The Boy I Grew Up With
Page 9
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Love her, I reminded myself that again. Just love her. She needed all the unconditional support I could give her, and I hoped to hell I could pull her back into being my kid sister, because as it was—I glanced at her crew. She was more theirs than mine, and the reason was pretty damn simple. They were there for her. I hadn’t been.
But I would be now. Fucking hell, I would be now. I had been.
“Be safe.” I waited until they nodded their response before I moved around to the register. I gestured to them. “I got their stuff.”
The first two whooped. The taller one, Jordan, lifted his fist to pound my shoulder, realized who he was about to touch, and moved his fist up in a half-salute. “Thanks, Channing. You’re the best.”
“Hells to the yee-ah.” Zellman, the shorter one, pumped his energy drink at me, backing out of the store with Jordan following. They had bags of food in hand too.
Shaw held back. He did the same thing as before, glancing to Bren before holding up his coffee. “Thank you.” He followed his friends out to their truck.
Bren was the only one who hadn’t grabbed food or anything to drink. Her hands slid into her pockets and she murmured, “Thank you.”
She started edging back out the door.
“Bren.” I stopped her. “Get something to eat.”
Without meeting my eyes, she snagged whatever was closest to her and tossed it to the clerk. He scanned in the candy bar, and she took it back.
Without a backward look, she joined her crew outside.
“That’ll be $85.63.”
I cursed, but handed over the credit card. I forgot they’d filled up with gas.
Shaw and Bren jumped into the back of the truck, with the other two in the cab, and after a second wave to me, they tore out of there.
For the Roussou badass I was known to be, I felt like the biggest pansy at that moment.
7
Heather
Third grade
“Pssst, Heather.”
Channing leaned over to poke my arm during class.
I frowned at him, rubbing my arm. “Stop.”
I was seriously so tired of getting in trouble. Every time. It had been Mrs. Buxton two years ago. Then Mrs. Landish. Now it was Mr. Graves. As soon as school started, Channing started making jokes about his name. He said one of his dad’s friends had died and he was a metal worker. He asked our teacher if he knew what would be on his tombstone.
Mr. Graves didn’t respond, so Channing declared, “Rust in peace!” Then he laughed some more and looked at me. “And his name was Rusty too.”
Trouble.
That was Channing.
I wasn’t getting in trouble again. No way.
He poked me a second time, ducking his head and giving me that shy-but-cute grin.
I tried to ignore his sparkly, twinkling eyes. Whenever he wanted to pick on me, his eyes got that look—like the light danced in them.
I fixed a scowl on my face and poked Channing back.
“Ouch! Stop harassing me, woman!”
I could’ve smacked him. He had that wicked look on his face, and he’d purposely raised his voice.
I leaned over and hissed, “You’re so dead, Channing Monroe.”
“Dead?” His grin went up a notch. “Like dead as in I need to go the GRAVE dead?!”
“Channing! Heather!” the teacher said sharply. Then he just sighed. He was tired. “Don’t make me write your names on the board.”
I shrank in my seat and looked at the two names already written there. Norm Mire and Matthew Shephardson. They were both friends of Channing’s, and I knew whatever they’d done to get in trouble was because of him.
Channing shot his arm in the air. He didn’t wait to be called on. “If you’re going to put my name on the board, can you make it cool? Something different. Like Ben?”
I closed my eyes. There was more coming. There always was.
Mr. Graves didn’t say anything for a moment, then I heard the squeak of the marker on the board. He was actually writing BEN on it.
Channing waited till he was done and added, “And my last name is Dover. Like a dove. The bird.”
Mr. Graves finished, adding the last name.
Why he did it, I had no idea. Channing’s name was always up there. Our teacher was probably bored that day. He added my name and stepped back. He stared at the names.
Channing, Norm, and Matthew were the only ones laughing.
I didn’t get it.
But Mr. Graves expelled a curse word, one of the bad ones, and quickly erased Channing’s made-up name.
“Channing Monroe, I am calling your parents at the end of the day.”
Channing just snickered, slumping down in his chair. Shooting me a look, he muttered, “Like they care.”
I shook my head. “I would care,” I said.
He gave me that weird look again. He blinked a few times. “You’re my best friend.”
And then I felt that weird look, on my insides.
It was…
...different.
8
Heather
Present day
Security was preparing to drag a drunk out of Manny’s two days later.
He was kicking and screaming. The cops had just arrived, their blue and red lights circling through the window. Brandon was arguing with the guy, trying to talk sense into him, ignoring the bottle of whiskey he’d brought in. But that wasn’t all.
A couple had started fighting at table three.
We all saw it happening. They came in every Saturday, but even I didn’t know why. The girl was pissed every single time, her arms crossed over her chest. The guy looked beaten down, his shoulders hunched. And though they were the same height, he seemed bent over, permanently.
Tonight, it seemed she’d had enough. She flung her breadstick to her plate, shoving away from the table. As she got up, her chair fell into the back of a child. The kid started crying. His mother got upset, while the woman went storming outside.
And we can’t forget the breadstick, because it didn’t stay on the plate. That woman flung it with such force that it bounced off and landed in a guy’s hand as he walked past her table.
He blinked, shocked to find a breadstick in his hand, and stopped watching where he was going for a second—long enough to walk into one of my servers, who then dumped the tray of food she was carrying onto the back of the angered woman who’d started the entire chain of events.
I saw it all, and without blinking an eye, I grabbed the woman’s arm and urged her in the direction of the bathroom, murmuring, “We’re so sorry about that.”
She was writhing with anger, so I patted her arm and added, “And don’t worry, that kid you hit? I won’t tell his mother you’re back here, or the guy your breadstick hit. Accidents happen, right? I’m sure a gift certificate will smooth it over.”
She tensed. I felt her getting ready to argue.
I hushed her, soothingly. “I’ll talk to the mother on your behalf. I’m sure no damage was done. I’ll make her nice and happy, get her out the door before she can think about a lawsuit.”
Cruz, the night manager, saw us coming. He took in her messy attire and opened the bathroom door. I steered her in, patted her arm, and offered one more reassuring smile.
“I have your back, sweetie. No worries.” A wink, a little click of the tongue, and I watched as the anger began to fade and the corners of her eyes pinched in worry.
I closed the door as she turned on the water.
Cruz shook his head in amusement.
“What?”
He pointed down the hall to the back section of Manny’s. “I saw the whole thing, and you didn’t pause for one second.” As he walked away, he added under his breath, “Legend, Heather. Legend.”
But I would be now. Fucking hell, I would be now. I had been.
“Be safe.” I waited until they nodded their response before I moved around to the register. I gestured to them. “I got their stuff.”
The first two whooped. The taller one, Jordan, lifted his fist to pound my shoulder, realized who he was about to touch, and moved his fist up in a half-salute. “Thanks, Channing. You’re the best.”
“Hells to the yee-ah.” Zellman, the shorter one, pumped his energy drink at me, backing out of the store with Jordan following. They had bags of food in hand too.
Shaw held back. He did the same thing as before, glancing to Bren before holding up his coffee. “Thank you.” He followed his friends out to their truck.
Bren was the only one who hadn’t grabbed food or anything to drink. Her hands slid into her pockets and she murmured, “Thank you.”
She started edging back out the door.
“Bren.” I stopped her. “Get something to eat.”
Without meeting my eyes, she snagged whatever was closest to her and tossed it to the clerk. He scanned in the candy bar, and she took it back.
Without a backward look, she joined her crew outside.
“That’ll be $85.63.”
I cursed, but handed over the credit card. I forgot they’d filled up with gas.
Shaw and Bren jumped into the back of the truck, with the other two in the cab, and after a second wave to me, they tore out of there.
For the Roussou badass I was known to be, I felt like the biggest pansy at that moment.
7
Heather
Third grade
“Pssst, Heather.”
Channing leaned over to poke my arm during class.
I frowned at him, rubbing my arm. “Stop.”
I was seriously so tired of getting in trouble. Every time. It had been Mrs. Buxton two years ago. Then Mrs. Landish. Now it was Mr. Graves. As soon as school started, Channing started making jokes about his name. He said one of his dad’s friends had died and he was a metal worker. He asked our teacher if he knew what would be on his tombstone.
Mr. Graves didn’t respond, so Channing declared, “Rust in peace!” Then he laughed some more and looked at me. “And his name was Rusty too.”
Trouble.
That was Channing.
I wasn’t getting in trouble again. No way.
He poked me a second time, ducking his head and giving me that shy-but-cute grin.
I tried to ignore his sparkly, twinkling eyes. Whenever he wanted to pick on me, his eyes got that look—like the light danced in them.
I fixed a scowl on my face and poked Channing back.
“Ouch! Stop harassing me, woman!”
I could’ve smacked him. He had that wicked look on his face, and he’d purposely raised his voice.
I leaned over and hissed, “You’re so dead, Channing Monroe.”
“Dead?” His grin went up a notch. “Like dead as in I need to go the GRAVE dead?!”
“Channing! Heather!” the teacher said sharply. Then he just sighed. He was tired. “Don’t make me write your names on the board.”
I shrank in my seat and looked at the two names already written there. Norm Mire and Matthew Shephardson. They were both friends of Channing’s, and I knew whatever they’d done to get in trouble was because of him.
Channing shot his arm in the air. He didn’t wait to be called on. “If you’re going to put my name on the board, can you make it cool? Something different. Like Ben?”
I closed my eyes. There was more coming. There always was.
Mr. Graves didn’t say anything for a moment, then I heard the squeak of the marker on the board. He was actually writing BEN on it.
Channing waited till he was done and added, “And my last name is Dover. Like a dove. The bird.”
Mr. Graves finished, adding the last name.
Why he did it, I had no idea. Channing’s name was always up there. Our teacher was probably bored that day. He added my name and stepped back. He stared at the names.
Channing, Norm, and Matthew were the only ones laughing.
I didn’t get it.
But Mr. Graves expelled a curse word, one of the bad ones, and quickly erased Channing’s made-up name.
“Channing Monroe, I am calling your parents at the end of the day.”
Channing just snickered, slumping down in his chair. Shooting me a look, he muttered, “Like they care.”
I shook my head. “I would care,” I said.
He gave me that weird look again. He blinked a few times. “You’re my best friend.”
And then I felt that weird look, on my insides.
It was…
...different.
8
Heather
Present day
Security was preparing to drag a drunk out of Manny’s two days later.
He was kicking and screaming. The cops had just arrived, their blue and red lights circling through the window. Brandon was arguing with the guy, trying to talk sense into him, ignoring the bottle of whiskey he’d brought in. But that wasn’t all.
A couple had started fighting at table three.
We all saw it happening. They came in every Saturday, but even I didn’t know why. The girl was pissed every single time, her arms crossed over her chest. The guy looked beaten down, his shoulders hunched. And though they were the same height, he seemed bent over, permanently.
Tonight, it seemed she’d had enough. She flung her breadstick to her plate, shoving away from the table. As she got up, her chair fell into the back of a child. The kid started crying. His mother got upset, while the woman went storming outside.
And we can’t forget the breadstick, because it didn’t stay on the plate. That woman flung it with such force that it bounced off and landed in a guy’s hand as he walked past her table.
He blinked, shocked to find a breadstick in his hand, and stopped watching where he was going for a second—long enough to walk into one of my servers, who then dumped the tray of food she was carrying onto the back of the angered woman who’d started the entire chain of events.
I saw it all, and without blinking an eye, I grabbed the woman’s arm and urged her in the direction of the bathroom, murmuring, “We’re so sorry about that.”
She was writhing with anger, so I patted her arm and added, “And don’t worry, that kid you hit? I won’t tell his mother you’re back here, or the guy your breadstick hit. Accidents happen, right? I’m sure a gift certificate will smooth it over.”
She tensed. I felt her getting ready to argue.
I hushed her, soothingly. “I’ll talk to the mother on your behalf. I’m sure no damage was done. I’ll make her nice and happy, get her out the door before she can think about a lawsuit.”
Cruz, the night manager, saw us coming. He took in her messy attire and opened the bathroom door. I steered her in, patted her arm, and offered one more reassuring smile.
“I have your back, sweetie. No worries.” A wink, a little click of the tongue, and I watched as the anger began to fade and the corners of her eyes pinched in worry.
I closed the door as she turned on the water.
Cruz shook his head in amusement.
“What?”
He pointed down the hall to the back section of Manny’s. “I saw the whole thing, and you didn’t pause for one second.” As he walked away, he added under his breath, “Legend, Heather. Legend.”
