CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Riley

PHOEBE IS SITTING ACROSS FROM me, trying to figure out why the hell her malt is all weird. I’m considering telling her that the “weird crap” in her malt is malt, the stuff makes the old-timey drink and Nosh Pit specialty unique, when she shoves it at the waitress and demands “a clean one without the shit in it.”

The waitress takes Phoebe’s glass. It’s the red-haired girl, Abigail. She seems for a moment not to know what the glass is even though she was the one who brought it over. Her confusion is broken when the tall, beautiful brunette waitress who seems to be in charge shouts at her.

“She has to learn. She has to know to quality-check stuff before bringing it out to customers,” says Phoebe, watching the waitress rush off behind her bitchy gaze. “There was powdery shit all through that drink.”

“It’s malt, Phoebe.”

“Right. I wanted a malt, and she brought me whatever the hell that was,” she says, still watching the waitress. Then she turns to me, and her usually caustic manner softens. Her big eyes seem to smile beneath her jet-black hair. “You sure you don’t want one?”

“I’m not depressed, Phoebe.”

“Sure you are. I’ve known you forever.” Her eyes flick around. “It’s Brandon, isn’t it?”

“What? No!”

“Yes it is.”

I look around the diner, sure that everyone is staring right at us. Certain that my father is at the next table with surveillance equipment, listening for signs of wrongdoing.

“Don’t worry, Ri. I just know these things. You’re not obvious.”

Plenty obvious to Phoebe, apparently. But then again, she and I did already kind of have this discussion. She’s seen me through a few relationships, and I guess she’d already decided I was into Brandon Grant. Which I’m not. Except I’m becoming increasingly afraid that I am.

When he touched me at the Stonegate job site, I decided he wanted me after all. I went back and forth no fewer than ten times during that brief tour, trying to read his intentions. It felt like a real catch-22: If he wanted me, I was, however stupidly, interested in finding out more. But if he didn’t, I wouldn’t be the first to do something idiotic as my father expected. Again.

But then I turned cold and denied it all — not that it happened, but that it meant anything. Just a dumb mistake … from my end, anyway. And somehow, I think I expected him to blurt out something gallant about how it wasn’t a mistake for him at all, and then we could move on. But that was like trying to reach second base with a foot on first, hedging my bets so fiercely that they could never pay off. Of course he hadn’t done what I wanted. We kept calling each other’s bluffs, and now here I am. Sad. Hurt. And wanting a malt, even though I don’t want to admit it.

“You hooked up with him, didn’t you?”

“No!” Then I sigh. “Yes.”

“I knew it! Was he good? Did you come?”

“Phoebe!”

“Come on. Let me live vicariously.” Abigail brings another malt. Phoebe looks at it, stirs it with a straw, and turns on her. “This one has shit in it too!”

“I’ll take it,” I say, pulling the malt toward me. I give Abigail an apologizing look, but then the dark-haired waitress shouts again, and she scuttles off.

“So? Was it good?”

I consider lying. But then I say, “Yes.”

“One-night stand kind of thing?” She eyes me. “No. No, he hooked you.”

“He did not hook me.”

“He did. I can see it in your eyes.”

“Bullshit.”

“Hey!” She throws up her hands. “Who knew you’d fucked him?”

“Keep your voice down!”

“I’m sorry. I’m just excited.” She pats my hand. “It’s okay. You can like him. He seems really great.”

“You just like his six-pack.”

“I want to scrub my laundry on it,” she says. “But no. I mean, he seems like a great guy.”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to stay away to prove something to your dad.”

“It’s not that.”

“Sure it is.”

I narrow my eyes. “When are you going to stop telling me what is and is not going on in my own life?”

“As soon as I stop being right. Am I still getting it right?”

Another sigh. “I guess.”

“So, there you have it. You’re a big girl. You’re already proving yourself. Based on what you’ve told me, it sounds like you’re on your way. Like Laverne and Shirley.”

“Were they on their way?”

“I don’t know. My grandma used to watch it.”

I sip the malt. It’s delicious. I have a rather existential thought about how everything goes in circles: the Nosh Pit specializing in malts and hence establishing itself as a malt shop instead of just a diner. Phoebe mentioning Laverne and Shirley, which I only know by name. It’s like there’s nothing new, and everything plays on a loop.

“He’s just so different from me,” I say.

“I don’t know about that. When I used to ogle him, he was just a digger. Now you say he’s going to be vice president.”

“Yeah. Dad’s back onboard the Brandon train. Just about the only thing that could screw it up for him now would be if he started nailing the boss’s daughter.”

“You’re both adults.” Phoebe sips her malt then says, “Someone’s got to nail you.”

“Not as far as my dad thinks. I’m still fifteen years old to him.”

“Except that you’re now running a division of his company.”

“I’m an intern.”

Another sip from Phoebe. “Same difference.”

“I don’t know.”

“He’s ambitious. How many people you know have a man like that, who won’t just lie around and accept what comes to him? So there’s that. But he’s also totally hot.”

“Except that beard.”

“You don’t like the beard? I think it’s manly. Like that’s brown testosterone coming out of his follicles.”

“Gross.”

“Do you know why he has it? The beard, I mean?”

I smirk then take my malt back. Phoebe has drained it by a quarter. So much for her not liking the powdery stuff. “I suppose this is part of you being a town gossip.”

“Life coach. Who knows a lot about everyone. Because I network.”

“Whatever.”

“No, Ri. This is just me knowing because a lot of people know. It happened while you were gone.”

“Bridget told me,” I say, sipping. I say it dismissively because I really don’t care. He’s wrong for me. He’ll ruin what I have going with my father and his new faith in me. I’ll ruin what he has going with his vice presidency. And just now, we didn’t exactly part on good terms. I was supposed to go back to the office, but Phoebe called me during my ride, and I asked the car to take me here instead. I guess this doesn’t make me the picture of responsibility, but it felt right. I left the Stonegate site feeling annoyed at Brandon’s self-centered arrogance and bitchy attitude, but for some reason I feel closer to heartbroken.

Phoebe nods. “And that doesn’t tell you all you need to know?”

What? That he got cut in a bar fight? That he has a scar on his cheek that he wants to hide? So what? It doesn’t change anything.

Phoebe’s head bobs. “Oh. I see what’s going on here.”

“What’s ‘going on here?’”

“You’re afraid of leveling up.”

I don’t even know how to respond to that.

“You’re trying to have it both ways,” she says, nodding harder, as if gaining conviction from her words. “How did you feel when you came home from college?”

“Stop life coaching me, Phoebe.”

“Just tell me, bitch.”

“I don’t know. Eager to start putting my degree to work at Life of Riley?”

“And?”

“And what?”

“And sad, right? Like you missed school? Missed your college friends? Your old life?”