Page 11 of Operator
“You’ll do just fine,” he says and takes my hand in his to squeeze.
“Will you keep in touch?”
He hesitates, then says, “I’ll do my best.”
“I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done for us and for Ian. I know you tried your hardest to help him.” Tears prickle the back of my throat, but I force them back. I’ve done enough crying. “I hope you know how much I appreciate everything.”
“You don’t have to thank me. I only wish I could have done more.”
A bell tings. His order is up. I’m grateful for the distraction because I find myself dangerously close to begging him to stay, which is ridiculous. I know better than anyone he can’t help moving. The military dictates and he goes where he’s assigned. Some part of me had forgotten that he wouldn’t be at Camp Lejune forever.
After I give him his parfait, I murmur some excuse to go to the back and give myself a minute. When I’m reasonably composed, I head back to the counter to clear away the ketchup bottles. A few minutes later, William calls out a goodbye and I wave, smiling warmly even if it wobbles a little. I’m glad he didn’t pull me back in for conversation. I’m not sure if I would have been able to talk more without getting upset.
Damn hormones.
I go to clean up his spot at the counter and find the parfait uneaten.
Callum lingers in the diner for the rest of my shift, and I get very good at ignoring him unless it’s to ask if he needs a refill on his coffee or to take away dirty dishes. Whatever he thinks he’s doing is none of my business, and I refuse to entertain thoughts about his motives. I’m through giving him more headspace than he deserves.
Which is none.
By the time my shift ends at two and another waitress shows up to replace me, I’m so tired I don’t even care about Callum Reed anymore. All I want is a hot bath, a tall glass of ice water, and to smell something other than fried food and coffee for a little while. And maybe a snuggle with Daisy. Having her snoring and relaxed beside me is better than any drug.
“See you tomorrow, Johnny,” I say with a wave in his direction.
“See ya!” he shouts back.
The short trek from the diner to my car feels like miles. I mentally countdown each step knowing it will bring me closer to putting my feet up for a while. I've got the car door open and am contemplating lowering myself in when I hear footsteps behind me. My back stiffens.
“Gwen, wait up.”
I don't have to look to know who it is. Sadly, I know his voice anywhere. “Not now. I'm going home.” Or at least I will once I get up the energy to fold my body inside.
“I'm going with you,” he says.
At this, I turn around. “I’m sorry?” I must have heard wrong. Certainly, he can’t think the fuck off attitude and resting bitch face I’ve been sporting all day were a come on.
But no. I didn’t hear wrong. He holds out a callused hand. “Give me your keys.”
He’s insane. That’s it. Maybe I’ll have William come back and haul him off for a mental evaluation. All that free time after the Marines must have rotted his brain. “I don't think so,” I say. If my hips were in better shape, I would have cocked one to the side.
He makes an impatient gesture with his outstretched hand. “Come on. I'm taking you home. Give me your keys.”
Taking a step back from him with the keys grasped in a death grip behind my back, I grind out, “I'm sorry, but what crack have you been smoking? I'm not going anywhere with you.”
He drops his hand, which makes me relax somewhat. Once the initial shock has dissipated, I’m able to study his expression more intently. I note the furrowed brow, the lines around his full mouth, and the strain in his powerful shoulders. Instinctively, to my chagrin, I soften.
“What’s wrong?” I ask and then wonder to myself if I’ll ever be able to stop worrying about him. My hands relax at my sides, the struggle momentarily forgotten.
Against the red neon from the diner, his face is thrown into shadow, making him seem foreboding and forbidden. “It’s Dad. Mom says he may be having a stroke.”
I'm so stunned I allow him to guide me to the passenger seat. Once he's in the car, I say, “You couldn’t just tell me that first like a normal person instead of ordering me around?” When he says nothing, merely starts the car and places an arm around my shoulder as he backs out of the parking lot, I add, “Is it bad?”
“I don't know,” he answers.
We spend the short ride from the diner to his parents’ house in silence. Not an uncomfortable silence, but only because I’m so occupied with worrying to pay attention to anything else. His parents are like my own family. If something were to happen to his dad...
“He’s going to be fine,” he says, and somehow his hand is around mine. I don't pull away. I should, but in that moment, I feel so incredibly alone I give myself permission to take my comforts, no matter where they come from. Even if they’re from the one place I shouldn’t.
