Page 1 of Castaway Whirlwind
Chapter 1
Layla
I grab the formica countertop to pull myself off the linoleum floor, my hand shaking when I reach for the five-hundred-count bottle of over-the-counter pain meds to pop another pill on an empty stomach, nothing left inside me after the nausea from my period cramps had me bending over the toilet bowl all night. Lightheaded and body slick with sweat, I carefully climb into the bathtub after turning the shower on, hoping I don’t wake Steven before his alarm goes off in thirty minutes.
No such luck. My fiancé’s lips are pressed thin when he slides the clear plastic shower liner open. “Really, Lady? You couldn’t wait until I woke up before making all this noise? At least let me shower first before you use up all the damn hot water.” Steven looks like he’s going to be sick when his eyes drop to my inner thighs, where my blood is trickling down. I flinch when he says, “Fuck, that’s nasty,” before he pulls the curtain closed and leaves the bathroom.
His disgust, snapped curse, and the deliberate use of the condescending nickname I hate hurt almost as much as my cramps, and I try not to cry as I wet a washcloth, pressing itto my lower belly, absorbing the heat while I wash my hair one-handed.
In the seven years we’ve been together, he’s followed a pattern. For three weeks out of four, things are good between us, and I’m reminded all over again why I first fell in love with him when I was just fifteen years old. But he mostly avoids me for that one week every month, staying out late with his friends. I just keep thinking that, hopefully, eventually, it’ll no longer be an issue because I’m scared we’ll be doing this same song and dance for the next fifty years.
Steven pounds on the bathroom door a few minutes later, reminding me he needs to shower before work. I finish fast, leaving the hot water running so he can jump in after stripping out of his black boxers. While I get dressed for my first day at my new job, I pray the meds will kick in soon, though I know they will hardly touch the pain. Nothing does.
After the last two restaurants fired me for calling in sick too many times when my cramps would sometimes leave me crying on the bathroom floor, unable to stand and go to work, I was lucky enough to land a waitressing job at Granny’s Diner—an unsuspecting gray double-wide trailer out in the middle of nowhere serving the best pancakes in all of Texas. Harold, the manager, didn’t seem phased by my hopping from job to job at twenty-two years old, saying that the owner, only known asGranny, has a soft spot for women in tough situations.
I was so grateful for the job offer—a steady source of income that will allow me to save up and go back to school to finish my bachelor’s degree—that I had nearly leaped over the desk to hug the salt-and-pepper-haired older man. He had thrown his hands up in the air so as not to touch me, certifying that he wasn’t a creep like a few of my old bosses had been.
After his shower, Steven walks through our small bedroom and past me without a word in his white T-shirt and stained work jeans, towel drying his short, black hair while I button up my uniform—a pink dress that’s too tight in the chest and ends just above my knees, a white apron that ties around my waist, and brand-new white non-slip sneakers.
Unexpectedly, he walks back in, his handsome face freshly shaved. He frowns at my uniform but lowers his hand around my back to pull me in for a kiss. “Have a good first day, Layla.” He kisses me again, and I melt into his tall, lean, sculpted body, sliding my arms over his shoulders. This is the gorgeous hazel-eyed man I fell in love with, his lips warm and familiar. “I was thinking we should celebrate your new job tonight. Get a few beers with the guys. Throw some darts.”
“Yeah, that sounds fun, but I don’t know how I’ll feel…physically…after my shift.” What I mean is I don’t know if my cramps will ramp up after being on my feet for half the day, but I can’t say that without him looking sick again at the mention of my period.
“That’s ok.” Steven swipes his thumb across my lower lip and ruins the sweet moment by saying, “You can make it up to me by showing me what that mouth can do.” He leaves with a wink and without an apology for his earlier behavior. The front screen door slaps closed, his sports car roaring obnoxiously loud outside a minute later.
After pulling on black bike shorts beneath my uniform, I attempt to paint some life onto my face with makeup. I’m heavy-handed with my concealer and black eyeliner after dousing my dark brown, bloodshot eyes with eye drops.
My phone alarm chimes just as I finish drying and pulling back my medium-length curly brown hair into a pink claw clip,leaving a few short pieces in front to frame my face. I took off my engagement ring before getting in the shower, and there’s a rock in my stomach when I slide it onto my finger. Though Steven proposed to me on my eighteenth birthday, we’ve yet to plan the wedding, some kind of emergency always popping up to push it back.
If I were the superstitious kind, like my mom, I’d take it as a sign. But I’m nothing like her. I’ve made sure of it.
I leave the one-story blue clapboard house with my best friend—my microwavable rice-filled heating pad—laying it across my lap while I pray my car will start. It takes a few tries, but eventually, the engine rumbles to life, a belt that needs replacing squealing as soon as I put the car in reverse to back out of the driveway. It’s a quiet, twenty-minute commute to the diner at five-thirty in the morning, the four-lane streets narrowing to two, and the trees growing denser the closer I get to the twenty-four-hour diner.
Even though it’s an hour from sunrise, the unpaved gravel parking lot is packed with muddy pickup trucks and a few beaters like mine, the patrons inside hungry for hearty hot meals before they head to work. I squeeze my little sedan between a massive white dually with six wheels and a vintage cherry-red F150, then regrettably have to leave my hot heating pad behind after grabbing my zipped-up canvas tote bag. I’ve packed it with extra medication, a tube of concealer, eye drops, pads and tampons, and another pair of bike shorts just in case.
Having forgotten my sweatshirt when I left the house, goosebumps prick my arms in the chilly spring air. Opening the aluminum front door beneath a small banner that simply says GRANNY’S, I’m immediately blasted with welcoming maple-syrup-scented heat…and also an audience when a group of older men who look to be retirement age, fighting for the remaining available bar stools at the wide silvertop counter across from the door, all swivel their heads in my direction.
“New waitress!” one yells, looking from side to side, his tan face pocked with sun spots after possibly a lifetime of working outside. The guys break into a hard-to-follow conversation, considering I have no idea what they’re talking about, even if it does, somehow, involve me.
Another, with a bushy gray mustache and a fast smile, says, “Alright, place your bets now.” He pulls a mini spiral notebook and golf pencil from the pocket of his thick gray flannel overshirt, flipping past sheets filled with numbers and names to a blank page.
“Put me down for twenty on Wyatt, Pete,” one says, looking me up and down, more speculative than lecherous.
The man next to him, with skin that’s more freckles than anything else, claps his shoulder. “You need to go back to the memory doc, Mickey. Wyatt’s got Miss Dolly.”
“Argh.” Mickey scratches his nearly bald head. “Ok, how ‘bout Jared?”
“Geez, Mickey. He’s got Miss Violet.”
“Dagnabbit. Who else is at BT?”
“Put me down for forty on Davis,” the youngest of the group with a deep brown face beneath short silver curls says.
“Nah, Freddy. He’s got his dad to worry about,” Pete says, tapping the tip of his pencil against the notebook.
“I call dibs on Elliott. A hundred bucks,” another says, his skin crinkled at the corners of his extra-rich dark brown eyes. The whole group laughs after turning as one to look to my left. I follow their gaze after I step further into the diner, lettingthe door close behind me to keep the heat in.
Four big, gruff-looking men sit at a table piled high with dishes along the back wall. The oldest, with a thick head and beard of silvery gray hair, looks like he’d rather be anywhere than here when he grunts and shovels eggs into his mouth.
