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Chapter 21
Alani
“So about tonight?”
I glance at Mark over my shoulder. I know I should feel something with the way he’s smiling at me. He’s a nice guy, and maybe that’s the problem. Even before Donavan, I wasn’t exactly interested in nice guys.
“I’m not dating.”
“You’re too young to not be dating,” he says, but all I do is shake my head and continue wiping down the table.
“I just got out of something serious.”
“You’ve been working here and single for two months.”
I stand, twisting the cleaning cloth in my hands as I turn around to face him.
I know he thinks he’s being charming, and the flirting he’s prone to do is good for my self-esteem, but at some point, he’s going to have to understand I’m not the type of girl that can be chipped away at until I agree. If anything, he’s going to really start to annoy me, and I’m going to jump in his shit. Then he’ll think I’m an asshole because he can’t seem to take no for an answer.
“Look, I said from the beginning I’m not looking for anything but friends.”
“With benefits?” he asks, his smile growing as his eyebrows wave up and down comically.
“No.” My answer is flat, and the playful look in his eyes fades away quickly.
“Oh, you’re serious.”
I tilt my head. “I’ve been serious this entire time.”
“Well, shit,” he says, rubbing a hand over his chest. “I thought you were playing hard to get. You’re not interested?”
I clamp my lips together and shake my head.
“Fuck, sorry. Now I feel like an asshole.”
I don’t tell him it’s okay and that it’s no big deal, but I know most people would. It’s almost ingrained to apologize or minimize when someone reacts the way he just did, but I’ve been working on not making excuses any longer and that includes doing it for others.
He watches me as if he’s waiting for me to tell him I’m just kidding and agree to go to dinner with him.
“Was there anything else?”
“Table eight needs tartar sauce.”
I nod before walking away. The man has been bugging me for ten minutes while one of my customers has just been sitting there watching us chat. It frustrates the hell out of me because now he’s messing with my tips.
After grabbing the sauce, I drop it off at table eight with an apology. The man is already halfway through his catfish dinner, and the curt nod he gives me translates into no tip.
I step into the back of the diner and press my back to the wall.
I hate this constant feeling that nothing is right. I’ve fought it for more than a year.
School wasn’t right, so after my grades dropped to the point I couldn’t get them back up for the fall semester no matter how hard I tried, I dropped out. Ayla was livid, but she still offered me a place to stay. I wanted to turn her down, but the idea of being homeless sucked even more.
This job has allowed me to save some money, but thinking I’ll be able to work here and afford a place on my own is impossible without having to live in a dangerous neighborhood. The thought of that still sends a thrill up my spine, so I know it’s a bad idea and one I need to avoid.
I know I’ll have to go back to school. Working at a diner for the rest of my life isn’t going to cut it, and it’s immature to throw away the chance to make more money. A college degree will increase the chances of me doing that, but I’m not even remotely thrilled that I’ll be returning to Lindell in just over a week for the beginning of the spring semester.
“Think you can work the morning shift tomorrow?” Mark asks, unwilling to give me just a couple of minutes alone.
“I can,” I quickly agree.
“You’re sure? You worked doubles the last three days.”
“Yet you’re asking me to work another one,” I remind him. “But I don’t mind. I need the money.”
Sunday morning is great for tips. It’s a combination of folks heading to church and a crowd of those trying to remedy their hangovers with greasy food.
He nods before walking away. As much as I’d like to hang out in the back until my shift ends in twenty minutes, I have tables to clear.
The man at table eight hands me a twenty when I go to drop off his ticket and tells me to keep the change. I feel lucky for the three dollars left over, especially after the issue with the tartar sauce.
As I clean away his dishes, I think, not for the first time, about getting a second job.
I’m exhausted after being on my feet all day, but avoiding Nash and Ayla’s house is appealing. I’ve tried putting myself in my sister’s shoes. I’ve tried imagining Donavan in his place because I know he could probably do exactly what Nash did. I get what happened was something neither of them could control, but I don’t know that I’d want to stick around and make a life with a man who was forced to hurt me.
