SomeWhere On... (BXB)

Day 2 (...Post Road)

His aunt wanted to take us out. That's what Murph said, but he insisted it'd make more sense for us to go out on our own. I had some money saved up, but his aunt insisted on giving us some anyway.

It's my last night, too, so it makes sense to go out.

The drive there's uncomfortable. Not just because I can't drive and Americans drive on the wrong side of the road. Or because I'm still sore from venting frustrations with Murph. But because Murph isn't saying anything important.

I want to smack him.

I mean, he's definitely better than he was before I came. He's almost his normal self. Murph's sprouting facts about the Titanic and da Vinci's inventions, but it feels forced. His hands keep twisting the steering wheel, and he squirms when we have to stop at traffic lights.

I don't bother asking what's wrong. I can't stand dodgy answers.

So I don't say anything.

So he stops spewing facts.

I feel like the guy sitting us at the restaurant was really close to asking if we were okay. Like, at all. Because Murph looks like he's burning holes into the menus and I probably look really frustrated.

Which I am.

But it's also because my back hurts just sitting in the chair. The look Murph makes when he sits is just as painful. So, obviously, we either got everything out of us, or we outdid it. I'll put my money on the latter.

I put up my menu and try to think of something. We haven't talked about anything since I, uh, apologised. After that, Murph showered off and mostly just been trying to distract himself with working on different proposal stuff from work.

He's also been putting off talking about it, which makes me want to strangle him.

The restaurant's classy. The room's decked out in red, brown, black, and gold, and there's a statue of a bull in the middle of the room. There's an open kitchen on the far side of the room. On the other side of the restaurant was a far. It's pretty nice.

If this was London, I probably wouldn't be allowed in.

But this isn't London. Thank God.

"Murph, talk to me," I whisper, vision peaking over the top of the menu.

He's hiding behind the damn thing.

I drop my menu, and it rattles the wine, champagne, and water glasses. Folding it down, I tapped his menu. "Murph. You can't do this right now."

So this fuckwit throws down his menu and knocks over two glasses. One lands on the floor. Murph then kneels down to clean up the glass, but a waitress comes over and tries to dissuade him from doing it, but he's got his "LET ME HELP YOU" face.

The entire restaurant's watching him argue with this brunette waitress. He sounds like he's about to cry.

And I want to fucking kill something.

Two minutes later, Murph slips into his chair, frowning big while the waitress finishes sweeping up the glass. "I'm sorry," he whispers as she walks away. "I'm sorry," he whines louder.

I sigh. I'm not even looking at him. My face is in his hands. "Murph – "

"I know, I know," he sighs, sinking into his seat. "I'm sorry."

I look at him. "L - Murph, it's my last day here. We have to talk about this." My foot brushes against the leather of his shoe. "And you know we have to talk about it."