Broken

one.

"How much you say? I can't even put it into words, that's how much." Courtney's lips curled into a smirk as she ruffled my hair from across the table.

I chuckled, giving her somewhat of a side eye, "Why you always lyin'..?" After that I couldn't help but to burst into laughter.

Not taking my rendition as humorous, she crossed her arms, giving me this blank expression. I stretched my arms, with open palms across the booth we were sitting in so she could place her hands in mine.

Rejecting my peace offering, I was returned with a faint sigh and puppy dog eyes. "It makes me feel some type of way when you don't think I love you."

In and out of dark places in my life, I met Courtney in one of the lighter phases. I met her at a local park. Sitting in the grass, writing, completely zoned out when a tennis ball sprang into my side, a mastiff to shortly follow. A slightly bruised upper rib, a sincere apology, and a drawn out conversation under the setting of the sun later, we were here. Five months later. The connection that Courtney and I have is most definitely ... interesting. The development of such strong feelings within a short period of time does halt my thoughts about our relationship though, especially in instances as this one. The feeling isn't consensual. I like Courtney. I don't love Courtney.

"Chill giving me that face. It's not even like that." I told her, scooting out of the side I was on, to join her on the other side.

"What's it like then, Quentin? Hmm?"

"Look. . . I have to get back to work. I appreciate you coming to eat with me on my break. You know it's moments like these that keep me where I need to be." I caressed her face before placing a soft kiss on her cheek. With a light smack of her lips, she sighed softly at my subject change.

She'll get over it.

I placed the baseball cap with the restaurant's logo on my head, turning it to the back, as I made my way to the kitchen.

"Let's get the ball rolling, Quincy. We've got birthday parties, school dances, college mixtures, and a long list of pick up orders. You know what they all want? Pizza, Quan. They want pizza." My general manager's hearty voice yelled from across the kitchen while he swiftly folded together various sizes of pizza boxes.

"Lou, its Quentin, man." I laughed, telling him for the umpteenth time.

"Ah, whatever, Qdoba. Let's make some pizza!" He folded his last box, only to walk to our stock room to get more.