Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100628 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100628 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
“I don’t know how you guys drink coffee at night.”
“We’re eating pancakes,” Brody replied. “You gotta have coffee with pancakes.”
“You don’t have to eat pancakes, you know,” I reminded him. “We have other food.”
“Come to the Pancake House for a burger?” Olive gasped. “Blasphemy.”
“The booze counters the coffee,” Rumi said jokingly, saluting me with his glass.
“What are you guys up to tonight?” I asked, glancing over my shoulder to make sure no one was waiting to be seated.
“Pancake house and then Rumi’s,” Olive said, taking a sip of her coffee. “Damn. I work making fancy drinks and I swear to God nothing compares to the plain drip coffee you guys have here.”
“We’re helpin’ him finish up the laundry room,” Brody said as he leaned back in his seat. “So he can finally start washin’ his clothes.”
“I wash my clothes,” Rumi argued, throwing a sugar packet at Brody. “I use the Laundromat.”
“You have your mama do it,” Olive said accusingly, pointing her finger at him. “Ya liar.”
“I do not!”
“Bullshit.”
“I go to the Laundromat! Ask the little old ladies that spend all day there. They’ll tell you.”
“Which old ladies are those?”
“The ones who pinch my ass if I get within reach,” Rumi said dryly. “Why you think I go to Mom’s sometimes? They leave bruises, Olive Oil. Bruises. On my ass.”
“Poor baby.”
“Shit,” I said, cutting into their little tiff. “I need to go seat these people. I’ll stop by later, yeah?”
“Have fun,” Brody said, waving me off. He looked at Rumi as I walked away. “You even have money to buy a washer and dryer for your place?”
I didn’t have time to go chat again until the group was almost done eating. The dinner rush was no joke and the place was packed as I walked over to their table again.
“How was everything?” I asked, coming to a stop at the edge of their booth.
“Terrible.”
“Disgusting.”
“Pretty sure there was hair in mine.”
I glanced at the next booth to find the customers staring at us in horror.
“They’re joking,” I said quickly. “They’re friends and they’re giving me crap.”
“It was fuckin’ delicious,” Rumi said, turning to look at them. “We’re just fuckin’ with her.”
The older man laughed and his wife smiled.
“Could you please stop with the swearing,” I murmured, glaring at him. “Jesus.”
“I am who I am,” Rumi replied, grinning unrepentantly as he spread his arms out across the booth.
“Oh, look,” I said dryly. “Your waitress is here with your check. Leave an enormous tip.”
I walked away to the sound of their laughter, and a few minutes later, they were up at my station saying goodbye.
“We need to come when it’s not so crowded,” Olive said, giving me another hug. “So you have some time to hang.”
“I am working, you know,” I reminded her ruefully.
“We’re just glad we got to see ya,” Brody said with a smile.
“You gonna stop by after work?” Rumi asked, pulling me against his chest.
“Probably not tonight,” I hedged.
“Aw, come on,” he shook me gently from side to side. “Come hang out.”
“I’ll try.”
“That’s my girl,” he said, grinning.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe’s always a yes with you.”
“Maybe’s a maybe,” I countered.
“Uh-huh.”
“Get out of here,” I ordered, pushing him away. “I’ll text you after work.”
Once they’d gone, it felt like I was able to drop my guard a little. Other people couldn’t read every expression on my face the way my best friends could and I no longer felt like I was being watched. Unfortunately, once my focus was no longer on making sure I seemed normal, the paranoia and sense of wrongness came back in force. Every time the door opened, I braced. Every time the phone rang, my heart thumped hard in my chest.
It was ridiculous. I was perfectly safe and logically I knew it, but my body didn’t. I spent the rest of my shift jumpy and anxious, and by the time I clocked out, I was an exhausted emotional mess.
I was angry. I was angry at myself that I was backsliding into the feelings I’d had as a child. I was angry that I was overreacting. I was angry at Pop for acting like everything was okay and not even apologizing for losing his temper. I was angry at Nana for not seeing her text from me or telling Pop about it.
I got in my car, yanked the door closed, and sat there in the dark, staring out the windshield as I replayed the last twenty-four hours in my head.
Then, I called Nana.
“Hey honey, you off work?” she answered.
“Yeah, I think I’m going to go hang out at Rumi’s with everyone,” I replied. “That cool?” I could hear Pop in the background saying something.
“You don’t have to ask me,” she replied in surprise. “You’ll be home tonight?”
“I’ll probably just stay the night.”
“Okay, then,” she said easily. “We’ll see you in the morning.”
“Make sure you let Pop know,” I said, the impulse too hard to ignore. “So he knows I won’t be there tonight.”