Wicked Restless

“Oh, I know, you’re totally right. I should be quiet, huh?” I whisper. “I bet he can hear me.”

I leave my eyes on hers for an uncomfortable amount of time. There’s a flash of guilt in them when I say it out loud, publicly acknowledging that we heard everything. And normally, I’d stop there; she’ll learn a lesson from this, and probably not gossip about the Harpers except in the privacy of her own home for at least a month. But that look on Andrew’s face sticks with me, so I take things just a little farther.

“You know, I hear there’s a foster home around here that takes care of kids who lost their parents to horrible accidents or illness. Maybe when we’re done here, we can go make fun of them for a while, tease them about how they’re going to die in car crashes too one day. Or…or…wait! Even better…let’s make one of those viral videos where we wake people up in the middle of the night and remind them that their loved one is dead. That would be awesome…no?”

A can see a chill fall over them all, and the guy who was talking the most five minutes before, swallows hard. We all hear it. I step closer to him, letting my fake smile fall back into the hard line my mouth wants to make. “Or, if you’d rather, you can just keep being assholes over here, and I’ll go back over there and try and ignore you,” I say, pleased at the regretful feelings I’ve nurtured. “Your call.”

I reach to the counter, grabbing a bottle of ketchup, then spin on my heels and walk back to Andrew, who’s still sitting with his legs stretched out underneath the booth, munching on his fries one at a time. He doesn’t look up at me when I sit back into the booth, and he never glances up when I twist the cap off the ketchup, pouring a small amount on the corner of my plate.

When I’m done, I move the bottle on the table until it clinks against his plate, and I let my hand rest flat on the space between us. After a few seconds, the group I’d just left leaves the restaurant. Neither of us turns to look—the only confirmation, the small chime of the cluster of bells tethered to the door. Once we hear the sound of their cars pulling from the lot just outside, Andrew reaches up, sliding the bottle out of the way, and takes my fingers into his hand, squeezing just hard and long enough to let me feel him.

That’s when I finally smile for real.

We finish our meals, and Andrew pulls a twenty from his wallet, not letting me chip in for my half. I follow him to his car and wait while he lifts the handle, then move into my seat.

He attempts to slide over the hood of his car, but his skid stops midway, so he pushes down the front and walks to his door, reaching into the backseat to grab a beanie for his head, sliding it on and pulling it over his eyes, playing up his humiliation.

“Massive fail,” he says, poking fun of his bombed attempt on the hood.

“Oh, I just assumed that’s how that was supposed to go,” I say, pretending to be impressed.

“Uh yeah…I mean, bitchin’…” he says, puffing out the collar of his shirt and shrugging with a sniff before breaking into a short laugh.

“Wow, I was willing to fake it until you said bitchin’,” I say, unable to help but smile so hard my cheeks hurt.

“Fuck,” he says, his head slung forward, his eyes down. “Ruined by my own lame vernacular.”

“Bitchin’ will kill you every time,” I say with a short tisk and headshake.

He turns the engine over, but looks at me from the side, his eyes moving in quick motions from mine to my mouth and back again. He chuckles to himself before looking up into the rearview mirror and shifting the car into reverse. “I’m pretty sure you can say anything and own it,” he says.

I don’t answer, and I watch his cheeks turn just a little redder. I fight grinning at his compliment, pushing my lips together tight, but losing the battle and smiling anyhow.

Andrew picks up where our tour left off the time before, driving me through various neighborhoods and streets, pointing out places he and his brothers used to sled, places where he got into fights, and then down his street, stopping in front of his old house.

It’s a simple two story, the color dark brown with brick, the yard neat but simple, and a few trees towering in the front, their branches growing bare for the winter.

“You miss living here?” I ask.

He leans forward on his steering wheel, folding his arms and resting his head on top. “Sometimes,” he sighs. “But…I don’t know. Never mind.”

“No, tell me,” I say, for some reason not wanting him to feel he can’t tell me things.