“You mean about my car?” I asked, confused.
“No, about dinner.” His eyes widened. They were so brown I could see myself in them. “Maybe Red Lobster or Olive Garden.”
I felt my cheeks flush. I said, “Yes, I’d like that.”
“Good,” he said with a happy nod. He stuck the pen behind his ear and reached for the door handle. “We’ll get you in and out as quickly as possible. If you’d like to wait in the lounge, there’s coffee and donuts.”
I watched him walk away. He had a cute, tight ass beneath the blue uniform pants. He glanced back over his shoulder at me and smiled again as if he knew I was checking him out.
He called me the next day and we went to Red Lobster for dinner the following Friday night. We quickly became inseparable, at least until he went somewhere that I could not go.
* * *
Brent and I met on Tuesday, January 24th.
We always did silly little anniversaries every month; the anniversary of our first date, the anniversary of our first kiss, the anniversary of the first time we made love in the little apartment he shared with his best friend, Wesley. The anniversary of the night he asked me to marry him.
Sunday, July 24th was the six-month anniversary of the day we met. I came up with the brilliant idea of recreating our first date. We went back to Red Lobster for dinner. I had grilled scampi and Brent had popcorn shrimp. I drank a margarita and Brent drank two glasses of sweet tea. The bill was the same and Brent left the exact same tip. The only difference between then and now was that I was desperately, hopelessly in love. I had met the man of my dreams. We were to be married on Saturday, October 15th in the little Baptist Church where Brent’s dad was an elder. Our families were thrilled. I already had my dress.
We were in Brent’s truck, a two-year-old Ford F-150 that he loved just a little less than he loved me. He was so proud of that truck. His dad had it now, though he never drove it. It just sat in the driveway, where Brent parked when he came home to visit. The bullet holes were still in the windshield and the back glass. His dad had duct-taped a piece of cardboard over the busted-out passenger side window. I think that he thought that having the truck repaired would somehow mean that he had accepted his only son’s death. Brent’s dad and I were a lot alike. Neither of us would ever let that happen.
It was just after eight o’clock when we left Red Lobster. It was the middle of summer and even though the sun was just going down, the air was still sticky and hot. We had the windows up and the AC blasting. We were going back to our little apartment to consummate our anniversary.
Sex with Brent was always quick and simple (there’s that word again). Even though he was twenty-six and good looking, he’d only been with one other girl before me, so his skills in the bedroom were somewhat awkward and a little bland. I’d had sex with four guys, one of them a lot older than me, and had done pretty much everything you could imagine, but I never suggested we do anything more than a little fingering foreplay and the quick missionary position to Brent. He was the sensitive type; deeply religious and wholesome. Telling him I wanted him to eat my pussy or that I wanted him to shove his cock into my mouth probably would have scared him to death. Brent was such a good guy, I could live with bland sex if it meant we would be together forever. At least that’s what I kept telling myself. If Brent couldn’t satisfy me, I could satisfy myself.
I was fiddling with the radio when I felt the truck slow. I looked up to see that we were pulling into a convenience store parking lot.
“What are we doing?” I asked.
“We’re out of milk,” he said with a wink. “I know how you have to have your Frosted Flakes in the morning.”
“Am I really that big of a creature of habit?” I asked.
“You are,” he said, putting the truck into gear. He left the engine running so I’d have air while he ran into the store.
“Need anything else?” he asked.
“Just you,” I said with a smile. “Hurry.”
I watched him get out of the truck and go inside the store. From the corner of my eye, I saw a black car pull in and park a couple of spaces over. I didn’t pay the car much mind.
I heard two doors slam but didn’t look up because my phone was buzzing. It was my sister sending a text: Mom wants to know if you and Brent want to come to Sunday dinner. My mom didn’t know how to text, so we often communicated through my sister. I settled back in the seat and started texting my reply.
A loud bang coming from inside the convenience store jarred me. The phone slipped from my hands and tumbled to the floor. I dug my fingers into the dash and leaned in to stare through the windshield.
I could see two men inside the store. One was in front of the counter, holding a gun, the other was behind the counter with his hand digging into the cash drawer. The man who I’d seen standing behind the counter a minute ago was gone. I assumed he was on the floor, wounded or maybe dead.
“Oh my god, Brent,” I heard myself say. I started to reach for the door handle. Brent appeared at the end of the aisle next to the beer coolers. He was holding a gallon of milk in his left hand and a convenience store red rose in his right. When he saw the two men at the counter, he held up his hands and said something.
He glanced my way.
Our eyes met for just a second.
The man with the gun aimed it at the jug of milk in Brent’s right hand and pulled the trigger. The plastic jug exploded and milk went everywhere. The two men looked at each other and laughed. Brent’s hand was bloody, injured. He clutched it to his chest and backed into the beer cooler. He shook his head and held out the hand clutching the rose.
The man aimed the gun at Brent’s head and pulled the trigger.
The glass cooler behind Brent splattered with blood.