’t matter. That particular door is closed. Forever.
“I’m fantastic,” I grunt, scraping up a few more fries from the floor while attempting to ignore him. Once the sludgy mess is back on the tray, I stack the empty cups and stand up, pasting on a fake smile as I face Wes again. Because why would he leave me alone when I’m clearly having a crappy day? Nope. It would be way too convenient. I bite my tongue to keep from lashing out at the poor bastard and wait for him to either say something or go back to his table. Instead, he looks at me like the ball’s in my court.
Jackass.
