Page 12 of Drawn Together
My ex-boyfriend's words filter through me in an unwanted flash. She’s just too much. Too loud. Never stops talking. Annoying. Pushy. Over the top. Maybe I am one of those things, or maybe I am all of them. And maybe, there’s a good chance that’s the exact reason that my attempts at friendships since moving here have been nonviable.
But then, my sister’s recent words echo above his: Have you tried to make friends with the ones already around you?
Have I? Really? I think back to it, and maybe I have talked a little too much to Lennon. Maybe sharing my preferred tampon brand and giving ten movie recommendations upon first meeting was ‘over the top’ and ‘too much.’ But maybe, that is the kind of person Lennon needs right now to pull her out of the sniffles coming from her door.
I toss the food on my plate in the fridge and walk around the corner. My knuckles wrap together, two quick knocks against the wood. “Hey, Lennon?”
She hums back in response, fragile and high-pitched, which only pushes me further.
“Do you, uh, want to go get breakfast somewhere with me?”
It’s silent for so long I almost go back for my breakfast in the fridge, but then at the last second—my bunny slippered-feet turning away—she responds, “Let me change.”
I smile to myself. I have second plans.
It takes her longer than I expected, but when Lennon leaves her room, there’s no evidence of previous tears beyond slightly smudged eyeliner and flushed cheeks.
“Do you know anywhere good?” I ask, once we leave the door, both running out so we don't get caught in the tide.
“I know a place.”
Hearing that, I should have known what to expect, given the bar the other night. However, when we pull up to the Backside Diner, which still has a smoking section, I am overly delighted. The waitresses are on skates, which is equally fun and exhausting to watch. This whole place is kind of like Hooters but with older women in very tiny shorts, the curve of their behinds on display—the backside in Backside Diner, if you will. I have to say, if my butt looked as good as some of these ladies’, I might do this after retirement, too. The menus are laminated, sticky, and feature breakfast cocktails with names like, I Like Big Buns and I Cannot Lie, and Fuzzy Navel. Every fifteen minutes, there is a dance party that involves a chef behind the counter flipping a pancake on someone's butt while they’re bent over. I thought it was just a waitress thing, but then a man decked out in full biker leathers happily leaned over and let a chocolate chip pancake fresh off the skittle hit his behind.
I wonder what they do when it’s your birthday.
Lennon orders a number seven, fried eggs over easy and three slices of toast that are—you guessed it—also in the shape of a butt. I go for the French toast sticks with strawberries. Our waitress, Diane, takes our silverware out of her skirt—a tad unsanitary for my liking—and sets our plates in front of us.
“My mom used to say you could tell a lot about someone by what they eat for breakfast.”
Lennon looks down from her plate to mine with a raised brow, like I might have insulted her, so I tack on, “I love fried eggs and toast!” like that is an actual compliment.
She takes her fork, breaking up the yolk so it runs across her plate, while I grab the syrup dispenser with a ceramic bikini bottom over the top.
Silence falls upon us as we scarf down our food, and while I am clawing at the cage in my mind telling me to not ask what Lennon’s friends did, I decide if I am going to pull this whole friendship thing off, I have to do it the right way. Pushing myself into her life hasn’t worked in the last few months. So, if it’s uncomfortable silence she wants at a butt diner, then that’s what we’re going to do.
I take it in. A cluster of Harley Davidson's line the front of the diner, and the window has a decal of a pancake flipping the bird. Mismatched memorabilia covers the walls, including vintage license plates, a sun-faded poster of Burt Reynolds, and a chalkboard labeling the week's backside-dedicated drinks. I stare in amazement as the older waiters and waitresses keep passing us with phrases on the butt of their micro shorts, like Hot Griddle or Over Easy. Our booth has a crack in the vinyl shaped suspiciously like Florida.
I kind of love it here.
I take a bite of my vanilla French toast when Lennon asks, very loudly might I add, “So, did you sleep with Fletcher?”
The half-chewed food on my tongue shoots to the back of my throat as I gasp, back straight, and fist hurling into my chest in an attempt to save my life. Our waitress looks up at me with minimal concern before turning back to the man trying to get her to refill his coffee for the sixth time since we sat down.
“I—I’m sorry?”
“He walked you home from trivia.”
“Well, he didn’t walk me home.” I try to make my breathing normal, and it’s not going well. A vision of Fletcher in a vulnerable position makes my skin tingly and my whole body shudder. “He walked to his home, which is coincidentally across the street,” I say, with a hint of Would you like to explain further?
She doesn’t. She skips right along.
“I wasn’t saying it in a judgmental way. Fletcher is nice to look at.”
I don't know if I have ever been so unbearably warm in my life. The orange juice I am shoveling down my throat is not helping either. “Well, definitely nothing happened there.”
“Just wondering.” Lennon shrugs and goes back to her food.
We eat mostly in silence beyond the dance parties—where I am almost convinced to get my own free pancake—the sounds of skates along ceramic tiles, and the distant chatter of the many filled tables around us. I take such large bites of my perfectly crunchy and somewhat soggy French toast sticks that Lennon gawks at me, and I have to send a friendly reminder to myself to slow down.
