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Why? Why? Why?
These past few months have been hard on me and on my heart, but Rex has been by my side every step of the way. He goes beyond the best-friend title, and sometimes, I wish he’d move into the boyfriend title.
I love him so damn much.
If only things were different.
If only he believed in love.
I understand he doesn’t want to break my heart. I’ve seen him struggle with women—struggle when they begged him to give them more than a quick screw, struggle to cut them off, struggle to put himself out there. As much as I love him rejecting them, I wish he hadn’t turned me down the same way.
When I get out of the bathtub, I drop my towel and get dressed into my pajamas. On my way back to my bedroom, I snatch my phone and hop into my comfy bed. As soon as I glance at the screen, nausea fills my stomach more than this damn hangover.
Margie: Hey! My birthday is next week. We’re having a dinner at El Pacinos! Tacos and margaritas are calling our names. Please come!
So many emotions flood through me as I stare at her text message—envy, guilt, and sadness. A tear slides down my cheek as I contemplate whether to reply. Some days, I do. Some days, I don’t.
Me: I have plans. Sorry.
Seconds later, my phone vibrates.
Margie: Come on, Carolina. Talk to me. You said I didn’t do anything to piss you off, but all you do is blow me off. You left the dorm without even saying good-bye!
She’s right. Rex and his roommate, Josh, went to my dorm and packed up my things, and I haven’t been back.
Me: I’ve been busy working, and campus is such a long drive.
Margie: I can come there. Girls’ night this weekend?
Me: Not this weekend. I’ll get back with you.
Margie: Whatever. I’ll just stop reaching out.
I sigh, wishing I had the guts to say more.
I haven’t talked to Margie since I dropped out. When I disappeared from my dorm, she called and texted every day. I never answer her calls, but I text back, telling her I am busy or have a lot going on. I blow her off every time she asks to hang out.
After plugging my phone into the charger, I tuck myself into bed. My head might feel better after sixteen hours of sleep.
* * *
“Good morning,honey! How was your trip?” Shirley asks, her voice cheerful and loud when I walk into the diner bright and early.
Shirley is the owner of the diner I work for and waitressed here for years before her mother passed it down to her. She’s a dark-skinned woman in her sixties who’s a kind soul full of wisdom. I frequently studied here for hours in high school while eating slices of her famous pie. She never complained about me taking up a table, nor did she fail to slide a free slice in front of me—cherry, my favorite. She attends my father’s church regularly and is a frequent donor of everything sweet.
“I think I’m in need of a vacation from that vacation,” I grumble, grabbing an apron and tying it around my waist.
She laughs. “Oh, family weddings. They’re always so fun.”
“And also depressing,” I add with a frown.
When I moved back to Blue Beech, my father offered me a job at the church, but I declined. Working for him is a bad idea. I’d hear his lecturing forty hours a week, and he’d watch every move I made. I still volunteer for functions at the church on my time off, but I can pick and choose those dates. They’re normally when my father is busy or in a public place.
Shirley’s Diner has been a staple in our town for decades. It has cute ’50s-themed décor—complete with classic red booths, black-and-white-checkered floors, and bright teal walls. The most popular part of the diner is the silver counter in the front with a glass case filled with slices of pie in every flavor imaginable. Shirley makes them herself every night, and I stay over to help sometimes. It’s the least I can do for her since she gave me a job and donates so many of them to the charity dinners I throw.
“Your boyfriend is in your booth,” Candy, another waitress, sings while skipping into the kitchen.
Rex and his family have always been regulars at the diner, but he’s here nearly half of my shifts and sits in the same booth in my section every time. On these days, he wakes up earlier than usual, brings his laptop to work, and eats. He also leaves me crazy tips, to which I try to shove back into his hand, pockets, shirt—wherever there’s a crevice on him—but he won’t allow it. He knows how hard up for cash I am. He also knows I won’t take any money from him, so this is his way of helping me out.
