You and Everything After

“Hungry. Now,” Paige says, snapping her fingers at me. I smile out the window, not offended in the least. I’m free.

“Let’s go eat greasy fried crap,” I say, grabbing my purse. Blowing right past her, I ignore her eye-roll protest and impending whine about needing a salad with low-cal dressing. Freedom!

Ty

I’m two beers ahead of Nate by the time he walks into Sally’s, and I can already see the lecture building with every step, the closer he comes. He’s doing that thing, where he cracks his neck on one side and looks down, shaking his head at me in shame.

“Save it, bro,” I say, picking up my glass and finishing off the last of my second beer while he sits down and admires both empty mugs.

“You called Kelly, didn’t you?” It’s not really a question, so I don’t answer. “I don’t know why you torture yourself. It’s not like you can’t meet other women. Damn, Ty—that’s like your best skill. You meet women every five minutes, and they’re in love with you after ten minutes.”

“Yeah, but I don’t love them. No one is Kelly,” I say, feeling every bit of my self-loathing settle over my body.

“No, but maybe…just maybe, someone could be better, you know, like different better. If you’d just give it a damned chance,” Nate says, stretching his legs out from the booth, and pulling a menu out from the rack on the wall. I can’t help but watch his muscles stretch, and I hate him—just for the smallest second—for being whole. I don’t really hate him, but sometimes it’s hard to be so damned positive all of the time. “Order me a cheeseburger and chili fries. I’m hitting the head,” he says, pushing out from the booth, and walking to the restrooms in the back.

Our mom always says that Nate’s the romantic one. Me, I’m all numbers and practicality and logic. But I don’t know, I think my romantic-side is alive and breathing—it’s just tortured. It’s this sliver of my soul that feels certain that there’s only one girl out there who could ever love me, and her love wasn’t meant to last forever.

“Hahahaha! You are sooooo not the sexy one,” a chick’s voice squeals from behind me so loudly that I’m compelled to turn around. That, and she said the word sex, pretty much an automatic for me. I glance over my shoulder, and at first all I can see are two blondes. I can’t quite make out their features, but if pushed, I’d say they were both probably pretty damned sexy. When they pass me, I breathe in and the air smells like the ocean. One of them is taller than the other—lean, but built, clearly a runner. The other one is curvy; she’s wearing a sundress that, if I had to guess, was hiding no bra, and probably a pretty sexy pair of panties.

“You’re, like, predictable sexy,” the tall one says, and I hear a bubble snap from her gum. “I’m like ninja sexy.”

I can’t help but smirk at what she says. This chick’s funny. And I’d have to say, that might just give her the edge on sexy. I keep my gaze forward, pretending to look at something on my phone screen on the table, but I notice the pair of them slide into a booth across the room.

“What’ll you have today, Ty?” Cal says, pulling the pencil from behind his ear to write down our order. I don’t know why he bothers asking. Four weeks we’ve been coming here, and I’m pretty sure we’ve ordered the same thing every time.

“Cheeseburgers,” I say, nodding to Nate, who’s now standing behind Cal and waiting to slide back to his seat.

“Oh, hey Nate,” Cal says, writing down our order, and putting the pen back in its spot somewhere within his disheveled of hair and the mesh Budweiser hat he wears every single day.

“I’m starved, man. Today’s practice was brutal. It’s just…so damned hot,” Nate says, pulling his own phone out and looking at the screen. I’m glad he’s only half paying attention to me, because my focus is dedicated to the booth about twenty feet away.

“Do you have any low-fat dressings? Like, at all?” the curvy blonde says, a strand of her hair wrapped around her finger when she asks.

“We have Italian,” says the older woman taking their order.

“Yeah, but is it just oil? That doesn’t mean low-fat. Is it fat-free or low-fat?” This chick is high-maintenance.

“It’s…Italian,” the waitress says. A small chuckle escapes my lips, and the other girl, the ninja, looks my way briefly. I don’t know why, but my heart kicks a little at getting caught.

“She’ll have the Italian. Just put it on the side,” the ninja princess says, and the waitress walks away.