Carter Ortese is Trouble - completed (The Boys #1)

Chapter 29: Carter

Focus on work, I tell myself. I'm trying to chase the image of Emma's hollowed-out eye out of my brain, but I keep replaying the day over and over again. I should have gone after her. I should have been there for her. I should have done something, anything other than stand there. I need to know what's going on, but I can't use my phone on the floor.

I polish a fork for the tenth time. It's a slow night, which means I'm on polish duty.

"Carter?" Celia's voice sounds out from behind me, hitting my thoughts and shattering them.

"Hey, sorry." I drop the fork into the finished pile and start on the last of the utensils. Only ten more to go, and then I need to wrap them in cloth napkins. The fine dining experience everyone wants, where a teenager polishes utensils for patrons to shove food into their mouths. "I'm having a rough day."

"I can tell." She comes up beside me and grabs a cloth, helping me polish the last few. "What's going on with you?"

I let out a breath. Talking to Celia about this feels like a betrayal to Des somehow, like he should be my friend first, but he's not working tonight and she is. "Something's going on with Emma, and I haven't figured it out."

"Emma, the girlfriend?"

"Yeah, Emma, the girlfriend." I leave out the detail that Emma and I haven't said as much, but it feels right.

"Hmm." She tosses a knife into the finished bin and takes up another. It clinks against the rest of them.

There's three seated tables in the restaurant, and three of us on tonight, so once my side tasks get done, I'm cut. Consequently, if I leave sooner, I make less money, so I'm not in a hurry. Which is exactly why Celia is helping me polish utensils. She wants me to go home.

"Is it something you did?"

"What? No." I think this over for a second. "I don't think so?"

Celia chuckles. She gives me a sideways glance and a half-smile. "If you are asking that, then she probably isn't mad at you. Whatever it is, I'm sure she'll talk to you when she's ready."

I frown, glancing at Celia. Her smile is a bit off-kilter, giving her a perpetually cocky appearance. "Yeah, but I didn't do anything to help her either." Guilt coils in my gut. I should have gone after her. The thought swirls around me, distracting me from the task at hand, again.

"Why don't you go home early?"

"I already am going home early."

She takes the fork out of my hand and puts it down. She rests her hand on my arm, pulling me out of my thoughts and into the present moment. Celia is typically fierce, no nonsense, and strict, but right now, her eyes hold only understanding and sadness. "Listen, kiddo—"

"I'm not much younger than you."

"If I knew how much leaving high school would have changed me, I wouldn't have fussed over half the things I did. I wouldn't have cared about the guy that broke my heart or the few times people said mean things behind my back. I would have lifted my chin and said screw them all."

"What does this have to do with me?"

"High school relationships are ... How do I say this?"

"Don't," I groan, because I'm not stupid. I know where she's going with this. It's what every adult says, and she's not twenty years old yet.

"They matter and they don't. Okay? They make up a huge part of who you become, but they are all blips." She tilts her head and purses her lips, as if she's spoken some sage wisdom. I glare at her, so she adds, "And I'm sure if Emma hasn't said anything to you directly, whatever is happening is something personal and has nothing to do with you. Sometimes, it's not about you."

I tap my foot. Sometimes it is, though. A part of me thinks that by our dating, I've somehow made her life worse, more complicated. "She's just seemed ... I don't know, Celia, different? Since we started dating anyway."

Celia shrugs. "Sometimes that happens. Whatever she's going through, I'm sure it's not your fault." She gives my arm a squeeze, and an apologetic smile appears on her lips. Something about that makes me feel like a little kid. "You're cut, Carter. Go home."

"I'm not finished—"

"You're cut." Her serious face slips back into place, like a mask going down right before they drop the curtain to a play. "Go home."

I nod, because there's no arguing with her. She's said it, so it's become law. I take off my serving belt and stuff it into the small employee locker. I grab my small amount of cash tips and take off toward the bus stop. I don't stop, don't say goodbye, and don't look back.

The way Emma's face looked, her expression, said everything I needed to know and more. She needed something from me, something I hadn't been able to give her. For a second, I think about going to her house. It's a little after seven o'clock, but I know her parents would be home. They'd ask a million questions, and probably seeing someone like me show up would only make things worse for Emma.

Once the bus pulls up and I settle into a far back seat, I pull out my phone and send her a quick text. I'm here if you need to talk. The streetlights come on outside, and the bus takes me back toward my house. Stop after stop comes and goes, and my phone stays silent.

Next stop, I could get off. I could walk the last half mile to Emma's house. I could say that to her in real life instead of sending her a lame text message. I could do a lot of things.

I check my phone once more. Nothing. The bus stops. I tap my foot, debating. Her parents would kill her. And then she'd probably want to kill me. I stay in my seat, but a part of my heart breaks as the bus continues on toward my home.

I text Des. Serious question. If the girl you like is acting weird and out of it, what's the best way to go about fixing it?

His text comes back almost instantly. Shit. You're asking me? Aren't you with Celia?

She wasn't any help. Besides, I'm cut.

I don't know, man. I have my own problems with girls.

Celia again?

Let's not talk about it.

I gaze at the last words, wondering what is going on with the two of them. They had been close, closer than anyone I knew in my life. Then, they split, called it quits, said they were friends, and Celia started seeing someone else. Supposedly. I had never seen the other guy in question.

I'm here if you need anything. I hit send only after realizing I said almost the same exact thing to Emma. A text is so impersonal. I really should have gone to her house. I count the rest of my tips. I would have enough money to get to her place, but not home. I press my eyes shut and bang my head against the window. The glass is cool on my forehead, and I let out a long breath. If Emma doesn't text me back, it's going to be a long night. I want—no, need—to talk to her.

- - - - -

Poor Carter. Never knowing what to say around the girl he gets so tongue-tied over.

Next up, Emma's chapter with the aftermath of that seriously ugly headache and more of her parents. Though, I promise, this conversation is different than the last.

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