six months later

chapter 2

river

I’m sitting on a crate of fat, ripe oranges, huddled and shivering, squeezed between the towering shelves of produce in Gertie’s Diner’s walk-in cooler. My head leans against a cardboard box full of white onions as heavy and round as softballs. Through the small holes on the side, I can smell how fresh they are, how I’ll weep when I slice into them tomorrow during prep.

Ironic, as I’m trying—and failing—not to cry right now.

It’s all because of my first table. It had been a family: a mom, dad, and little girl with long, black hair. “Three slices of carrot cake,” the dad had said. “I know it’s kind of early for it, but we always do cake for breakfast on her birthday.”

For one moment, the entire scene had shifted—for one moment, it had been me and my parents sitting there, ordering cake for breakfast like I’d done on every birthday for as long as I could remember. But just as quickly, the scene rearranged itself, and reality came crashing back in. It wasn’t me and my parents sitting there—and it never would be again.

I’d barely kept it together before hefting open the heavy metal door and diving into the blissfully frigid air of the walk-in, where I’ve been hiding for ten very cold minutes.

Now I hear the walk-in door push open, the telltale flap of someone walking through the curtain of plastic strips. I can’t see the doorway from where I’m currently hidden amongst the towers of eggs and bricks of cheddar, but I know who it is.

I wipe my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to get a grip.

“Sorry, Tawn. I’m coming.”

But when I open my eyes, I give a startled exhale, my breath curling visibly in the cold air. Because I’m not looking up into the hazel gaze of my best friend. Instead, it’s Logan Evans, the last person I’d ever want to catch me crying in a walk-in.

“You,” I say, “are not Tawny.”

“No,” he says, “I am not.”

He crosses his muscular arms, tilting his head at me as the chiller compressor roars to life. A lock of thick, dark hair falls over his forehead, nearly touching his raised brow. His jaw is set tight, making his face look even more chiseled than normal.

There’s no denying it: Logan Evans is hot. He’s been here seven months, and his beauty still catches me off guard.

Tawny had nearly dropped her stack of plates the first time we’d seen Logan talking to Gertie about the Help Wanted sign on the front windows last year. “Who the hell is that?” she’d said. “He looks like a prince Disney had to fire for causing too many early sexual awakenings.”

But on his first day, I accidentally crashed into him with a tray full of Diet Cokes. I’d scrambled for a towel to mop at his soaked shirt, stumbling over myself apologizing to him. But instead of accepting my help, he’d stepped back, as though my touch had burnt him. When I’d met his gaze, his expression had taken my breath away. There was an unmistakable fury etched into his features, like he hated me, even though he’d only known me for less than an hour.

After that, no matter how hard I tried to be friendly, he barely spoke to me, beyond what was necessary. “Can you refill the mayo?” was what passed for small talk between us.

“He knows he’s hot,” I’d complained to Tawny, watching him work a table with two giggling grandmas, hating the way my stupid heart hammered at the sight of his smile, hating how much I noticed him when he never noticed me. Hating the way I cared, even though I already had the perfect boyfriend. (I try not to linger on the “had.” I try not to linger on thoughts of him at all.) “He uses that face like a weapon.”

Now I wipe my eyes and turn to face Logan. “Sorry, just having a bad day.”

Logan sinks into a squat until we’re eye level, so close I can see flecks of yellow scattered in his bright blue irises. For one fleeting moment, I swear I see a flicker of warmth there. He reaches out his hand, and all of a sudden, I stop breathing.

Is Logan Evans, who has barely ever said five full sentences to me, who rarely smiles or shows any emotion toward me whatsoever besides irritation, going to comfort me?

But instead of touching me, he stretches behind me, grabbing something wedged behind my back. The motion knocks me off-balance, and I have to put my hands out to catch myself.

“Gertie asked me to get more oranges. We’re out of juice.” His eyes kick back to mine. “You’re…sitting on our last carton.”

Perfect. Just perfect. Just when I’m hoping this scuffed metal floor will open and swallow me whole, the walk-in door bursts open again.

“I took care of them, got them carrot cake slices. Honey, I can’t imagine…” Tawny trails off, blinking down at Logan’s back as he silently gathers oranges.

When his arms are full, Logan rises and makes his way out from between the shelves, nearly dropping an orange as he takes great care to not brush against either of us. He doesn’t spare us a single glance.

Tawny’s nostrils flare. “I swear, he acts like we ran over his puppy. Would it kill him to be nice?” She gives my face a good look. “Seriously. Are you okay?”

I sniffle, and Tawny hugs me. It feels good to hug her back, to be surrounded by the coconut scent of her shampoo, the warmth of her body in this icy chiller.

I shake my head. “All good. Minus the whole sitting-on-Logan’s-oranges fiasco.”

Tawny rolls her eyes. “Oh, screw him. He should be so lucky to have you sitting on his oranges.”

When I’m ready, Tawny leads us back out to wipe down the stack of dirty menus at the front counter. I’m scrubbing a dubious stain on the dessert section when I notice the picture of Belgian waffles. Noah’s favorite. I feel a pinch in my heart, like I always do, at just the memory of his name.

Perfect, beautiful, heart-gouging Noah.

“Stop thinking about him.” Tawny cuts into my thoughts. That’s the problem with having Tawny as a best friend: She can read my mind.

“I wasn’t,” I lie.

“You sighed no less than three times this past minute.” Tawny tosses another wiped menu on the clean pile. “You really need better taste in men, Riv.”

“You’re one to talk, you know.” I raise a brow at her. “At least I didn’t carry a torch for the world’s douchiest prom king.”

“How dare you.” Tawny playfully smacks me with a plastic menu. “I didn’t carry a torch. It was more of a match. Besides, that was back when I was young and foolish.”

“That was five months ago,” I say, deadpan.

Tawny tosses her ponytail to brush playfully against my face. “Like I said. Young and foolish.”

I pick up another menu and pick at a dried piece of yolk on the corner. “You know, if you had just asked him out, he would have said yes.”

There’s no way he wouldn’t have. She’s gorgeous, with blond hair that she’s constantly dyeing different colors, hazel eyes, and a heart-shaped face. Tawny’s not just beautiful; she’s charming in a way that sneaks under your skin and pulls you firmly into her orbit.

If there is one bit of luck in my life, she’s it, thanks to whatever scheduling god seated her next to me in Spanish class sophomore year. She was new that year, but somehow she ended up taking me under her wing, as if she were the one who’d been there all along. Other than Tita Anna, she’s the closest thing I have to family now.

“Please.” Tawny flicks a dismissive hand in the air. “Matt’s old news, baby. I saw on Insta that he showed up to graduation completely blitzed, and when he walked, or should I say stumbled, across the stage, he tried to go to the podium to give a speech.”

“Whoa.” I blink. “What was his speech?”

“I think he just yelled, ‘Roll tide!’ over and over.” Tawny shrugs. “See? Bullet dodged.”

My laughter dies down, and I fall quiet. “Sorry you missed the live show. Sorry you missed the whole thing,” I say in a low voice. I can feel the painful pressure from earlier come back, rising in my chest.

I couldn’t stomach walking in graduation, not when neither of my parents would be in the audience watching me. In solidarity, Tawny had spent the day at the movie theater with me, hopping from one showing to the next, buying me popcorn and Sour Patch Kids, handing me tissue after tissue, all without ever making me feel like I was a mess.

“Hey. Hey.” Tawny gives me an earnest look, brows furrowed. “Don’t you dare apologize. My place is by your side. Always.” She reaches out, squeezes my arm.

“Besides, Mom wasn’t gonna be there anyway. Berlin, that time. They had her working ten days in a row.” She shrugs. “I can’t imagine…just flying nonstop across the ocean. Back and forth, back and forth. What an exercise in futility.”

Tawny’s mom is a flight attendant. A busy one. Constantly taking overtime and extra shifts to make life as a single mom work. She’s almost never home. It makes my heart ache for Tawny, though she tells me to save my pity for someone else. As far as she’s concerned, the arrangement works out just great. Minimal supervision means she can live her life how she wants to without constant fights. “I swear we love each other more because we see each other less,” she always says.

Well, used to say. She’s careful never to say anything like that around me these days.

Logan passes us, carrying a stack of menus, his blue eyes piercing. “You’ve got a table, Santos. Three waters and a Coke.”

“Oh,” I start. “Thanks, Logan. You didn’t have to…”

But he’s not even listening, his back already to me, and I hate myself just a little bit for registering the muscles moving beneath his T-shirt, the way his jeans fit perfectly.

Shaking myself out of it before Tawny can notice this too and chide me, I go take my table’s orders, apologizing profusely for keeping them waiting. They’re incredibly kind and end up leaving a generous tip. I clutch the folded bills in my hand, my heart pumping faster. And I wonder, as I always do:

Was it them? Could they have been the anonymous donors?

It’s a game I find myself playing nearly every day. But every lead I’ve chased for the last six months has been a dead end. Ex-players of my dad’s who are now playing professionally. Members of his AA group. A secretly wealthy family member. I even checked with GoFundMe. No, no, no, and that goes against our policy.

“Not them,” Tawny singsongs as she sweeps by, watching me staring dazedly at my tip.

And there’s that pesky mind reading again. I quickly shove the bills in my pocket. “How do you know?”

She shrugs. “I mean, I don’t. But, Riv, we’ve been over this. Why does it even matter who gave it? Money is money.”

Part of me knows she’s right, but the bigger part of me can’t set aside the mystery. It feels like one more loose thread in my ever-unraveling life. And it feels different, somehow, from accepting the random twenty here and there. Two million dollars from one person? Who has that kind of money, and who would give it to me without expecting so much as a thank-you?

For the next hour, though, I’m blissfully busy and have no choice but to set that mystery aside. Tawny and I bob and weave around each other like figure skaters on a black-and-white-checkered floor. It’s a synchronicity that comes from waiting tables here at Gertie’s since I was fifteen and my coworker being my very best friend.

“Table six needed more ketchup. I brought them a bottle,” Tawny says as she ducks under my tray full of iced teas.

“Saw that you got Mrs. Lewis. I dropped off her extra ranch,” I say, hanging the next ticket in the kitchen.

A few times, I swear I feel Logan watching me, but every time I look up, he’s absorbed in an order or ringing up someone’s tab. Miracle of miracles, I don’t have any more embarrassing meltdowns in front of him, and by the time we’ve grabbed our bags from the lockers and clocked out, Tawny’s sufficiently cheered me up.

When we walk out the back door, we hear a low, raspy meow. A large, scruffy tabby cat rounds the corner, twitching a crooked tail.

“Tigery!” I gush, stooping to scratch behind his ears.

It’s taken patience and a lot of Gertie’s chicken, but the wary stray cat that’s lived behind the diner has finally let me love on him. Tigery’s been a huge comfort in the days since the fire. As soon as I get a place that allows pets, I’ll pamper him with feather beds and spoon-fed caviar like he’s a feeble princeling.

“You always sound like you’re reuniting with your long-lost husband after decades apart,” Tawny muses. “You saw him this morning.”

“Well, maybe a few hours is a decade in cat years. And I don’t know, Tawn. As far as husbands go…I feel like I could do a lot worse than Tigery.”

Tigery flops on the concrete and stretches out his paws.

“River,” Tawny says, “we are not in marrying-our-cat territory yet. Okay? And I don’t think it will ever come to that.” Tigery slaps his tail on the concrete, as if in agreement.

“Thank you both for the vote of confidence,” I say.

After another scratch or two, Tigery is sated and trots off into the shade. I stand, brushing dirt from my legs.

“Thanks for today,” I say, giving Tawny a hug. “Love you so much.”

“Duh,” she says, kissing my cheek. “Love you more.”

I walk back to my car, feeling good—happy even. But as soon as I slam the door shut, silence envelops me, an assassin I should have seen coming. The Arizona June heat is already choking me and making the side mirror sag, the duct tape holding it in place softening in the sun. And with no Tawny, no murmur of customer voices, no ding of the diner door, it all comes back.

The thing that is always lurking, the thing that, for blissful short slivers of the day, I sometimes forget. It comes up right now, all of it, from the basement of my heart:

My mom is gone. My dad is dead. And my life will never be the same.