I shake my head. “I asked for a cheeseburger.” Why can’t he just do what I ask?
“Oh, that’s a cheeseburger. The best cheeseburger you’ll ever eat, I mean, from a fast-food restaurant. If you want to talk about real burgers, you’d need to try the ones my friend Kit makes.”
I’m tempted to throw the burger at him or at the very least make him go in and get me the cheeseburger that I asked for, but I’m starving and it does smell really damn good. I take a bite and my eyes almost roll back in my head.
“Here,” he says, passing me a napkin and pointing at my chin, where I can feel the grease running in a river toward my neck.
I take the napkin and wipe, embarrassed and then annoyed because he’s not even trying to hide his smile.
“Good, right?” he asks.
I shrug, refusing to give him the pleasure of hearing me agree with him. “What’s in it?” I ask.
“They put mustard in the patties. And extra pickles. It’s on their secret menu.”
“They have a secret menu?” Firstly, why? And secondly, how does he know this?
“Hang out with me, I’ll let you in on all the cool secrets,” he says, without any trace of irony.
Is he being self-mocking or does he actually think he knows all the cool secrets? His expression is so hard to read. I can’t tell if he’s joking.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” I reply, smirking.
“I’m sorry about what happened back there,” Will says after a few seconds of silence.
I cock my head to one side. Is he talking about Jamie? But no. He can’t know about that. He must be talking about Craig.
“You broke his phone,” I say.
“No, I’m not sorry about that,” Will says, shaking his head. “I’m sorry he groped you,” he mumbles. “And I’m sorry I didn’t notice it sooner and stop him.”
I swallow. I don’t know what to say. I’m embarrassed that he saw and also angry that he’s reminding me that I did nothing either. I don’t need him to rescue me. “It’s fine. People do it all the time.”
“What?” he asks.
I shrug and laugh under my breath, trying to brush it off. “That’s normal in this industry,” I say quietly. “You learn to deal.”
“You shouldn’t have to deal with that,” Will says. He seems genuinely concerned, as well as angry, and it makes me warm to him. Very slightly. I don’t need him telling me something that I already know. Still, I shrug, because dealing with assholes is part of the job, as Marty’s always reminding me.
Just then there’s a screech from outside the car. I look up, startled. The drunk, loud women who were flirting with Will over by the door are now gathered in a gaggle in front of the car. All of them have their phones out and aimed right at me. Shit. I shove the burger into the paper bag. “Let’s go,” I say, ducking my head and covering my face with my hands.
The women are all screaming with delight, like bird spotters having caught a glimpse of a dodo in the wild. I can hear them yelling my name, telling me to look up and smile. A couple of them are belting out one of my songs and starting to twerk to the lyrics.
“Just go!” I yell at Will.
Will starts the car, and as we pull out of the parking lot, I sink farther down in my seat.
Damn it, why the hell did I decide to stop at a fast-food restaurant? This is what happens whenever I try to be normal. Once we’re half a mile down the street, I sit up and scrabble to open the window, desperate for air. I stick my head out the window and breathe, my heart rate starting to eventually slow after a minute. That’s when I notice the chill of the wind hitting my wet face and discover that I’m crying. I wipe the back of my arm across my face, and it comes away smeared in makeup and glitter. My dress is splotched with ketchup too. I’m a mess.
“Here.”
Napkins land in my lap. I swipe surreptitiously at my face with them, then at the stain on my dress, but soon give up. It looks like I’ve been shot in the chest. This dress is for the trash can, and even though I don’t particularly like it and won’t ever wear it again, I don’t want to throw it away.
“Are you okay?” Will asks quietly.
Am I okay? I stare at him blankly. It’s so rare that anyone actually asks me that, and I don’t know how to answer.
He glances over at me while he drives, and his expression is one of such sweet and genuine concern that for the briefest of seconds I buy it and think that he actually cares. I start to shake my head, more tears threatening to spill, but then I force myself to get a damn grip.
“I’m fine,” I say, turning my head to look out the window.
WILL
Luna jumps out of the car, slamming the door behind her, and runs up to the front door. I watch her go and then let out the breath I’ve been holding. Five weeks, six days to go, I tell myself. I can manage. My tours of duty were ten times that.
I wonder if I should have kept quiet when she was crying and not asked her if she was okay, not spoken to her at all, in fact, because the look she shot me was almost lethal. I guess she prefers the help to be seen and not heard, but I thought she was having a heart attack, the way she was gasping for breath. Now that I think about it some more, though, I wonder if she wasn’t having a panic attack. My mom had a few when I was a kid, before my dad was arrested and sent to jail for domestic assault. Maybe that’s what Luna takes the pills for. Maybe it’s medication to help soothe anxiety.
I glance down at the discarded burger on the floor of the car and the crumpled-up napkins. I suppose I need to clean that up before I give the car back to Marty. Sighing, I drive around to the rear of the house and pull up by the back door.
I empty the trash out of the car, finding Luna’s shoes beneath the burger bag. They’re childlike in their size and have several complicated buckles and straps. They honestly look like implements of torture that have been given a glittery makeover by Barbie-obsessed toddlers.
“It’s like Cinderella.”
I look up to find Marty walking toward me. He nods at the shoes I’m holding.
“You brought her back okay, then?” he asks.
“Yeah, she’s gone inside,” I answer, nodding toward the house.
“I meant the car,” he answers, walking around to inspect it.
I hand him the keys. “It’s fine, apart from the scratch on the bumper.”
His eyes boggle and I let his face turn the shade of an eggplant before I say, “Joking. The car’s fine.”
He snatches the keys from my hand. “You’re not Prince Charming, you know,” he says, nodding at the pair of shoes I’m still holding. “She’s Cinderella, but you’re more like a peasant who works in the castle.”
I grit my teeth and stare at him.
“By that I mean you’re supposed to melt into the background and do your job without getting in the way of the main actors. Understood?”
I get what he’s saying, and it irritates the hell out of me. He’s insinuating I’m interested in the limelight or in being some kind of savior, when neither idea could be further from the truth. Although, maybe I’m feeling so triggered by his insult because there is some truth to it. Not the limelight, but needing to be a savior.