Page 24 of Ripped & Shipped
“Thanks,” I say, turning toward the men’s room near the entrance.
I don’t actually have to use the restroom. I just went a half hour ago before I left to head home. Stepping up to the faucets, I turn on the cold water, scoop a handful and splash it on my face. After I dry myself off with a tan paper hand towel, I stare into the mirror.
I could leave.
Curiosity seems to get the better of me. What is Ella Mae doing here? She looks like she’s dressed for a date. But not a date at a Big Boy. This is definitely not her speed. She’d want to be wined and dined at some Michelin two or three star restaurant. Her face looked—weary. Or maybe disappointed. And she was dressed up—even for her.
Yeah. I can’t just leave.
I’m having a solid stare down with myself when a man opens the door.
“Evenin’,’” he says.
“Hey,” I answer.
He walks to the urinals, and I know hanging out in here will seem more than creepy. My time is up. I have to face the music.
Amber smiles at me when I step into the foyer of the restaurant again. I return her smile, and then I glance over at Ella Mae. Her face turned toward her phone, as usual. Her finger runs up and down the screen, scrolling, obviously. She types something into the cell.
Ella Mae’s by far the most beautiful woman in our town. She always has been. She’s also the biggest pain, and the one who never has seen herself as more than a fashion icon and social media guru.
Most days, I can’t be bothered with her and her antics. She’s all fluff and try-hard. Whatever else she’s got going on is hidden under layers of makeup, and lashes, and those outrageous outfits.
But since I’ve been back from the army, I’ve watched her from a distance. The military taught me to watch people—really watch them. And something’s changed in Ella Mae. There was never any guarantee it would. Sometimes a ball starts rolling downhill and it just picks up speed. But sometimes it hits an obstacle. And that’s just enough to slow the roll and change the trajectory.
Two years ago, Ella Mae threw herself and all her hard-earned knowledge into blessing Jayme. That group—my younger sister, Shannon, and her friends—never gave Ella Mae the time of day before she set aside her life to pitch in.
And I get it. Ella Mae’s an acquired taste. Off-putting. Maybe too direct and outspoken. Too showy, for sure. But Ella Mae didn’t let the cliquishness in our town stop her from saying yes when one of them needed her help. She jumped right in with both feet, and Jayme got a huge book deal that put her on the map as an author as a direct result of Ella Mae’s efforts.
At the time, I had asked myself if any of them would have done the same for Ella Mae if the tables were turned. Sadly, I don’t think they would.
I approach Ella Mae’s table, still not sure why I’m here, but unable to stop myself. She looks up.
“Chris?”
“Yep.”
“I thought that was you. But then you disappeared. What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
Her eyes look a little red, like she’s either been crying or fighting tears.
“May I sit?”
“Suit yourself.”
Her tone is flat. Guarded.
She’s got walls up. Defensive. I feel like telling her I don’t represent my friend group. Not here. We’re on neutral ground. But I’m aware she’s got grudges against me that have nothing to do with my friends.
I slide into the booth, taking a seat directly across from her.
“What has you so far from home?” I ask.
She snort laughs. “Grove City? A real road trip, huh?”
“Well?” I ask.
