Tiny Eggrolls, Pigs in Blankets
Abbi
After Weston parks my car, he walks me all the way to the front door and waits patiently while I open it. He’s the perfect gentleman.
I already knew Weston was a good guy. My mistake was in thinking that I could pretend—even for a few hours—that my life was the fun kind, with a handsome date and no worries.
“Thank you,” I say in a low voice. “I appreciate all that you did today.” I still have the shakes, too. I should have known that I couldn’t be alone long enough to page through a couple of my mom’s baking books without that creep harassing me.
I found a handwritten recipe in one of the books. And it’s in my pocket right now. That’s the silver lining of this shit show. Every memory I have of my mother is precious.
“It was nothing,” Weston says gruffly. “My pleasure. You take care of yourself now.”
We stare at each other for a beat longer. Earlier tonight I could have sworn that Weston looked at me the way a guy looks at a girl. With possibility. But all I see now is pity.
He reaches out and gives my shoulder a friendly squeeze. “Goodnight, Abbi. Sleep well.” Then he gives me a Westonesque happy smile and turns to go.
Wait, I want to call out. Stay a while. But I watch him disappear instead. And then I go inside alone.
When I wake up the next morning, the humiliation hasn’t completely worn off. I can still smell Price’s hot breath as he loomed over me in the pantry. And I can still see the disgust in Weston’s eyes as he flung Price against the refrigerator.
That last bit would have been very enjoyable under different circumstances. I’m not a violent girl, but Price had it coming. And then, as I roll over and sit up in bed, I have a brand-new, awful realization. I forgot to give Weston the twenty-five bucks that I’d tucked into my purse.
He spent the day with strangers and fought off Price. And then I stiffed him.
I let out a little shriek of horror. And then I reach for my phone and start texting.
Abbi: OMG, I just realized I never gave you the 25 bucks! I’m an idiot. Seriously. A waitress should really know better! I’m so embarrassed.
To my surprise, he starts to tap out an answer immediately.
Weston: Hey! I wasn’t actually going to accept it. I only put that in to keep the nutters away. Seriously. Well, also because it amuses me to charge for my acting skills.
Abbi: Your acting skills are on point, though.
Weston: Thank you. If this hockey thing doesn’t work out, I’m considering Hollywood. There are roles for dumb jocks, right?
He’s so much more than a dumb jock. But I can’t say that without revealing how deep my crush on him runs.
Abbi: I smell an Academy Award for last night’s performance. And I am very grateful. How about I treat you to your next platter of Thai spiced wings?
Weston: Well, Abbi, I would be happy to accept this as a token of your appreciation for my fake boyfriend performance. An actor has to eat, right?
Abbi: Right. See you soon.
True to my word, the next time Weston comes into the Biscuit, I bring him a double portion of wings and a basket of fries. He gives me a big smile and a high five. But after that, I avoid him. Because every time I see his smile, I feel sheepish about treating him to a front row view of the horror show that is my life. I just want to forget it ever happened.
Between school and work, I’m busy enough to forget almost anything. November lunges into December. Exams loom. Two waiters quit, which means Kippy keeps scheduling me for extra shifts.
But hockey season is in full swing, so at least I have that. Just because I’m avoiding Weston doesn’t mean I’ve stopped following the team. They’ve had a great start.
Their biggest matchup in December is against Boston University. And I’m on shift that night, checking the score on my phone every few minutes as I wait tables in the bar.
It’s a tense game. It’s tied 2-2 with only seven minutes left to play. But then Jonah Daniels feeds a wrister to Lex Vonne, and Moo U gets the lead back. When the buzzer rings, we’ve won 3-2.
For a long moment I feel pure jubilation. But then it occurs to me that The Biscuit in the Basket is about to be flooded with happy hockey players and the fans who love them. And table seventeen is in my section.
“Hey, Carly?” I tag my friend on the elbow as she passes me. “Switch sections with me? You can have the bar. I’ll take your dining room tables. Forty bucks for the trade.”
“Wait, what? Are you crazy?” she demands. “Who would give up table seventeen on the night they beat BU? You’re throwing away extra money and extra hotness?"
“I’m just a little tired,” I say. It isn’t even a lie, because I’m always tired. “You handle the boys. I’m not in the mood to celebrate. I just want to go home and put my feet up.”
“I’m worried about you,” Carly says. “You need a vacation, and a one-night stand with a hockey player.”
“Well that’s not likely to happen.” And I’m really not in the mood to watch if Weston spends the evening with a giggling woman on his arm—and then leaves with her. I haven’t seen anyone hanging on him lately. But a win against BU should do the trick, right? “Go serve beer and shots,” I say, nudging her toward the bar. “I’ll bring out the last few dinners and go home early.”
“Fine.” Carly pushes two twenty-dollar bills into my hand. “But we’re going to have a talk about this later.”
The next time we’re on shift together, Carly reports that Weston asked for me. “Where’s Abbi tonight? He knew your real name, too. Did something happen between you and Weston?”
“Absolutely not,” I tell her. “We’re just friendly, that’s all. And that’s all we’ll ever be.”
“Okayyy,” she says, her tone full of disbelief. “But he looked really disappointed that you weren’t around.”
“I highly doubt that.”
A week later, though, I’m sitting in an empty booth one night before closing, rolling some silverware, when somebody plops down on the seat across from me. When I look up, it’s Weston.
My tummy flutters immediately at the sight of his clear eyes taking me in. “Hey, Abbi,” he says.
“Hey, Weston,” I echo. “How have you been?”
“Down in the dumps, if you want to know the truth. I got dumped by my fake girlfriend.” He grins.
Um…what? “You can’t get dumped by a fake girlfriend. That’s kind of the point.”
He laughs. “Don’t I know it. But you are avoiding me.”
“Am I?” I ask lightly. “Maybe I’m just busy rolling all this silverware into napkins.”
Weston studies me for a second. Then he takes a napkin off the pile and positions it on the table in front of him. He takes a knife and a fork out of their respective bins and lines them up in the center. “Like this?”
“Sure,” I say, amused. “It’s not brain surgery.”
“I’m premed,” he says. “So someday I’ll get to say that unironically.”