“When I found out I was pregnant, I cried a lot and everyone just watched me.” Miranda’s voice vibrates on my shoulder. I try to look at her but can only see the top of her head. “Even Mom just looked at me and walked off. I remember thinking that I didn’t want anyone to tell me it would be okay, because that’s pointless. I just wanted someone to put their head on my shoulder and be there for me.”
“Oh, Randy,” I say, the tears falling harder now. I start to laugh. “I don’t even know why I’m crying, really. It’s not like Tyler and I were dating.” I wipe more tears off my face and take a deep breath. “This is so stupid.”
Miranda lifts her head. “Look at it this way. So what if he had a crush on Elizabeth? She’s taken.”
“That’s only a mildly good point,” I retort. I grab another chip. Depression has sunk in now and that always makes me eat.
“Come on,” Miranda nudges me with her elbow. “Where’s the fight in you? You can’t just give up that easily. Win him over.”
I open my mouth and say one word, “Eh.”
“You’re pathetic.”
I shrug.
She shakes her head like a disappointed mother. “You’re hotter than Elizabeth. You can win him over. I mean, look at those boobs! They’re almost as perky as mine.”
“Let’s change the subject, okay?”
She groans. “Okay, new subject. What do you want to talk about?”
“How was work?”
“Lame subject, new one.”
“You do realize that the only reason I’m staying in this totally worthless town is because you have a job, right? Tyler is now off my radar.”
“Don’t even act like you’re doing this for me. You’re doing it for Great Grandpa too.”
The whole room seems to swirl to a stop when she mentions Grandpa. I am a total selfish, boy-crazed, selfish, selfish, selfish asshole. How could I have completely forgotten about Grandpa like that? The photo. The mystery.
“You’re right. Let’s watch this stupid movie and then tomorrow I’m going to figure out why that photo is at the diner.”
Miranda beams. “That’s my girl!”
Chapter 8
The cook doesn’t even take a moment to think about it when I ask him about the photos in the counter. He just shrugs and pours my coffee. “You don’t know anything about how they got here?” I ask, prodding for any minuscule detail I can get.
“Naw, I don’t know nothing about that. Been here as long as I have.” The cook doesn’t have a name as far as I know, and he always looks like he’s purposely making a grumpy face. But I think that’s just the way his face is because no one could hold up the act of smooshing their face together for so many hours each day.
He grabs the salt shakers and begins refilling them even though they are more than three-quarters full. I think he just doesn’t want to talk to me. “Do you know anyone else who might be able to tell me about these photos?”
He shrugs. “Big Large, probably.” I open my mouth to ask another question but he turns on his heel and darts back into the kitchen. I’ve been ditched by the cook. Blatantly. It’s kind of embarrassing.
“Don’t you worry about him,” a throaty voice says from my left. I look over and see an elderly woman in a tie-dye shirt and black leggings sitting a few barstools down from me. She leans toward me and cups her hand over her mouth to shield her words from onlookers. Not that anyone is looking at us. “He’s autistic.”
“Oh,” I say with a nod. She smiles and goes back to eating, signaling that our conversation is over. I wish Miranda was here, but she’s passed out at home, preparing for her late shift tonight. The owner, also known as Big Large, waddles around the diner occasionally, never talking to anyone and always looking like he’s too busy to be bothered.
I’m not exactly sure how I could approach him to ask about the photos in the bar. Maybe I can get Miranda to do it.
The scent of berry shampoo smacks into me a split second before Elizabeth appears at my side. Her blond hair is down today instead of in its usual pony tail with wisps of hair falling out everywhere. She seems to have straightened it and if I’m not mistaken, she’s wearing a face full of makeup. It kind of ruins the small town charm she used to have.
“Hey girl,” she says, lightly touching my arm. I can’t help but like her, and then hate myself for liking her and then hate myself for hating myself. She’s really nice, and that’s just all there is to it.
“Hey,” I say, attempting a smile that shows no hint of my distain for the fact that Tyler likes her.
“Could you give me Miranda’s number? I need to see if she can cover a shift for me.” Elizabeth’s finger swipes over her phone screen. Her acrylic nails have pink glittery tips.