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Because wallowing in self-pity and raging about Melody’s betrayal aren’t really the things I want to tell my friend. Especially not when he was a witness to my meltdown with the car during the wake.
“It’s been rough,” I tell him, once I’ve tugged the tomato off my patty and added extra mustard. “For a lot of reasons.”
He nods, his brow furrowed as he focuses on me. “I can imagine.”
Something I love about August is that he’s an excellent listener. But that means on a night like tonight, when I’d rather he dole out canned advice or distract me with bullshit talk, he’s going to sit there and give me his true focus so I have a chance to get it all out.
Tonight isn’t that night, though. Not for me. I’m not ready to hash it all out. Not up to slicing into the barely healing wound to find the infection and clean it out. Instead, I want to leave it closed over, pseudo-healing and healthy, and pretend I’m on the upswing.
Even though I’m far from it.
When I don’t say anything else and hide behind a few bites of my burger, I can tell August has decided to let me get away with avoidance.
“How’s Ted doing?”
At the mention of my son, I grin, even with a mouthful of food.
“He’s actually doing pretty good, I think.”
“And Emily’s working out?” He dips a fry into the ketchup he dumped messily all over his plate. “I saw your mom at the store a few days back and she mentioned you finally sorted things out.”
I tilt my head side to side. “Yeah. I guess it’s going okay. It’s hard to tell so early, you know?”
“Here’s how you gauge it,” August says, taking a swig of his beer. “Is Teddy happy?”
I grin. “I think so.”
August shrugs. “Then it’s working. And for now, that should be good enough.”
Bobbing my head, I decide to accept that. Who knows, things might always be strained with me and Emily because the truth is I don’t want her there. In my house. Playing with my kid.
I want to be doing that.
But I guess as long as Teddy is happy and seems to be adjusting—and if I’m honest with myself, which I seem to be doing tonight, he seems happier this week than he has over the past few months—that has to be enough.
“What do you think about grabbing a real drink?” my friend asks me as we scooch out of our booth a little while later. “My treat, since I know you don’t have a job.”
His tease burns a bit, but I give him a playful shove as we walk out of The Burger Bar.
“I’m actually not unemployed,” I tell him as we cross the street and begin to walk the two blocks down to The Lighthouse. “You’re looking at the newest summer history teacher at Sandalwood Secondary.”
August’s mouth drops wide. “Fuck, how’d you land that gig? Sounds horrifying.”
I chuckle, slapping his shoulder and giving it a squeeze.
“Buy me that beer and I’ll tell you all about it,” I say as he yanks the door open and we head inside.
It only occurs to me right as we’re walking through the front door that we might bump into Emily, and my shoulders tense as my eyes sweep the small room looking for her.
Though I’m not entirely sure whether I’m hoping to see her or hoping not to.
I think it’s the latter when there’s no Emily to be found and my shoulders ease, highlighting just how uncomfortable I would be having a drink served to me by a bartender nannying my son.
That’s not why you’d be uncomfortable.
The small voice in the back of my mind is unwelcome, and I shove it down until it’s silenced.
“What can I get—hey!”
