The End Zone

“You didn’t have to do that,” I blurt, but still squeeze her into an embrace, my arm wrapped around her shoulder. We walk out to the orange and pink fall, toward the students’ parking lot.

“I know I didn’t, but I wanted to. So, are you and Sage a thing, or what?” She stops by her sensible blue Buick and fishes out the keys from her back pocket.

“Um, no. I kind of got freaked out yesterday at the possibility of him leaving the state in May and basically told him I’m calling things off. It all started with him telling me that he wanted me to be his fake girlfriend until graduation. Something about a Christmas event in New York, or something, so I think his telling people that we’re an item is more because of his mysterious plan and less about a love declaration,” I sullenly admit. Chelsea whips her head and gives me her best are-you-a-complete-idiot expression. It’s a cross between puzzled and annoyed.

“You seriously think he’s playing a game? You don’t know that he likes you?”

I shake my head. I mean, I do. I know Sage likes me a lot as a friend. It’s hard not to see it. We do so much for each other. But more than that? Romantically other than a lay? Nah. He had countless chances to ask me out, to blur the lines, to take a chance. Literally, a decade of opportunities ticked by. He saw me with boyfriends. On dates. At prom with Clay Jacobs. He never gave me any indication that he was even remotely jealous. No reason he caught a bad case of the feels all of a sudden.

“Jolie, he is crazy about you.”

“I don’t see it.”

“Well, you should, because everyone else does.”

I bite my lower lip and ponder. Maybe it’s true. Maybe I’m just being a bit of a bitch. I mean, what exactly am I expecting from him right now? A declaration that he’ll always be mine? A goddamn ring? Who knows what’s going to happen in May? All we have is today, and today matters.

“Okay, I’ll talk to him,” I say. Chelsea nods.

“I’ll give you a ride to work.” She winks.

“You’re the best.” And for the millionth time since I met her here a couple of years ago, I thank the Lord that He gave me one best friend that I love like a drug, and another who takes care of me like a fairy.



I tie my yellow apron around my waist in the employees’ room of the Happy Bunny. Trisha, my fifty-something-year-old colleague, coughs in my face, cigarette smoke drifting from her breath.

“All I’m sayin’ is, don’t let a man fool ya. They’re all the same, hotcakes. They will use you and leave you if you let them. Why buy the cow if you can get the milk for free? See what I mean?” She gathers phlegm and spits it into a trash can, her fire engine red curly hair littered with white cigarette ash. I pretend to fluff her mane when really, I’m just making sure she doesn’t lose all her tips and her job by sprinkling ash into people’s food like a Tinkerbell from hell.

“Yep.” I smile at her, not entirely sure why we’re talking about this. I haven’t told her a word about Sage. I was actually trying to strike up a conversation about the weather. Trish leaves the darkened room to yell at our manager-slash-diner-owner, Travis, and I immediately fish out my phone, texting my best friend. The one I left hanging.

Me: Let’s talk tonight?

He answers after less than five seconds.

Sage: Sure. Pick you up from work at eleven?

Me: Trish is giving me a ride back. She wants to talk about colleges bc her son is applying. I’ll see you at home?

Sage: K. Chilling at Barnie’s with the guys, but I’ll be there on time. Everything good?

Me: Yeah. I just think I owe you an apology for freaking out on you yesterday like that.

Sage: Honestly, the only thing I’m worried about is how it’s going to affect my relationship with your pussy, AKA my fiancée.

Me: So funny.

Sage: Also: so true.

Sage: But seriously, I don’t know what happened yesterday. Whatever it was, I want to get it fixed. You’re a part of my blood. I can’t change my DNA, but I sure as hell can change everything else to keep you close. Yeah?

This man. This. Man. Maybe Chelsea is right. Maybe I’m not seeing what’s so obviously clear to everyone else. Maybe Sage does like me in the same way that I like him.

Me: I hope you mean it.

Sage: I hope you know it. Speak soon x

The shift passes by in a blur. I don’t think I’ve ever made such great tips, even though I pretty much work on autopilot. I don’t feel tired or stressed or anxious. I’m just excited to see Sage at the end of my shift. Or maybe things go smoothly because business is so slow. Five hours into my shift, Travis saunters across the checkered black and white linoleum floors, braces one forearm over a red-hot booth, and slaps Trish’s ass with a loud smack. “Trish, Jol, take the rest of the night off. Split the tips in the jar. This place is deader than my old man. And he’s dead, all right. Has been dead for twenty years now.”

Insert: awkward giggle.

We nearly jump up and down with excitement and jog our way to Trish’s piece-of-trash car (her words, not mine). She calls her old puke-green Ford Aerostar Bob after the asshole who ran away from her when she was eight months pregnant with his kid. Luckily, Bob’s son is now seventeen and applying to colleges. A very different guy from his deadbeat dad.