Page 15 of All Your Life

Tiny finally pipes up with, “I’ll have the same,” but when I turn to leave she adds in a small voice, “Can you please ask them to hold the bun?” And just like that, she ruins it. I decide that Tiny is just like the rest of them: diet-obsessed, vapid and ridiculous.

At least she didn’t ask me to hand-wrap her burger in lettuce leaves. Yes, that’s a regular occurrence around here. So much so that the chicken avocado club can be ordered asstandard, meaning on toasted artisanal multigrain bread, or you can have itdeconstructed. I want to hurl every time some prissy bitch orders it that way.

And just when I’m getting ready to write her off, her father says, “Honey, did you ever ask if they have unseeded buns? They might. Or maybe the cook can stick it in a wrap or something.”

And now I’m feeling all tender and sappy. “You have an allergy?”

She nods like she’s ashamed of the fact. “Sesame seeds.”

“Let me ask the chef. I’ll be right back.”

On my way back to the kitchen I’m asking myself,What the hell is wrong with you?but that doesn’t stop me from pleading her case to the new guy manning the grill. “She’s allergic to seeds,” I tell him when he rolls his eyes.

“All of these spoiled brats are allergic tosomething. Peanuts, wheat, strawberries...Who the fuck is allergic to strawberries?”

”Yeah, that’s actually a thing.” I don’t know why I feel the need to school him. “So, you got a bun without seeds?”

“Maybe I was allergic when I was kid. Yeah, to wheat, peanutsandstrawberries. Wanna know what my mom woulda packed in my lunchbox? Fucking peanut butter sandwich with strawberry jelly on wheat bread, that’s what. These kids are all pussies today.”

The guy is spouting off as if he commando-crawled across the beaches at Normandy, when I’d estimate he’s pushing no more than thirty. He is a Gen-X, fellow pussy, but pointing that out would take even more time. “About that bun?”

“I can stick it in a pita. Good enough?”

“Perfect. Two burgers, cheese, medium. One in a pita. Thanks.”

I avoid their table, and she doesn’t wave me over to further inquire about the great bun dilemma. I only have two other tables, so I’m not exactly busy. Occasionally I look their way, and it’s easy to see that she has a good relationship with her dad. I’m genuinely happy for her. She doesn’t seem tough enough to live on my side of the tracks, and I’d never wish it on anyone, let alone her.

I know more about her than I let on. I know more than her name, that’s for sure.

I know she talks to her horse like he’s her best friend, just as I know that for some reason, I don’t find it the least bit weird. I know she’s smart. I snuck a look in her bag and every book was for an advanced class. Biomechanics, calculus, foreign policy—she’s not looking to breeze through her senior year. As I grab their order from the kitchen, I remind myself that I know she has allergies, and as I place their plates on the table, I remind myself of what she doesn’t know about her life that I do.

I know she’s dating an absolute douchebag, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’s boning someone else on the side.

“Oh, thanks!”

She seems delighted when I place the burger down in front of her, so I give her a gruff, “No big deal,” so she doesn’t go thinking I’m a nice person, or that I care about her in the least. Because I don’t care about her.

Not one bit.

Chapter Ten

SARAH

Last Saturday my parents threw a lavish surprise eighteenth birthday party for me at the club.

I’m not big on surprises.

And it wasquitethe surprise, being that my birthday is in August. Yep, three full months away.

My mother gave me a glass of champagne the second we walked into the room packed with family, my parents’ closest friends, and every member of my graduating class. Parker told me later on that I looked horrified when everyone screamedSurprise!so I guess I did need those two, three, four glasses of bubbly?

I had fun after the shock wore off, I think. I was definitely tipsy, but still with it enough to know that I was laughing loudly, hamming it up for the photographer with my friends, and dancing to every single song. In short, I was not acting like myself.

I do remember feeling irrationally alarmed when I looked across the room and saw a big, brooding member of the waitstaff with his eyes fixed on me right at the very moment when Parker picked me up and squeezed me tight.

Looking into my teacup the next morning, I’m wondering if the fragile thread we’ve been weaving between the two of us still exists.

Liam and I aren’t friends. No, I definitely wouldn’t go that far. But since that day he waited on me and my dad at the club, he’s lightened up. He’s now in the habit of cracking a smile when I walk into the stable, and—wait for it—we actually say hello to one another. Once in a blue moon we even make polite conversation. There’s no deep dive, we’re not braiding each other’s hair or anything, but there is—or was—something changing for the better.

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