Unexpected

“Ellie.” I surprise myself, choosing the name Asher’s given me over Lainey. I shake June-B’s hand and her grin stretches wider.

“The infamous girlfriend.” She reaches under the counter and pulls out a tall glass. “Strawberry or vanilla?”

“Uh…” I have no clue what she’s asking for, but if I have to choose then, “Strawberry.”

“A girl after my own heart.” June-B winks then shuffles over to the ice cream bin and slides the glass top open. “I thought Asher was pulling my leg when he said he’d finally settled down, but here you are.”

“Settled down?” I ask, my mind whirling. Asher told someone about me. About us. Does that mean he's having fun fake dating? Might he, maybe, want to take the fake part out of our arrangement? I squirm with excitement then take a breath. I have to calm down or I'm going to blow my cover.

“Oh, heavens.” June-B stands upright and dumps the strawberry ice cream into the blender. She reaches for some milk, pours that in with a dash of sugar, and then tops her whittling machine. “You’re not her, are you?”

June-B frowns, then flips a switch, bringing the blender to life. Once it’s all mixed, she pours the shake into a glass, adds a touch of whipped cream, then tops it off with a cherry. She sets the milkshake in front of me and says, “on the house.”

“Who did you think I was?” I pull the paper off my straw, then take a sip. It’s perfect, not too sweet but still heavenly.

Asher pushes through the swinging double doors with a plate in his head. He beams at me as he sets it on the paper placemat in front of me. “One cold, black train. A cheese-stuffed patty topped with lettuce, tomato, a hearty onion ring, ketchup, and spicy mayo. No mustard because you hate the stuff.”

My cheeks blush, amused that once again he knows something about my food preferences I haven't told him. And then I see the burger and my eyes 'bout bulge out of my head. “That burger is freaking huge!”

“Don’t be intimidated, El. We both know it’s not the biggest thing you’ve had in your mouth this week.” He winks and I throw an onion ring at him. I hated giving Liam blow jobs. It was a chore that took a lifetime and he’d have a fit if I didn’t swallow. But the idea of taking Asher in my mouth isn’t as unappealing as I originally thought it would be. Maybe one day. I smirk and look down at my plate again.

“This looks amazing.” I pick the burger up with both hands and sink my teeth in it. Warm and juicy, with a hint of spice but not so hot that it’s unenjoyable.

Asher’s grin stretches as he watches grease drip down my chin. “So, what kind of trouble were you stirring up, June-B?”

“Oh, you know.” She flicks her wrist in my direction, then grabs a stack of napkins to refill the containers. “I was just about to ask this pretty thing if she was your girlfriend, or could at least tell me if the little lady exists.”

Asher’s cheeks flush. I’ve never seen him look so boyish and vulnerable. He tucks his lips between his teeth and I have the sudden urge to kiss them. We haven’t kissed since the party. That was twelve long days ago. Sure, he’s dropped sweet nothings against my cheek or shoulder at school, but those kisses are nothing compared

to what we shared that night.

“And?” Asher asks expectantly. “What’s it gonna be? Are you my girl, Ellie?”

The bite of burger in my mouth sticks in my throat. I chase it with a swallow of milkshake, then wipe my chin with a napkin. “Didn’t we have this conversation a few weeks ago?”

Asher rests his elbows on the counter. He leans in close. So close that I can smell the mint gum in his mouth. “I'm making sure you haven't changed your mind.”

I smile back at him feeling my heart flutter. "Never."

“You’re late,” Clint hollers from the couch as I stride through the doors of our twenty-year-old double wide. Mom and I, we’ve lived here my whole life, and each year something else in our home decides to break. It's not worth the cost to fix it, but it's also not our responsibility. We have a landlord, but all he's good for is collecting rent.

Clint, my mom’s pathetic excuse for a boyfriend the last ten years, contributes by paying for the beer in his cooler. That’s it. Mom, she busts her ass at the same diner I work at, day in and day out, just to keep us on our feet. She handles the rent and electricity. I help with the water and cable as well as pay for my cellphone and gas. Food is an afterthought, if there’s any money left.

“I said,” Clint huffs, a cloud of smoke seeping from the couch to the kitchen, “you're late.”

Our trailer has two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and the rest is open space. The kitchen, dining room, and living room are all one area, separated by the change from carpet to fake tile. A long time ago, they matched: white to white. Now the vinyl has faded to tan and the carpet is brown from the dirt dragged in.

I like to think that at one time this was a nice home. If we had the money, it could be again, but priorities take place and as long as the leaks in the roof don’t spread to the TV or over our beds, repairs stay at the bottom of the list. Besides, I'd have to hustle to get the money, and I try to stay out of the neighborhood’s business.

“Work.” I shut the fridge, wishing I had taken June-B up on her offer for a free meal. Every night she reminds me to eat before shift change and nine out of ten times, I refuse. I’d rather go to bed hungry than take a handout because I’ve learned nothing in life is free.

“That’s no excuse, boy. Your curfew is eleven-thirty and it's after midnight. You were with that whore again. Weren't you?” Clint pushes himself out of his recliner.

When Mom and him first started dating, he seemed to have it all. A steady job working in construction, a new truck, strong hands, and motivation. He was everything my mother wanted: a partner, a role model, but most importantly, financial stability. It wasn’t long before his true colors began to show.

I grit my teeth. Ellie is not a whore, but I'm too tired to fight. She left the dinner around nine, just in time, because Bane McCarron and his crew showed up fifteen minutes later. They claim they're not a gang, instead calling themselves vigilantes, but when you come into a restaurant, eat for two hours, and don't have to pay, you're no Robin Hood.

“I’m not your boy,” I remind Clint, like I do every time he says it. “Thank God for that.”