Page 12 of Fragile Heart

“So, what can I get you to drink?” she asks to avoid awkward silence.

“How sweet is your sweet tea?” Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. I imagine she was expecting me to say water like I always do.

“Uh, well, this is the south, so I’d say it’s pretty sweet.” I don’t say anything. I don’t know what compelled me to order sweet tea. I’ve never had it in my life, and I’m not sure if I want to start now. She seems to see that I’m conflicted, so she suggests, “How about I bring you a tea and a water in case you don’t like it?”

“Ok.” She smiles and nods before turning away from the table. I watch her head behind the counter and fill a tall cup with ice water and another with sweet tea. She talks to someone sitting at the counter the entire time she does it, the smile never fading from her face. It’s not a fake smile either. I would know since I’ve become somewhat of an expert on those. No, this is a true smile, the one she always has that makes her entire face light up. I don’t understand how anyone can be that happy all the time. My guess is she’s too naive and has never experienced anything bad.

This town is too good. Everyone is friendly. I can’t imagine anything bad happening here. People are probably too willing to help others to let someone struggle for too long. Cringe. Too fucking perfect. I could never live here. This whole town is a giant red flag for me.

I feel the scowl on my face deepen as Quinn walks toward me. She sees it; I know she does. But her face remains the same. Content and happy, like always.

She sets the drinks down in front of me, takes two straws from her little apron, and sets them on the table. “Let me know if you like it.” I nod but don’t move to take a sip. I don’t like people watching me. “Are you ready to order dinner?”

I haven’t even looked at the menu. I was too busy staring at her, wondering how people could live in such a picture-perfect place without going insane.

“What’s your favorite thing on the menu?” I ask, surprising both of us.

Her hand flies up to her chest. “My favorite thing?” I nod, not wanting to repeat myself. “I’m a sucker for the chicken and waffles.”

I must make a face because she continues, “I love sweet and salty.”

“That explains the cookies from yesterday.”

She nods. “Yeah, those are my favorite.”

“Well, they were good, so I guess I’ll trust you. I’ll try the chicken and waffles.”

“Sweet tea and chicken and waffles in one day? We might just make a Southerner out of you yet.” She’s pleased with her comment, but I don’t respond. She must realize that I don’t find it amusing because she doesn’t look up at me as she writes down my order. Or maybe she doesn’t care what I think.

Without another word, she turns and walks toward the counter. She starts typing things into the computer, and I can’t seem to stop watching her. I don’t know what it is. Is it because she’s not trying to throw herself at me? It is a nice change.

She looks up from the computer, and her eyes find mine. I quickly look down. Not smooth at all, and she definitely caught me staring but whatever. I’m not trying to hook up with her or anything. I’m just. . . curious.

I don’t want to scroll through my phone, so I take to my usual activity of staring out the window. I can see the building I scaled for a scene the other day and get lost in my thoughts about the movie. The next thing I know, Quinn places a plate of hot fried chicken on top of Belgian waffles in front of me, followed by a container of warm maple syrup that smells like actual heaven.

I study my plate, wondering what I’ve gotten myself into. This is way too much food for me to eat.

Quinn offers an “Enjoy” before she walks away, leaving me to my meal.

I pop a straw into my tea and take a sip. Damn, that is sweeter than I was expecting, but it’s not terrible. I pour syrup over my plate and dig in. I don’t know why I’ve never had this before. It’s so good that I clear my entire plate and then wash it down with a cup of sugar disguised as tea.

When I finish, I look over to where Quinn is standing at the counter. She’s animatedly talking and using her hands to help tell her story, but her eyes lift to find mine as if she can feel my gaze. She looks at my empty plate and empty glass, and her smile widens.

I hate that I’m giving her the satisfaction of knowing I enjoyed it. What can I say? I was starving, and it was good. Idefinitelydid not clear my plate just so she’d smile at me again. No, definitely not.

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