Monica Murphy: Four Years Later

I’m working until four only because I don’t have morning classes, so I can go back to my apartment and crash for a few hours. Kari, my best friend and roommate, is rarely there. She has a heavy schedule like me and she used to have a boyfriend. She stayed at his place, smoking joints and having sex all day and night with him, but then he dumped her.

I thought it was the best thing that ever could have happened to her. That guy was a loser. My friend picks the worst type of guy every single time. It’s like she prefers the bad boys. The ones who make her feel good sexually.

I know this because she loves to tell me all about her sexual escapades in graphic detail. I think she likes shocking me, which is fine. I actually soak up all those details and wonder exactly what the big deal is about sex.

It sounds kind of horrifying. Awkward. Painful. Demeaning. It makes me happy that I choose to be alone.

Mom hates that I work at the diner and tries as often as possible to convince me to quit, but I can’t. I need the job to pay for the extra expenses my scholarship doesn’t cover. I work two jobs and go to school full time. I’ll be a senior next year and then after that, I want to get my master’s in education. Not here, though.

I can’t wait to leave this town. It’s so not my scene. I can get into a college much closer to home, Walnut Creek. Well, we used to live in Walnut Creek, until we lost pretty much everything we had. Mom now lives in an apartment in Concord. She made me stay here so I wouldn’t have to face the scandal every day.

Her words, not mine.

Tonight the diner is quiet, but it’s Wednesday, so that’s normal. I shuffle from table to table, serving up giant plates of fries or nachos to the tables full of students. Breakfast to the two old dudes just off shift from the electrical plant, endless cups of coffee to the two guys who came in earlier to study for some crazy test they have coming up in less than six hours.

The usual.

That’s why I’m shocked when the door swings open approximately sixty minutes before my shift ends and in walks Owen Maguire with two other guys as big as him, though not as good-looking.

Crap . I hate that I even think like that.

I’ve never noticed him in here before, but who knows if I would have. I’m usually not thinking about hot guys. I’m usually just … working.

But this guy is different. I meet him once and I can’t forget him. His defiance is irritating, but his face … his eyes …

“Well, check you out.” His voice draws my attention and I snap my head up, our gazes locking. He’s smirking at me, a little wobbly on his feet, and I know in an instant he’s drunk.

Must have a fake ID to get into the bars, considering he’s only nineteen.

“Hi.” I flash the three drunk boys a brief smile before letting it fade. “Want a table?”

“Sure do,” Owen says, his smirk growing. I want to slap it off his face.

Or kiss it off.

Ignoring my disturbing thoughts, I lead them to a table, stepping away when Owen seems to get right up into my personal space. “Nice uniform,” he murmurs just before he slides into the booth.

I can smell beer on his breath and I wrinkle my nose. I’m wearing an ugly black polyester waitress uniform that is the dowdiest thing on the planet. It’s not like I’m trying to impress anyone, so I’ve never really had a problem with it before.

Yet for whatever reason, now I want to shed it like a snake sheds its skin. Just wiggle out of this ugly, unflattering dress and toss it in the trash. I hate that he’s seen me like this.

But I like seeing him.

“Something to drink?” I ask, casting my gaze at all three of them, not letting it linger on Owen. He might get the wrong idea, and I need his respect if I’m really going to be his tutor. I have a strong feeling that’s not going to work out, but a girl can hope.

You are not hoping. You’d rather not deal with him at all.

I’m such a liar.

His friends order Cokes and Owen asks for coffee, which surprises me. I leave the table and go behind the counter, preparing their drinks and ignoring the way my shaky knees want to knock together. I’m overreacting.

I both want him here and need him gone.

Irritation fills me at the way I’m thinking. Boys don’t affect me. I don’t care what he thinks, what he wants. So why is he making me feel all shaky and uneasy? I talked to him for ten minutes tops, and then, as if there’s some sort of magnetic pull between us, he shows up where I work. Smiles at me like he thinks it’s funny that he’s found me. Says rude cute things like nice uniform in that deep, rumbly voice of his, the one that sent a shiver down my spine.

I am acting like such a total girl, I’m beginning to hate myself.

Forcing myself to pretend he doesn’t matter, I go about my usual routine. I deliver their drinks, then take their order. Deliver it to the cook, then head back out onto the floor so I can wipe down the empty tables, refill napkin dispensers, and take money from the customers who are leaving one by one by one. Until the restaurant is pretty much empty with the exception of me; the cook; the other waitress, Paula; and Owen and his friends.

I take them their food, noting that Owen likes his coffee with a ton of cream. Why I want to store that bit of info for later like a squirrel stores nuts away for winter, I don’t know. It’s dumb. He makes me feel dumb.

And I don’t even know him. He doesn’t care about me. I’m that pain-in-the-ass girl he’s supposed to go see twice a week for an hour to bring up his grades. The one he tried to pay off so she’ll pretend she’s tutoring him and he won’t have to deal with her.

Jerk.

“Anything else?” I ask them minutes later as I drop the check on their table.

Owen slaps his hand against the piece of paper and drags it toward him. “I think that’s it.”

“Great.” I smile, but it feels brittle. “I can be your cashier or you can pay at the register.”

“Hey, what else can you be for us, huh?” one of Owen’s friends asks, making the other one laugh.

My cheeks are hot again and my mouth is open. I’m gaping at them like a dying fish, and thankfully Owen rushes to my defense. “Shut the hell up, Des.” He glances up at me, all traces of the buzzed foolish boy who first walked in here gone. “He’s drunk. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

“I know exactly what I’m saying,” drunken Des mumbles, clamping his lips shut when Owen shoots him a deadly stare.

“It’s all right,” I say, backing away from them slowly. “Take your time.”

I turn to flee from their table when I hear someone slide out of the booth, strong fingers curling around my upper arm and stopping me from leaving. He’s standing directly behind me, the warmth from his body seeping into mine, and I go completely still. Willing myself not to react, not to say something stupid and embarrass myself.

Look what he’s doing to me just by touching my arm. This sort of thing doesn’t happen to me. I don’t care about boys. I’ve been kissed a measly three times in my life, once by Cody Curtis the tongue thruster, and he definitely doesn’t count.

So twice. Twice I’ve been kissed, and I’m a virgin. A freaking virgin. Owen Maguire has “player” written all over him. I’m nothing to him.

So why is he touching me? Talking to me in that husky, low murmur of his that slides over me like slow, warm honey?

“… need to talk to you. About this tutoring thing,” he’s saying, and I wrench myself out of his grip, irritated that I didn’t pay attention to what he said at first.

“Just meet me Monday afternoon as scheduled and we should be good to go.” I turn to face him, a fake smile plastered to my face, and he stares at my lips for a long, breath-stealing second before he finally lifts those too-pretty green eyes up to meet mine.