Gun Shy(17)

She’s talking, but I’m not listening to what she’s saying. Instead, I’m making a list in my head of all the things I need to buy for Thanksgiving dinner.

Yams Turkey Cranberry Sauce How the hell do I make cranberry sauce?

“Cassie,” Amanda’s voice cuts through my Thanksgiving meal planning.

I stop daydreaming and look up, not answering. I’ve figured out that what people hate more than anything is an awkward silence, and if I don’t rush to fill it, someone else inevitably will. She searches my face, her expression one of concern more than anger.

“Are you feeling okay?”

I clear my throat and take the plates from the pass. “I’m fine.”

I set my face to resting bitch, surveying her calmly, and she almost seems to do a double take.

I have that effect on people these days.

“Oka-ay,” she says, breaking our stare-off. I win again. I always do. I learned from the best.

My toes are cold. I didn’t dress in enough layers this morning, and my head is pounding from all the alcohol I drank last night. I bide the rest of my shift as patiently as I can, wondering if Leo gets to eat turkey on Thanksgiving.

I doubt it. Even for someone in prison, it seems unfair. But then, I suppose, my mom won’t be eating Thanksgiving dinner either. She’ll be fed through a tube, she’ll breathe through a tube, shit through a tube, and eventually, we’ll take all those tubes away so the poor woman can finally die.

I don’t know why I care about anything in Leo’s life. Why I’m drawn to Pike. Why I’m so pissed off that he won’t give me anything. Because I should forget the boy I loved ever existed.

I am a horrible person. Because even though Leo’s the reason my mother is waiting to die, I’d still do anything to feel his fingers against my lips one more time.

The kitchen bell rings. My head throbs. I collect more plates, dispense them at more tables, run into Amanda again.

“Cassie,” she says. “You have two tables waiting on water and bread. Do you need a hand?”

She’s nicer to me than I deserve. Her green eyes are wide with genuine concern. “I have a headache,” I say, glancing at the highway. “Have you got any aspirin?”

She looks worried. “Cassie, you always have a headache. Have you been to a doctor?” She leans in a little. “Have you been eating? Sleeping?”

She reaches out, pressing the back of her hand against my forehead softly. I flinch at the sudden jolt of sympathetic skin on mine, an unfamiliar sensation. She sees me react and pulls her hand away slowly, letting it fall at her side.

“I’m worried about you, Cassie,” she says. “This isn’t an easy time of year…” she trails off, searching my face.

“Please don’t.” I swallow back the hard tennis ball lodged in my throat. I’m not going to start crying now just because somebody cares. She’s just doing her job. I mean, if I hang myself in the bathroom while everyone else is out here, it’s going to fall on her. She doesn’t care enough for it to make a difference to me.

Her eyes fall to the bruises on my wrist. I don’t want to talk about that.

“I just need aspirin,” I say firmly.

“You know, there are people who can help you,” she says.

I can’t help the smirk that forms on my mouth. Amanda looks horrified.

“You think this is funny?” she asks, her cheeks turning red.

I shrug. “Kind of. Do you have aspirin, or do I need to walk over to the store?” If I could get my hands on some of those codeine pills Pike used to have—

“Here.” She reaches into her own apron and pulls out a bottle of aspirin, shaking several pills into my palm. “You’ll get a stomach ulcer if you keep eating these like candy,” she warns, but there’s no strength in her words.

“Thank you,” I say, tossing the pills back and swallowing them dry. I smile at her, but she doesn’t return the gesture.

It’s because my smile doesn’t reach my eyes anymore. It’s just a meaningless gesture, muscles pulling skin up over my skull.

“Table eight and thirteen,” she says, pushing two glasses of water into my hands. For someone who was so concerned five minutes ago, suddenly she doesn’t want to look at me. I get it. It’s the same reason I want to cover all the reflective surfaces in our house.

I wouldn’t look at Cassie Carlino if she weren’t staring back at me, accusingly, in every mirror.

I fought with Leo. He crashed his car with my mother.

The weight of my sins is a burden that breaks me every time I have to look at my own face.

I take the water and baskets of bread to the tables and wait patiently for the aspirin to start bubbling in my veins.

When it’s my turn to take a break, I go into the bathrooms and pull up Shelly’s Instagram account on my iPhone; it’s not hard to find her. She checked into the diner thirteen minutes ago, a selfie of her and her precious little family her most recent post. I dig further. They live in Miami. Chase plays football for the team Leo was being scouted for before the accident. I already know all of this. I scroll through photos of her lounging by a pool, her stomach bigger than the rest of her body. There are photos of her daughters eating ice-cream, of her fucking lifestyle blog, the baby football jersey she’s hung over her impending arrival’s crib. My skin feels hot and prickly as I imagine them all getting into a terrible accident and dying, the entire family, because this was the life I was meant to have with Leo. I hate her. I hate them all. I wonder if she believes that she deserves the things she has, hashtag #sofuckingblessed, or if she knows that she’s the consolation prize. I hit the button on my phone that will give me a notification every time she posts something. What can I say? I don’t need to eat real food, because I’m a glutton for self-punishment instead.