Page 17 of Shame

“Thank you,” I mutter, trying to give him a smile but I don’t think it works.

He then goes to my father.

“Nice seeing you again, Calvin. Have a great day.”

He doesn’t respond.

Doctor Anderson pats him on the shoulder before leaving us alone in the room. I know that means we can leave now, go home, but I can’t get my feet to work.

I don’t normally have two days off in a row. Sunday and Tuesdays are my typical days off, but I had to swap days off so I could take Dad to his three medical appointments yesterday. I try to schedule as many as I can in one day, so I don’t have to take off multiple days. It’s stressful for both of us, but one day of stress is better than four or five. And like I said, he tends to be amazing at doctor appointments. Not lucid, but calm. That’s something. It gives him a break, and me too.

Going to work on a Tuesday isn’t much different from any other day. All days are pretty similar at the diner, though the weekends are a little busier. Fridays and Saturdays see better tips, since that’s when people get paid.

Not being here for two days in a row seems like a mini vacation—one that isn’t fun—and getting back to work is tough. But I’m on shift on time. Which is a relief. What’s even more of a relief is that Norman isn’t here today. Or at least he isn’t here now.

“Your boyfriend was here last night,” Fia says as she wipes down the table by the door. We’re opening today, meaning it’s a little before six in the morning. I do a mix of opening shifts and closing shifts. Neither is better than the other, but when I get home earlier, Dad is usually in a better mood. He hates me most nights. Thinks I’m some kind of alien or government experiment here to eat his brain.

“Huh? What? Boyfriend?” I ask, pressing the start button on the coffee pot.

“Yeah, you know? That hot biker. Shark, right?”

Oh, him…

I huff out a laugh.

“He is not my boyfriend.”

“Oh, but you wish he was,” she sing-songs as she comes around the counter to grab a mug, putting it by mine near the coffeepot. One perk of working here is unlimited drinks and one meal per shift. Not that the food is outstanding, but it’s convenient. The coffee is pretty good, and it’s what I need to survive nowadays since nothing stronger is acceptable at work. Not that I’d ever do drugs, but some days the thought is appealing. Lord knows I’m not getting enough sleep to get by. Yet here I am.

“He asked for you,” she says with a Cheshire-like grin.

“He did?” I blurt.

She laughs. “Yeah, wanted to know why you weren’t working your normal shift. You know what that means?”

I furrow my brow. “No?”

“It means he knows your schedule. Meaning he pays attention. Not something many men do anymore.”

I roll my eyes. “And what do you know about men these days? You’re younger than I am.”

She shrugs. “I’ve seen my mother go through one a week my whole life. I know enough.”

That knocks me silent for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” I finally say, not sure how else to respond to that.

Fia shrugs again, then grabs a couple packets of sugar, tearing them open and dumping them into her mug.

“No need to be sorry. Not my problem anymore—not since I moved out.”

“Good for you for doing that.”

The sugar packets get tossed into the bin and Fia faces me again.

“Don’t get all weird on me now. I don’t want pity.”

“No, of course not. I would never.”

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