Last Breath (The Good Daughter 0.5)(23)

Charlie shook her head at the snake. Used to be, only bikers and outlaws had tattoos. They were so commonplace now that they weren’t even a statement. Unless the statement was, “Look, I’m like everybody else.”

Her stomach clenched. She was doing it again, acting like an old lady. Or maybe not an old lady. Maybe she was acting like a mother.

She put her hand to her stomach and thought of Scarlett O’Hara watching Rhett walk away.

There was a lot to be said for letting tomorrow be just another day.

She shook these thoughts from her head, returning her attention to the scene inside the diner.

Comb-Over heaved himself up from the table. Flora gave him the same perky grin right up until he turned his back to leave. The disgusted look on her face was one that was familiar to a lot of women whose wages depended on whether or not they could convincingly flirt with a man for whom they felt absolutely no attraction.

Charlie couldn’t sit in her car for the rest of the day bemoaning the plight of women in the world. She turned off the car engine and headed for the diner.

A rush of cold air enveloped her body as Charlie pushed open the glass door. She smelled French fries, which made her hungry, then she saw a jar of mayonnaise, which brought back the queasiness. Charlie focused instead on the gleaming chrome trimming every surface. There were worse places you could eat. The red vinyl booths were deep and welcoming. The Beach Boys were playing through the speakers. The only other customer in the restaurant was a large man at the lunch counter who was showing an ample amount of butt crack. Charlie guessed by the way he was dressed that the plumber’s van in the parking lot was his.



The tattooed young waitress looked up from pouring a cup of coffee and smiled at Charlie. Her name tag said NANCY. She nodded toward an empty table in the front. “I’ll be right with you.”

Charlie scanned the restaurant, but Flora was not there. “I’m going to use the restroom first.”

She walked down the back hall, the same direction in which Flora had disappeared. There were three doors on the left, each marked with their respective purpose. GUYS. DOLLS. STORAGE. The back door was propped open. Sunlight cut across the black-and-white tile floor like a razor. Charlie smelled cigarette smoke. She heard laughter.

“No, you asshole,” Flora said, her voice sounding a lot older than before. “I’m not gonna do that. Gross.”

“Why?” a man’s voice responded. It was high-pitched, likely from a capuchin monkey. “Don’t you love me?”

“If you loved me, you wouldn’t even bring it up.”

Charlie closed her eyes. At fifteen, she’d had similar conversations with boys.

“Look,” Flora said. “Just be cool for a few more days. That lawyer lady is going to talk to your folks, and then we’ll both be living in the same house and it’ll be easier.”

“Not if your Meemaw has anything to do with it.”

“I can handle Meemaw.”

He barked a short laugh. “If you say so.”

“Of course I say so.” Flora paused. “Come on, baby, don’t be that way.”

Charlie listened to the unmistakable sound of lips and tongues coming together.

Which was creepy, because eavesdropping on Flora making out with her boyfriend was something that Comb-Over would do.

Charlie backed up and went into the DOLLS room.

The smell of bleach stung her nose. One of the waitresses, probably Flora, had done a good job cleaning the place. The sink practically sparkled. Even the floor was squeaky clean.



Charlie blinked as her eyes started to blur. She felt unaccountably dizzy. Her stomach was churning again. She pressed her hand to the wall. She was not going to throw up the cinnamon bun from an hour ago. But just in case, she walked into the stall. The toilet seat was already up from being cleaned. Charlie stood there, looking at her reflection in the flat surface of the water, and waited.

Was she going to throw up?

She was going to throw up.

She leaned down. Her stomach clenched. Her throat did that goose paté gurgling thing, but nothing happened.

She waited a few seconds to make sure. She stood back up. She went to the sink.

The mirror showed a panicked-looking woman on the cusp of her entire life changing.

For the better? For the worse?

Her hand went to her stomach again, not because she felt sick but because she wondered what was in there.

She could go to the drugstore. She could buy one of those tests. She could pee on a stick and in minutes she would have her answer.

Did she really want to know?

Charlie pulled her hair into a ponytail and clipped it in place. She found some lipstick in her purse. She was smoothing color onto her pale lips when the door opened.

Flora asked, “You okay, Miss Quinn?”

“You keep finding me at bad times.” Charlie talked to the girl’s reflection in the mirror. “Was that Oliver, your boyfriend?”

Flora leaned back against the wall. She talked to the mirror, too. “I wouldn’t say he’s my boyfriend.”

“Whatever he is, don’t do anything with him that you don’t want to do.”



“I won’t.”

She seemed very sure of herself. Charlie asked, “Did your grandparents tell you that I spoke with them?”