Echo's POV
"Do you believe in love, O?" Hailey asks me as I swing slowly.
"Love?" She sits on the floor of the park, her hair braided in long box braids like they usually are. She told me she learned to do them herself because getting it done at a salon cost more than anyone was willing to pay for her. She is only fifteen, her mother would say. She doesn't need fancy hairstyles.
She nods. "Yeah, you know, love."
I shake my head. "Nah, I don't think so." There have been boys I found cute, but none I felt I ever loved or knew well enough to love.
Sitting in the park after school is what we've been doing ever since we were toddlers in daycare. When it was time for our parents to come pick us up, neither of them would come on time. Her parents, addicts, always forgot the time of dismissal, and my dad was always drunk and late. It happened day after day, so often even the staff would prepare to stay later in the day just to look after us two. They'd play with us as we run around the playground and give us snacks and make sure we were okay. Sometimes, our parents would completely forget to pick us up so the staff would drop us off individually when it became too late.
That's how we became friends. Call it a trauma bond: being left behind together.
"Do you love anyone?" I ask her back.
Seconds go by and she nods.
I raise my eyebrows and press my feet into the ground to stop myself from swinging. "Who. Tell me right now, Hailey."
She giggles. "You, ya' idiot!"
***
"Echo!" Greg calls out to me, snapping me out of the memory of Hailey. I clear my throat and look around, remembering that I'm at work, not sulking in my bed anymore. I cringe at the sudden pain and look down at my hand where it originates. I pull my hand out of the fist it sits in, my palms bleeding out of the crescent wounds again. I wipe it on the inside of my apron just before Greg walks up to me, wiping the sweat bulbs off his forehead with a rag. "What's going on with you?" He questions. "You've been distracted all day."
I shake my head. "Just a little tired, sorry."
"Today's a busy day; can't have you slackin' at the bar, sweat pee. You want to do tables instead and come back to 'tendering later?"
I set the glasses I'd been working on in front of the guys that paid for them and nodded. "Yes."
It's been a few days since I've been working at Happies and I take what I said back; it might be a source of income, but it doesn't block out those thoughts for long. In fact, sometimes, I find myself blanking out on the job thinking about Hailey and how much I missed having her around quite often or thinking about how when I get home, I question whether I should call that number back or not every night.
Grabbing my pen and notepad for taking down orders, I make my way to the diner part of the building just as a large group of guys walks in the front door. Immediately, their loud laughter and deep voices make curious heads turn only for a second. They don't look too old like most of the other men in this place, I'd assume they're all in their twenties at least. A wave of nervousness sets over me. Guys my age always made me uneasy to be around, especially when there was a group of them.
I can sense the judgment radiating from the group of four guys as they chose to sit in one of the booths.
I make it a mission to get to the last, doing all the other tables and bringing in their orders to the kitchen. Leaving the kitchen I run into Greg, "Doing okay so far?"
Pressing my lips into a thin line, my shoulder shrug, "I'm... doing my job." That is all I manage to put together. Sighing, I finally make my way to the table of guys.
"Finally, it's been like fifteen minutes," The guy in the far-left corner wearing a Yankees cap mutters to the guy across from him, causing both to laugh.
Dicks. What a surprise. "What can I get for you all."
The Yankee douche orders first. As I'm taking their orders, they seem to forget about my existence once I finish writing down what they want. They continue their conversation as if I weren't there.
I catch Yankee Hat saying, "I can't wait to move positions, I hate the whole talking people out of shooting themselves," He chuckles. "I mean if they don't want to do the shit then don't. why do you have to call someone?"
"Dude, exactly!" His friend beside him shouts. I pretend to be writing down an order.
"This girl told me she was feeling suicidal because her dog died. Why the fuck do you want to take your life because a fucking animal died, are you serious?"
I swallow. They must work for some sort of hotline it sounds. Just like the one I called around like a week ago. How can they say such shitty things about people that are struggling? How do they have those jobs? They don't deserve them. They don't deserve to be sitting here making fun of people who are strong enough to reach out for help. It's what I wished Hailey did.
I clear my throat, feeling a tight lump beginning to form from the anger that's boiling within me. "And you?" I look at the guy on the end of the left side of the booth. He's been the quietest of the four guys, his head down most of the time, only allowing me to see the brownness of his fine roots. He looks up at me blankly, like he didn't hear me, and speaks, "Oh, sorry." His voice is soft unlike the ones surrounding him. He clears his throat, but it seems like something's bothering him. He coughs into his hand. "Um, can I just get a hot tea, three sugars?"
I nod, writing that down. As I do, I can't help but glance at the tea guy, wondering if my mind is playing tricks on me or if his voice sounds awfully familiar. I don't recognize his face and he does have a face that I'd recognize. I shake it off. How could it sound familiar? I haven't left the house to talk to anyone in days.
I don't bother to dismiss myself; they wouldn't notice either way if I were gone or not.
My mind goes back to their conversation as I give out finished plates to the other tables, wondering if the boy that I had talked to on the phone is like anyone of those guys. I hope not. I hope they're just a bad bunch who haven't been caught yet.
I carry all four of their plates in my hands and arms, learned by observation, careful not to drop them. The good thing is, it's not as hard as it seems. I get to their table, trying to tune out their voices as best I can while distributing their plates.
I should've spit on each of their plates while I had the chance.
Three out of four of the guys barely notice their plates being put in front of them, let alone give out a thank you to me. The last guy, Mr. Quiet, looks at his plate as I'm placing it down, and his arched brows furrow.
"Your palm," he says to me as his friends talk amongst themselves, "What happened to it?"
I curl my fingers into a fist to hide my palm and brush it off. "My nails."
He stares at me from his seat, blankly, causing me to feel awfully self-conscious and embarrassed of the wounds on my hand. It's not the first time someone's pointed them out, I've been doing it for years. Since I've been working at Happies, I've gotten a few comments on them.
Before I step away, he puts his hand out slightly. "Hey, uh, what's your nam—"
"Brandon!" Yankee hat cuts in, laughing. "Remember that girl you told us about? The one who was in the tub. I wonder if she offed herself or not. She got mad at you when she's the one that called. Another reason that I can't with people these days. I need to find a new job."
My feet are stuck to the ground. There's a pounding in my head that's mimicking the rapid speed my heart thumps at. Brandon? It can't be. This is New York City, The odds of meeting him are near zero. I- what do I do? My lungs feel like they might shrivel up and disintegrate with how little air they're allowing in my body. My breath quickens through my mouth, but it only makes my throat dry.
My eyes bounced to the guy he said that too. The quiet one, who's staring at me wide-eyed, not looking at his friend once. Tears fill my eyes and I try to blink them away, shaking my head.
It's him.
It's him and he's just like them. He told my story, something confidential he told to his terrible friends to laugh at over dinner.
I give his pleading look a deadly glare. Incapable of saying the words I want to with my heart lodged in my throat.
Turning around and tightening my fists, I walk off, allowing my tears to pour down my face as I rush to the bathroom.
*****
[Authors notes]
Double updating tonight, don't forget to check the next one out right after this!