We Did

Chapter Fourteen

a/n: This chapter has been edited [1]. 

My eyes still feel stiff. Blue Eyeshadow bids us goodbye, and I can tell she's wondering what's wrong with my eyes. I try not to look at her.

While Isaac drives, I rummage through his glove compartment before my fingers find what they're looking for: a pen. I smooth out Mila's list on the dashboard, leaning over to strike a shaky, thin line through Number Ten. Two have already been settled, by my doing. This can happen, if I will it to. The list can be completed. Mila will be complete, the way she should have been.

"Can we stop by to eat somewhere? I'm starving and it's still early," Isaac says. 

I look out the window, pointing to the highway sign indicating a pit stop diner called Wavy Burgers at the next exit. He nods, preparing his signal. The parking lot is practically empty when we pull in, holding only a single blue minivan with a puka shell necklace hanging from the rearview mirror. Wavy Burgers seems small and quaint, a clearly stark contrast from all the other sights in Westmoreland.

"Should I Yelp this?" Isaac asks. I shake my head.

"We'll find out if I run to the bathroom after the first bite." He stares at me. "I'm joking."

"I know. I just haven't heard you crack a joke in awhile."

I shrug my shoulders, not responding. The door of the diner plays the tune of the first verse of Somewhere Over the Rainbow when we open it. The air is fragrant, smelling heavily of lemon and chicken. The sound of sizzling oil in a frier can be heard from the back of the kitchen, which is only hidden by a thick plastic sheet, not even a door. There are no booths, just five neon yellow tables with white pull-out chairs, the kind that you can fold and tuck away in the space between your refrigerator and a wall. But otherwise, the place is completely tidy, with not a single smudge on a surface in sight. Isaac shoots me a wary glance, but pulls out his wallet regardless. Hunger is the strongest calling, so I can't blame him.

We wait for a full five minutes before a heavy man with dyed orange hair emerges from the kitchen. The plastic sheet slaps against the sides of the wall once he walks through it. It's not his alarmingly wide, too white-teeth smile that throws me off. It's the fact that just below the right sleeve of his T-shirt is a long scar, and then a rounded nub where the remainder of his arm should be. My neck snaps towards Isaac, who is staring at the man's arm-- or rather, the lack of one-- as well before clearing his throat.

"Hello," Isaac says. I look up at him and his smile seems strained.

"Hi," the man replies. His voice is low and smooth, like an ocean wave rolling onto the shore. The man glances at Isaac's head. "That's some bright red hair you got there. Is it real?"

"My mom says it is."

The man laughs, a loud, hearty one. He turns to me. "And you're quite the small thing, aren't you?"

Usually when people say this to me, and they have, my shoulders slump and my arms shrink in, folding over my chest. But his mischievous tone lets me know that he means no harm. "The doctor says there's room for growth," I say.

The man lets out another thunderous chuckle. It's contagious, I find myself grinning in return. "What can I get you two youngsters?"

I look up at the menu. The dishes have been written on a blackboard in several different shades of chalk. The handwriting is large and loopy, like my own in the Second Grade.

"Got my daughter to write those," the man says, as if he read my mind.

"She has good penmanship," I say.