Courtney
One year later…
“Order up!” Keith hollers from the back.
I shove my bookmark into a book I borrowed from the library and hustle over to the window. Keith gives me an encouraging wink that always works to lift my spirits. I grab a tray and fill it with baskets of piping hot food.
Friday nights are usually my big tip nights, but today it’s dead. The high school is having a football scrimmage to welcome the incoming ninth graders. It’s a big deal for our small town, which means anyone who is someone is there.
Except me.
And Mr. and Mrs. Hawkins.
“About time,” Mrs. Hawkins snips when I arrive at their table. She was a regular at Hamby’s Diner long before I ever worked here.
Back when she worked here.
A pang slices through my chest and I do my best to ignore it. I’ve had too many fragile days—as I call them—lately and I can’t afford to have another one. On those days, I lose myself to my dark thoughts and can’t get out of bed. Thankfully, Keith has been a godsend. Not long after what happened with Raven, I lost my job at the country club. I missed too many days. Keith of all people should hate me the most, but he’s one of the few who shows kindness to me. He gave me a job while I awaited my sentencing and said it’d still be there after my stint in jail.
“I asked for no pickles,” Mrs. Hawkins snaps when she lifts her bun. “Are you stupid, child?”
I blink at her and swallow down the emotion clogging my throat. “N-No. You didn’t say that. You always get pickles.” It’s true. She gets the same thing every time.
“Not today,” she exclaims, her voice shrill.
Mr. Hawkins grunts. “Today she asked for no pickles. For each second you spend arguing, that’s money coming off your tip.”
That’s a lie, though.
They never tip me.
Unless you count nasty notes scribbled on napkins.
My eyes prickle with tears and I take the burger basket back. “I’m sorry. I’ll get it remade.”
As soon as my back is turned, Mrs. Hawkins mutters, “It’s disgusting that they hire murderers here. Why do we even come to this restaurant?”
I rush away from them and blink desperately to chase off the tears. Of course they come, they always do. By the time I reach the window, Keith is waiting for me with a frown on his face.
“I overheard and threw a patty on the grill. They’re just giving you a hard time,” he grumbles. “Chin up, buttercup.”
I give him a wobbly smile because he’s one of the few people who can cheer me up. Keith isn’t much older than my mom and has assumed a fatherly role from the moment I stepped into his establishment screaming for Raven.
It was Keith who accompanied Mom and me to the trial.
It was Keith who has run out countless patrons not long after Raven died for harassing me.
It was Keith who looked after me when I felt like my world was going to crumple in on itself.
“I’m not a murderer,” I whisper, mostly to myself. But deep down, I know. It’s true. Had I not led Raven on and let things get out of hand, she’d be here today. I humiliated her and pushed her right over the edge. Not one minute of each day goes by where I don’t regret deceiving her.
“You’re not. You were sentenced accordingly,” Keith assures me, his voice quiet as he dresses the bun without pickles this time.
My mind drifts to the day I discovered my fate at the courtroom.
Guilty.
I’ve been found guilty of the wrongful death of Raven Louise Murray.
My mother rubs my back as a pained sob rips from me. The judge is rattling off things I can hardly clutch onto and retain. Ninety days in jail for aggravated stalking. Six months of community service.
Felony. Felony. Felony.
The room spins around me and I grip the edge of the table to keep from falling from my chair. People are shouting behind me.
It’s not fair.
She deserves more.
This is an outrage.
Tears roll down my cheeks and soak my skirt. If I could take it all back, I would. I’d rewind to the day Whitney had her bright idea and stop it all. The very mention of my best friend has me crying harder.
Whitney got away without so much as a slap on her hand. She denied everything I said against her and her fancy lawyer dad made sure her perfect life was untouched. While I awaited trial, Whitney went off to Northwestern.
College is out of the question for me.
I now have a felony on my record.
I’m still processing my future when I feel his hateful gaze. It’s followed me for the duration of the trial. With one simple look, he’s able to slice my heart open and see all the dirty contents.
Stupid me always looks his way.
It’s as though I crave his punishment.
I deserve it.
It’s the least I can do for Raven.
Dragging my head to the side, I meet his vicious glare. His jaw is hard and flexes as though he’s desperately trying to hold in words that would have the power to hurt me.
I wish he’d free them.
In some ways, I welcome the pain of them.
Nothing will bring her back, but some verbal lashings would be a step closer in paying for my sins.
His nostrils flare as he regards me with disgust. Rome Murray sits beside his sickly looking father as if they’re a unified front, but neither of them has spoken during the entire trial. Rome seemed out of place at first wearing his suit that looks like maybe a hand-me-down from his father. I’d only ever seen him before in hoodies and jeans.
When an officer asks me to stand so he can place the cuffs on me, my heart tightens in my chest. I’m afraid. I don’t know what to expect. I’m better suited for tea parties and tennis and cheerleading. Not jail.
At seeing my fear, Rome does something that shocks me.
He smiles.
It’s beautiful and terrifying all at once.
And then he laughs. Cold. Hard. Hateful. Cruel.
I deserve this. I deserve it all.
I’m so sorry, Raven.
“Don’t let them get to you,” Keith says as he sets the burger basket on the ledge in front of me. “Why don’t you take off after this? We’re dead and I can manage any stragglers on my own.”
I don’t have the heart to tell him I need the money, though.
After the trial, my mom had to liquidate every single asset that was left over from my dad’s death to pay for the court fees and the monies I was later sued by the Murray family for. Nine hundred fifty thousand dollars in punitive damages awarded to the plaintiff. A time or two, she’s struggled to make our house payment and talks more frequently about selling my childhood home. I’d told her I’d figure out a way to pay the restitution on my own, because I was eighteen and it was my mess, but my mother wouldn’t have any of it.
My actions had so many ripple effects.
So many people were impacted by my stupidity.
This job is my only hope for a future. Over the summer, I spoke with a counselor at the local community college. I wanted to know if college was a consideration now that I have a felony on my record. They assured me that they accept those students on a case-by-case basis. However, I wouldn’t be eligible for any Pell grants or financial aid since those were government assistance and they aren’t keen on helping those who wronged against them. If I wanted to go to college, I had to save up for it and pay for it myself.
Right now, I have enough saved up for one semester. I’ll have to keep working at the diner through the fall semester in hopes to get the money for the spring term.
“I’ll stay another hour,” I call out over my shoulder to Keith. “Then I’ll head out.”
As I approach Mr. and Mrs. Hawkins, I feel like shriveling up on the inside. She looks at me over her glasses with disdain, as though I’m carrying a basket full of diseases rather than her hamburger.
“About time. I’ve filled up on French fries, though. I can hardly even think about touching this burger now,” she huffs as she jerks it from my grip. She makes a great show of checking under each layer for pickles.
“Do you need anything else?” I give them my fake, plastic smile I have to use a lot at the diner. The bell chimes and some people come in. “I’ll be with you in a minute!” I call out to them as I wait for any more instructions from this grumpy couple.
“I’d like to eat in peace,” Mr. Hawkins grumbles. “Without you hovering.”
I grit my teeth and nod. On the way to my new table, I grab a handful of menus and head over. When I reach the table, I lift my gaze. Three men. Not just any men.
Rome Murray.
Two of his friends.
Shit.
Rome looks harder than I remember. Edgier. Meaner. He certainly didn’t have the giant raven tattoo on the side of his neck last time I saw him. One wing of the bird spreads out over the front of his throat just under his Adam’s apple and the other wing wraps around the back of his neck. His black hair is less shaggy than I remember. It’s buzzed short on the sides and back, but the hair on top is longish, flopping down across one of his brows. If I wasn’t afraid of him, I’d be captivated by him.
“I, uh, um,” I choke out as I drop the menus on the table with a trembling hand.
Rome sits on one side of the booth alone and his eyes bore into me. I chance a look at him. Last time I saw him was months and months ago at the hearing. Tonight, I’m shocked to see him wearing a fitted wife beater. No hoodie. No long-sleeved shirt.
Bare arms.
Tattooed, muscular arms.
I always assumed he was thin and twiggy, but now I can see I was wrong.
He looks like he could crush me.
The evil glint in his glare says he’d like to.
“I want a vanilla shake, Diner Barbie,” one of the guys opposite of Rome says with a laugh. The guy has a shaved head but has a burly brown beard. He’s older, maybe late thirties. His stomach is rounded from probably drinking too many milkshakes.
I frown but scramble to get my pad out from my apron. “Uh, sure. And you?” I ask the other man. This guy has darker skin and nearly black eyes. He’s not as jovial as his friend.
“Coke.”
Swallowing, I turn to regard Rome. His eyes have never moved. He continues to stare unabashedly at me. “Do you have any specials? Like resurrection of the dead?” he sneers.
I’m so taken aback by his question that I stumble back a step. Heat floods up my throat and settles on my cheeks, but it’s the tears I have trouble containing. His words make me think of her.
PoetPrincess99: Do you think we come back as something else when we die? I want to come back as a raven like my namesake.
LonelyLogan69: My mom says we go to heaven or hell.
PoetPrincess99: Your mom lacks imagination. What do you think?
LonelyLogan69: What if we don’t come back at all? What if we go nowhere? What if it’s the end and this is the only life we have?
PoetPrincess99: When did you get so deep?
My phone buzzes and she sends a selfie. Her pink lips are pursed and her brows are furled together in a contemplative way.
PoetPrincess99: I like my way better. I don’t want to be dust that gets blown away and forgotten.
LonelyLogan69: No one could ever forget you.
It’s true. We’ve been talking for a month now and I feel closer to Raven than I do to Whitney. I hate that it’s all a farce. One day I will tell her. Just not today.
“Is she missing a few brain cells too?” the bearded guy questions.
“I’m s-sorry.” My words are barely a whisper.
“Water,” Rome snaps.
I rush away from them and escape so I can make their drinks. I want to run away altogether. The last thing I want to do is serve Rome. He probably wishes it were me who died that day. I press my eyes closed for a moment to keep the tears at bay and let out a ragged sigh. When I reopen my eyes, I catch my reflection in the dark window. I don’t even look like myself anymore. At one time, I had silky smooth platinum blond hair that my mom spent a lot of money on every six weeks. Now, my hair is a wavy mess piled up on top of my head in a bun. The bright blond is replaced by my natural golden honeyed color. My face that once was painted to perfection remains makeup free, showcasing freckles I used to hate but no longer find it in me to care. It’s my eyes that are different, though. They don’t twinkle and shine. They’re dull and bloodshot and always sad.
Mr. and Mrs. Hawkins leave as I’m finishing up. I notice Keith assisted them with paying their tab. From my vantage point, I can see two dollars sitting on the edge of the table that I know didn’t come from them. Keith will sometimes sneak money on tables as if I don’t know that he’s secretly trying to help me out. Neither of us speaks about it, but it means the world to me that he cares so deeply.
“I’m going to dump the trash out back. Will you be okay?” he asks as I push the straw into the milkshake and top it with whip cream. His eyes dart over to the table of guys.
“Of course,” I breathe.
He gives me another wink before disappearing to the back. I swallow down my unease and load my tray up. Their stares are on me as I approach, but I don’t dare meet their gazes this time. I set down each drink and then discard the tray on a nearby table before grabbing my tablet.
“What can I get you guys?”
“My sister.”
Another slice of pain rips through my chest and like the sucker I am, I dart my eyes to Rome’s. This time, he regards me with a bored expression. As if I’m shit on the bottom of his shoes.
“Rome—”
“Cheeseburger. No onions,” he barks out, interrupting me.
The other guys tell me their orders and I scribble it all down, hoping not to forget anything. Just as I’m about to turn and take their order to the kitchen, the dark-skinned man knocks over his glass of Coke. It runs along the table and off the edge right onto my tennis shoes.
“Oh!” I cry out as the soda soaks through to my socks.
“My bad,” he grunts.
The bearded guy laughs again like he’s insane. “Fuckin’ clumsy ass.”
Rome simply smirks.
I rush away to grab a towel but slip in the Coke. I land hard on my knee and cry out in pain. This earns more laughter from all three men. Tears have no hope for staying in their place and spring free. They careen down my cheeks as I scramble back to my feet. The throbbing in my knee is intense and I have to hobble over to where we keep the rags. I keep my eyes averted when I return and squat beside the table to sop up the sticky mess.
“Missed some,” Rome mutters and I hear splashing under his foot.
I crawl farther under the table, reaching forward to clean up the puddle. I’m just soaking it up when Rome’s heavy combat boot presses on top of my hand, pinning it to the ground.
“Ah!” I cry out as pain radiates from where he has me trapped.
He presses hard enough that I fear he might break my hand.
The dark-skinned guy makes a comment about my ass and then he slaps it hard. I jerk at my hand, but I’m unable to move it. The guys all roar with laughter. Rome then lifts his foot and allows me my freedom.
I fly out from beneath the table and back on my feet. My heart is racing and I’m shaking.
“What, sheep?” Rome asks in an almost innocent way.
Sheep?
“You hurt me,” I accuse, my words breathy and trembling.
His eyes narrow and his nostrils flare. “You. Hurt. Me. First.”