Show Me How (3 page)

My eyes caught the back of a slender blonde waiting on a table a few booths away, and dipped down over her subtle curves as I followed my friends to our usual booth.

Then again . . . if it brought in girls who looked like this, I would never complain that Mama hired ­people.

I slid into the booth, but still had only managed to see the back of the new girl before she was out of my sight.

“New waitress,” I mumbled to Graham, and started to lay claim on her in case she looked as good from the front, when he spoke.

“Oh yeah! Wait, you didn't know?”

I leaned away from him, surprised that he knew something about the café that I didn't. “No. And how the hell did you know? You been coming here in the mornings without me?”

Graham's face fell. “First, you sound like a jealous girlfriend. Second, no. Thir—­hey!”

Knox and Harlow echoed Graham's greeting, and I turned to see who they were talking to—­and immediately regretted it.

My gaze narrowed on the blond girl standing next to our table, just a foot away from me, holding a pad of paper and a pen.

This had to be a fucking joke.

My gaze quickly dipped over her body to confirm that she was in fact the girl I had just been checking out, before slowly sliding up to her face again. She was avoiding looking at me. Not like that was new.

She avoided anyone's eyes if she could.

But this was different. She knew it. I knew it.

And I wanted her gone.

“Charlie,” I said through gritted teeth.

Her blue eyes darted to me and away so fast that I would have missed it if I had blinked.

“Uh, hey everyone,” she said softly, her discomfort forcing a short huff from my chest.

“Grey said you were working here now. How's your first week been?”

Charlie glanced to Graham, and the corners of her mouth pulled into a shaky smile. “It's only been a few days, but it's been good.” She cleared her throat and inched away from me, toward Knox. “What can I get you guys?”

I didn't stop glaring at her the entire time my friends gave their orders, and loved that she looked more and more uncomfortable with each order. When it came time for me, I finally looked away and said, “Mama knows what I want.”

I didn't have to be looking at her to know her body had gone still. I could feel it. After a few seconds, she whispered, “Um . . .”

I glanced back up and raised an eyebrow. “This is usually the part where waitresses leave.”

“Deacon,” Knox rumbled in disapproval.

Graham smacked my arm and said, “Dude, what the hell?”

When I didn't add anything, Knox said, “He wants what Graham's having, Charlie. Thank you.” He waited until Charlie was out of the dining area, and in the kitchen before he shoved his foot into my leg. “What Graham said: What the hell?”

“What?”

My friends scoffed, but Harlow just looked around at us as she took in what was happening. She didn't know Charlie well enough to defend her. She didn't know what I knew.

“Don't act like you don't know what we're talking about,” Graham hissed. “What'd Charlie ever do to you?”

Of all of us, I was surprised that Graham didn't share my feelings.

Before I could respond, Harlow asked, “Did you try to sleep with her?”

Graham's face fell, and mine twisted in disgust.

“Deacon, you didn't . . .” Graham trailed off. “What'd you do?”

“What did
I
do?” I said with a laugh, and shook my head as I sat back in the booth. “Nothing. And, no, I didn't try to sleep with Charlie.” Graham kicked at my leg twice, but I continued. “I wouldn't touch her even if she was in my bed and begging.”

The silence that followed my statement felt thick, and I knew before I turned my head that she had come back.

Sure enough, when I looked to my right, Charlie was standing there holding our drinks. She wasn't looking at me, or anyone, just staring at a spot on the table as crimson stained her cheeks.

My stomach dropped and guilt tore through me, but only for a moment before I was able to lock on to my disgust again. She had hurt one of ­people I loved most in this world. It was about time she hurt too.

She licked nervously at her bottom lip, and had to attempt to speak twice before there was any sound behind the words. “Mama already had your drinks waiting,” she explained, but stood still for a few more seconds before she hurried to place the drinks on the table.

“You're an asshole,” Knox growled when Charlie left.

Graham was running a hand over his face, and shaking his head slowly. “Get out,” he demanded.

“I'm not gonna apologize.”

“No shit,” he bit back immediately, but he still looked disappointed in my response. “But someone has to for you, and someone needs to make sure she's okay.”

“Why?”

Graham's frustration was palpable. “Because it's fucking Charlie, that's why. Now move.”

I let him out of the booth, and started to sit back down as he stalked off, but stopped. “Forget it. I'm not hungry.” I pulled out my wallet and tossed a ten on the table. “Tell Graham I walked home. See you two later.”

I didn't expect a response from them, and didn't wait for one. I just turned and walked out, ignoring my best friend on my way out as he spoke quietly to the girl I never wanted to see again.

 

Chapter Three

Charlie

May 30, 2016

J
AGGER SIGHED FOR
the fifth time in as many minutes, and turned his green-­eyed stare to me from the driver's seat of my car. He didn't say anything, just gave me “the look.” The one I had seen so often growing up with him. The one that meant he was about to switch from my big brother to my parent.

When he didn't say anything, I closed my book and set it down, then relaxed against the side of the warehouse. “Well?”

A dejected laugh fell from his mouth, and he lifted his hands before letting them fall to his lap in defeat. “I don't know what you want me to say. I don't know what's wrong with your car—­I know nothing about cars.”

My shoulders sagged a little.

“Take it to the mechanic, or better yet—­”

“Here we go,” I murmured.

“—­go buy a new car.”

“Jag . . .”

“You can't have a car that doesn't work half the time, Charlie. Especially not now that you're back here and will be driving Keith more. What if you go somewhere with him, and then get stuck?”

“I'll call you?”

His face went void of any emotion. “Charlie. Look, I know I didn't let you touch your money until you turned eighteen, but you've had access to it for four years now—­that's plenty of time to get your own car. A
reliable
car.”

“It just seems like a waste when I have a car already!”

“Again,” he began with a laugh, “a car that only works half the time! This car wasn't exactly new when Grandma left it to you, and then it sat there for years until you were old enough for it.” When I started to defend myself and the car again, he cut me off. “You know I wouldn't tell you to spend the money on something like this if I didn't think it was necessary, but it's necessary. It's
been
necessary. You have the money—­” He cut off quickly, and his eyebrows drew together. “You do still have your money, right?”

“I'm not Mom,” I bit out, and Jagger's face softened.

“I didn't mean it like that. You know I didn't.”

I released a weighted breath, my head shook as I tried to push away the initial hurt and anger at his question. “Yeah, I do. Other than school and that apartment in Walla Walla, I've only started a college account for Keith.”

He nodded in acknowledgement. What I'd said wasn't news to him. “Then go buy a car. Something Keith can grow into, and you can have for a long time. All right?”

I lifted a shoulder and started to say I'd think about it, but stopped abruptly at Jagger's next demand.

“Until then, take this thing to the mechanic the next time it starts.”

That
was something I definitely would not be doing. “I'm sure it'll be fine without that.” Before he could respond, I grabbed my book and stood, then took a step toward the front door of the warehouse. “I need to go if I'm walking to work.”

Jagger looked like he was going to argue about the mechanic, but decided against it. “Take my car today. Keys are on the hook inside.”

“Thanks, Jag,” I said quickly, and slipped back into the warehouse to grab my purse and his keys before he could find something else to argue with me about—­like how I should stop looking for my own place.

It felt like I didn't take a full breath until I was in his car and pulling out of the alleyway. I'd made it through another parental-­type lecture from Jagger; now if only I could make it through this shift without Mama's favorite person coming in to pin me with his cold stare.

Deacon

May 30, 2016

M
Y PHONE BEGAN
ringing just as I pulled into work. A glance at the screen had me hissing out a curse when I caught sight of the name.

I'd been expecting this call ever since I'd walked out of Mama's the morning before, and was surprised it had taken him this long to ream me. Or maybe I was surprised that she hadn't immediately run home to tell her brother about what I'd said.

I shut off my car, and took a steadying breath as I answered the call. “Yeah, Jagger?”

“You working today?”

My brow pinched when he didn't immediately begin laying into me, and I glanced up at the building in front of me. “Uh, yeah . . . just pulled in. Why?” I asked, drawing out the word.

“When you get a break today, can you do a favor for me?”

My initial surprise deepened when I realized Charlie hadn't mentioned anything about the day before as Jagger went on, but my frustration over her slowly filled my veins once the
favor
was laid out for me.

I opened my mouth to say no, but shut it and sighed through my nose.

Grey would kill me if I said no, and it would unnecessarily bring up a discussion with Jagger right then that I didn't want to have.

After a few seconds, I conceded. “Sure. Yeah, I'll be there.”

Charlie

May 30, 2016

Who listened to your
stories
sad songs

The shoulder that you cried on

Out on that cliff you walked on

When

I
RAPIDLY TAPPED
the edge of my pen against the pages of my notebook as all of the words in the world failed me.

“When . . .” I said under my breath. “When you . . . no.”

I let my eyes slide shut and imagined a simple melody, and tried to hear my words interwoven with the notes, but each time I stopped on that last word. Something felt off about what I had already written down, and I knew that when I fixed it, I would be able to go on.

My mom had always taken credit for my ability to sing and write poetry, which had turned into writing songs, just as she had taken credit for Jagger's amazing ability to draw—­as long as music was blasting nearby. Saying it was all because she'd named us after members from her favorite band, the Rolling Stones, and had had music playing nonstop while we were growing up.

Except she hadn't really been around while we were growing up, and—­as she chose to forget—­I spent most of my time reading novels, and would have preferred to have the ability to write them. But I'd never been able to figure out how to expand my dreams into something longer than the poems and songs that filled this notebook when inspiration hit.

And this song . . . these
words
were begging to get free, but my thoughts were scrambled after having locked that night with Ben away for years.

I ran through the words in my mind again and again. Just as I stopped my furious drumming on the paper to write down a few more words that had burst into my mind, the door to Mama's opened, and my break ended as the beginnings of the lunch rush came filing in. I hurried to get out of the booth and smiled timidly at the two groups of ­people. Grabbing a handful of menus, I led the first to my section at the back of the restaurant as the words I had worked so hard to unscramble slid from my mind.

It wasn't until I reached into the far left pocket of my waist apron for a check holder nearly an hour later that I realized why my apron had felt so odd since the lunch rush had begun.

My notebook wasn't in there.

I spun in a circle to face the front of the restaurant. Fear and embarrassment flooded me as I scanned the filled booths up there.

“Charlie.”

My head snapped up at the sound of my name, and I stared wide-­eyed at Wendy, another waitress, as she looked me over, plates of food balanced precariously along her arm.

“You okay?” she asked.

“What?”

Her eyes darted over my face quickly again, her eyebrows pulled together. “Are you okay? You're just staring off with a check in your hand. Did a table run out on you?”

“No! No, nothing like that. I just . . . I just realized that I left my notebook at one of the booths in your section.” Before I could tell her that it contained words that were somewhat personal, her eyes lit up with acknowledgement.

“Is it brown, soft leather?”

“Yes!” I said in relief.

“Well, whoever found it left it on the desk up front. I just saw it there when I went to grab menus to seat a ­couple. I put it in the cabinet up there.”

“Thanks, Wendy.” My voice still ached with the relief I felt, but the thought that someone had possibly read my words had my cheeks darkening from my embarrassment.

I hurried to take the check to my waiting table, then rushed into the kitchen to grab another's food as I tried to force unwanted thoughts from my mind.

But throughout the rest of my shift, all I could think about was that someone had held my notebook; had seen my words. Even Jagger knew not to touch my notebook or ask to see what I wrote in there. And I wondered what the stranger, or strangers, had thought. Had they mocked my darkest dreams and deepest thoughts? Had they been immature and destroyed them? Had they torn the ink-­filled pages out to be hateful?

Each pass to the front desk to seat newcomers left me itching to grab the notebook from the cabinet, but I'd known I wouldn't be able to stop myself from inspecting the pages right then instead of doing my job.

It was a long three hours.

As soon as I clocked out, I nearly ran to the front. Dread filled me and my hands shook as I finally opened the cabinet, and I dropped to my knees to reach in and rip my notebook from its depths.

After wasting only half a second to run my hand over the cover, I opened my notebook and quickly scanned each page. My worry lessened with each piece of paper that slid beneath the tips of my fingers. A soft, nearly inaudible laugh bubbled from my throat when I got to the page I'd been working on during my break, and I started to shut the notebook when I realized what I'd just seen.

A different-­colored pen.

More words crossed out. More added.

A note on the side of the page in a messy, masculine scrawl that most definitely did not belong to me.

Who listen
ed
s to your
stories
sad songs

The shoulder that you
cried
cry
on

Out on that
cliff
ledge
you walk
ed
on

When

The note on the side read:

Right . . . so I don't know you, but I'm now fucking terrified for you. If I had the time, I'd wait to see who showed up looking for this journal. I changed some words because I want you to know that I'm
here listening to you. And “cliff” sounded so final. Don't let whatever you're feeling be final. I'll be back. Will you hold on if you know I'm coming back for you?

I read the note again . . . and then again. Each time my brow pinched tighter. I glanced up at the few words I'd managed to get out during my break, then let my face fall into the pages of the notebook as a groan escaped me.

I sat down right there, behind the greeter's desk of Mama's Café, and rewrote the small part I already had, and added the words that were now flowing to my fingers because of the smallest change this stranger had made.

Who listens to your sad songs

The shoulder that you cry on

Out on that ledge you walk on

When you're sinking

Who
knows your
keeps your secrets locked up

When
I'm
there's no one you can trust

I know it's much more than just wishful thinking

Just say the words and I'll be there

The last line I threw in because of the stranger's note, and smiled to myself at the words. Then below their note, I wrote my own response:

I'm sorry if I scared you, but I'm not suicidal. (I believe that's what you were thinking?)
This is actually about a pseudo-­relationship with a guy. I appreciate your words, and I believe anyone who had been thinking of ending their life would have loved receiving your note. As much as I want to know who this heroic stranger is, I need to get home. However, I will leave this here in hopes that you find it, and that it gives you peace of mind.

I stood and placed my notebook on top of the desk with a note below asking for the notebook to be left there. Then, despite the way my body rebelled at the action, I forced myself to walk away from my notebook and out of Mama's Café.