Hello, my name is Loser

Chapter 7: Bobby got back (muscles)

I text mom for the fifth time asking if I can come home and unsurprisingly she replies: "No." The sun has migrated to late afternoon and I can feel the sting of sunburn on my cheeks. My tank top is dark in places where the sweat has pooled and my jeans stick to my legs. Uncomfortable is an understatement. I scan the empty street before picking a wedgie. Everyone else is probably packed at the lake by now or indoors languishing in their AC.

Assuming my brother's party starts around nightfall, I have about five hours to kill. I squint up at the sky. What started out as a welcome retreat from reality was becoming a nightmare for my thighs, which now burn – and my ass hurts. I rub it miserably as I wheel my bike beside me.

I'd traced and retraced every road in this god forsaken town and now my legs refuse to go any further. I consider sneaking back into the garage despite my mother's refusal, but as tempting as it is I don't want to unnecessarily rock the boat before I figure out a plan A; otherwise known as the direction of my life. It's troubling to think I can't just keep lying to them forever about graduating early, but it'll be even more troubling if when the Fall comes I'm still here. Jobless.

My feet kick up dirt as I step into the parking lot of Sunny's, the local diner. After traveling the figure eight road (too many times to count) that runs through the middle of town and past the lake, it spat me out here. The parking lot is decently full; now I know where some locals are hiding. I drop my rickety bike near the front entrance, too tired to care if someone steals it, and pad through the entrance. A bell chimes above my head.

There are booths lining a long wall of windows, only interrupted by the front doors, running parallel to them is bar seating. Two servers are on the floor at opposite ends, busy with customers and a chef, visible through a window behind the bar, yells, "Order up!"

"Good afternoon! I'll be with you in just a second," A waiter calls over his shoulder, as he sets down a customer's food at the bar.

"Sure, no rush," I mumble even though I'm fucking starving and want him to rush like his life depends on it. My stomach growls loudly and I wonder if he can hear it above the din of voices.

He starts layering dirty dishes on his arms until he's carrying enough plates to fill an entire dishwasher. My eyes linger on the back muscles flexing under his white t-shirt.

He glances in my directions, "I'll be right back to take your order if..." Whoah. He's beautiful.

And I'm staring. Am I staring? Wait, is he staring? His eyes are brown like honey, elegantly curved in a tan face with high cheekbones and framed by chin length black hair, currently tucked behind his ears.

He clears his throat and I blink, "...if you want to take a seat over there or at the bar." His chin jerks at a booth in the far corner against the wall, "I'll be right back with a menu."

I manage, "Right, yeah, sure, of course."

Right now I'm cursing my disheveled appearance and wish I'd applied another coat of deodorant this morning. As I make my way to the corner I feel eyes on me. It seems my reappearance in Brokenstone has not gone unnoticed.

Either that or they're just concerned by the sight of a sweaty, sunburnt girl waddling stiffly by. The worn cushion of the booth is a welcome respite from the butt destroyer bike seat.

"I guess you avoided other collisions on your way here." A menu slides in front of me and I look up to find the waiter smirking at me.

It takes me a minute to reach the only conclusion, "That was you earlier?"

He nods, "Turns out you're still shit at riding a bike." I remember how he flipped me off as he rode away this morning.

"Excuse me? I'm actually a child prodigy at bicycling, sir. You're the one that almost hit me.I don't know you but –"