Four Letter Word
Page 24

Sydney should be eating peanut butter cup sundaes every fucking day of her life and keeping that memory.
“Couldn’t have a dog either,” she added quietly. “He was allergic to those, too.”
I cracked my neck, then asked, “You want a dog?”
“I’ve always wanted a dog. A boxer. Male. They’re beautiful creatures. And smart. I’d name him Sir Duke because he’d be regal and would need a regal name.”
Her voice raced with excitement.
I laughed under my breath.
“Sir Duke? You serious, babe? You can’t give a dog two names.”
“He’d have two names but he’d go by Sir. Just Sir. Sir Duke would be on his birth certificate and I’d only yell that if he was in trouble, which would be never because he’d be perfect.”
I shook my head, but I did it smiling.
She was quiet for a couple breaths.
I was about to suggest she get a dog after hitting up Friendly’s when she shut me up with her speech.
“I gave up peanut butter and a pet for him, but I didn’t mind because you give up stuff when you fall in love and you do it not caring because you’re in love. You gain so much more than what you’re losing, and I would’ve given up more than that to be with Marcus because I was in love and I knew he felt the same. There was a time he would’ve given up peanut butter and a pet for me, too, but you know what, Brian?”
“What, babe?”
My chest felt tight. I was no longer relaxing in that chair with my foot up. I was hunched over the table, elbows holding the weight of my upper body and my head cradled in my hand as I listened and waited, staring at the tattered pages of my book.
“He wouldn’t give up anything for me anymore. Not one damn thing. Not even if I was allergic to it.”
I breathed deep with such force, my nostrils flared.
I hated hearing the hurt in Syd’s voice. It fucking ate at me.
I stood up and walked to the fridge to grab another beer.
It was either that or hunt down every Marcus currently living and breathing and beating the shit out of them one at a time.
“Know what I think you should do?” I asked her, holding the bottle at an angle against the counter and knocking the cap off with the side of my hand.
I took a swig.
She sighed, thinking about it. “Go buy a bag of peanut butter cups and eat the entire thing, then mail all the wrappers to Marcus in a box wrapped all pretty with a bow?”
I smirked.
“Not a bad idea, but what the fuck is the point of eating peanut butter cups if they aren’t mixed with vanilla ice cream with whipped cream on top and you’re not sitting at a booth eating it out of a giant sundae glass? Go big or go home, Wild. And I’d expect nothing but big coming from you.”
She paused, then with a smile in her voice added, “And peanut butter sauce. They put that in it, too.”
“Good. You’re making up for seven years. You deserve a fuck-ton of it.”
“You think that’s what I should do? Go to Friendly’s and eat a sundae?”
“I think you should do whatever you want to do, and if that’s eat peanut butter with every meal for the rest of your life while you’re surrounded by boxers with two fucking names, do it,” I replied. “It’s your life, babe. I get why you gave it up and respect that, I hope he respected it ’cause giving up a memory like that is heavy and not something he should’ve brushed aside, but if you’re saying he’s past the point of giving up shit for you, then fuck it.”
“It’s my life,” she whispered, breathing a little faster like she was excited.
She was repeating what I had said, and hearing it coming out of her own mouth, really listening, tasting those words and getting used to the idea of living that life. For the first time.
That made me smile.
I heard the jingle of keys through the phone and turned, glancing at the time on the stove.
“Where you going, Wild?” I asked, and I did this grinning, not smiling, fucking grinning because I knew where she was going.
But it still felt good hearing her confirm it.
“To live my life.”
Two hours later I checked up on her.
You eat a sundae?
Nope. I ate two.
 
 
* * *
What’s a four letter word for the guy at Table 6 is pissing me off.
Bad day, Wild?
He’s complaining about everything! And it’s stupid stuff. Like his water is too cold and he wanted two tomatoes on his BLT, not one. He didn’t say anything about tomatoes when he ordered and HOW IS WATER TOO COLD? I’m going to get the worst tip if he even leaves one and I’m betting he doesn’t.
Maybe you need a break.
Can’t. One girl called out ’cause her son is sick so we’re short and it’s lunch rush.
OMG he just told me the lights are too bright in here. I’m going to kill him.
Won’t be able to talk to you if you’re in jail.
Fine. I won’t kill him. But I’m not bringing him extra napkins. So he’s gonna know I’m mad.
Damn girl.
Shit just got real, B. I’m a redhead. He should know better.
 
 
* * *
I almost died just now. Our last conversation would’ve been about how underrated Violent Femmes are. I would’ve been okay with that.
 
 
I read her text and immediately hit Dial as I stepped into the back office at Wax and kicked the door shut behind me for privacy.
Cole was out on the floor. I didn’t need him hearing this shit and asking me about it.
Sydney wasn’t something I shared with anyone, and I was planning on keeping it that way.
“Hey,” she answered with a smile in her voice. “I’m surprised you’re calling. I figured you’d be working right now.”
“I am fucking working right now.”
“Uh …okay. What’s up? Why do you sound mad?”
“What the fuck do you mean you almost died?”
I kept my voice down but didn’t keep the edge from it. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to swallow that back right now. I was pissed. And her nonchalant tone was only fueling my irritation.
“Oh,” she answered through a light chuckle. “I was kidding. I mean, not totally kidding. There was a small fire but it’s been dealt with. Crisis averted. But it definitely could’ve gotten out of control if Tori didn’t have a fire extinguisher. Luckily, she does.”
“Are you fucking serious?” I grated.
“Yeah,” she replied hesitantly. “What’s wrong with you? Are you okay?”
“Am I okay?” I asked harshly. “You send me a text saying you almost died and what, you’re expecting me to respond with a ‘That’s fuckin’ great, Wild,’ or ‘Glad you didn’t kick it,’ like I don’t give enough of a shit about you at this point to call and ask what the fuck you mean by that. Then you’re gonna get on my ass because I sound mad when I have every fucking right to sound mad after reading that text and further listening to you downplay it like something happening to you is one big fucking joke, and you’re asking me if I’m okay?”
“Um …”