Page 70 of Over the Edge

“Thanks, I’ve always dreamed of crushing thousands of people with my happiness,” I say.

Quinn shakes her head. “Don’t sell yourself short, definitely hundreds of thousands.”

“Sorry about that,” Garrett says as he walks back to us. When he sits down, he brushes against me, his hand landing on my knee and resting there.

“Completely unrelated question, do you have any spare bath water,” I ask.

“Let me think,” Garrett says. “No. I don’t really bottle that up for special occasions.”

“A shame. Ev, you could make a killing. I mean, nothing’s stopping you from selling off the odd pair of underwear,” Quinn suggests.

“Please, don’t give me a reason to hide my belongings,” Garrett bemoans. My attention fixes on his thumb trailing up and down, burning through the fabric of my pants.

“You’re killing her entrepreneurial spirit. Don’t let this man limit you, Ev,” Quinn says.

Applause roars, rising in a wave originating from the stage as the opening act walks on. A warm weight wraps around me. I stiffen at the unexpected embrace before settling in Garrett’s arms.

His chin rests on my shoulder so when he speaks his words are for me alone. “You okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” I reply in a hushed voice.

“It was a long day.”

I consider lying. Saying that I’m perfectly fine and pretending I have yet to have a real full conversation with Quinn. “Yeah, it was.”

“I’m here.”

“I know.” I wrap my arms over his, hugging him to me the best I can. “Thank you.”

The headliner is a bluegrass trio whose music has a few of the couples around us on the lawn getting up to dance. I can’t help but smile at the energy blooming all around us even as the cold night nips at our noses and paints our cheeks pink.

Quinn and Oliver leave before the set is over since Oliver has a meeting in the morning with the rest of his team. I can’t help but think it also has to do with how things are between us, that they need distance.

Garrett and I stay, wrapped up together until the final note. For warmth, obviously. On the way back, he blasts the heat in the car and suggests we stop for food. I readily agree, happy that tonight there are no timers or quick getaways.

“I wonder if this was an old Burger King and they were too lazy to come up with something new,” I say as we pull into the lot. “Or the owner has a one-sided feud with the chain.”

The menu is so big that I can make out parts of it from the edge of the asphalt. Vintage illustrations of ice cream and burgers dance along a white background. There are three other cars besides ours in the lot. A truck has its tailgate down and a few teens are clustered into the back with their grease-stained paper bags scattered around them. The other two are empty and must belong to employees.

King’s seems like a place that’s seen countless memories. It’s somewhere I can imagine parents bringing their kids to so they can share the taste of the food, passing down the experience like an heirloom.

“What if he blames chain restaurants for the downfall of his marriage? Imagine him toiling away at home, grilling burgers flavored with his family's secret seasoning?” Garrett catches the end of my hypothetical and runs with it. A smile melts onto my face.

I continue helping the story take shape. “And the wife and son come back with burgers and won’t eat his. But this isn’t the first time. Each time it happens he pushes himself to make a better burger and, in the end, his family never even tries them. They don’t know what they’re missing out on.”

“You should write a song about that,” he says, maneuvering into the parking space furthest from the teens.

“The rise and fall of a New England burger entrepreneur?” I ask.

“If you write it, I’d listen.”

“You might be the only one,” I say. “But I’ll put it on the list of ideas to workshop.”

“Who wouldn’t want to hear about the epic highs and lows of owning a drive-in burger joint?” His voice drips with astonishment at the idea as he turns off the engine.

“The general population, but why would I cater to them?” I say, trying not to remember that I have to do exactly that. I shove the thought away.

“I’d listen either way.” He turns and his eyes hold mine. All of his edges and shadows are exaggerated with the buzzing light coming from the drive-in. He’s a study in angles. If we weren’t us, I’d run my hand over those edges to see if they’re as sharp as they look.

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