“You were a waitress?”
“Yeah. I’ve done dishes, worked as a cashier once at a grocery store. That was the wors
t job I’ve had, actually. People just look at you like you’re garbage,” she frowns. “I’ve worked in a beauty shop, cleaning up tanning beds after the people leave and sweeping up hair and stuff.”
“When? High school? Now?”
“My whole life,” she shrugs. “I did a lot of those while I was in high school. I’d go to school and then work the hours I was allowed under the law. And then, sometimes, I’d work at another place and they’d just pay me under the table so I didn’t get in trouble with school.”
“That must have been really hard,” I note, thinking about how hard I thought it was going to school and helping Dad out on the weekends.
She smiles. “It wasn’t easy. But that discipline got me where I am today.” Her finger runs around the rim of her glass as she thinks. “It’s where my work ethic comes from. If I wanted a tank of gas or car insurance, I had to get the money for it. If I wanted the fancy jeans with the sparkly pockets, I had to hustle for that. It sucked then, but I’m not afraid to work now for what I have. Or what I want.” She looks at me, her eyes shining in the dim light. “That’s why I respect you so much, Graham. I see your work ethic and I admire that. There aren’t a lot of people that will just do the job, you know?”
“Yeah, I know,” I chuckle. “I replaced your position about fourteen times before you showed up.”
The waiter places our food in front of us. He takes a minute to chat with Mallory, making sure she’s completely happy and comfortable. Watching her get doted on is amusing and witnessing her sweetness shine with Donnie is special. It’s not something I’ve seen often.
“So,” I say, “what do you want to do with yourself? You don’t want anything in the field of medicine, that we know. What are you thinking?”
“Honestly?” She slices her chicken breast carefully, her lips pressing together. Finally, she shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“How do you not know?”
Her hair swishes back and forth as she shakes her head. “I tell Joy I’m having a mid-life crisis,” she half-laughs. “I’ve spent my entire life, since turning eighteen, doing what I needed to do or what Eric wanted me to do.”
“I don’t think I like him.”
“I don’t. So that’s two of us,” she sighs. “I let him manipulate me. In the moment, I didn’t realize it, but I see it now.”
I set my silverware on the edge of my plate and look at her. “What happened with him? Do you mind me asking?”
Her fork drops too. “When I told him I was dropping out, he went ballistic. He said I was a liability to him, a nobody that would never amount to anything. There was something in the way he said it that time—”
“He’d said those things before?” I bite out, feeling my irritation soar.
She shrugs, trying to play it off. “Maybe. But that time . . . he just made me feel really bad. I don’t know why it was different that time than before. It was just a really ugly argument.”
“Explain ugly,” I say, narrowing my eyes.
“No,” she says, reading between the lines. “Nothing happened. God, no. He’s still alive. If he would have hurt me physically, I’d be locked up.”
“Mental abuse and physical abuse are no different.”
“I know,” she whispers. “But I made a decision that day that I’d had enough. I was at this point where I felt so . . . put in a corner. Does that make sense? Like my whole life was being scripted by someone else. I’d never done anything I wanted to do.” I fiddle with the corner of my napkin. “And it’s not like he even promised me the world for hanging in there. He told me flat-out we had no future.”
“He sounds like a complete tool.”
“Apparently I’m just the dating kind, not the kind for marriage.” Her eyes flick to mine with a sadness that slays me. I reach for her hand.
“You know what I think?”
“What’s that?”
“I think he’s right.”
Her gaze drops to the table, her shoulders slumping. I grin.
“You are just the dating kind for a guy like that. He doesn’t deserve to keep you long-term.”