Clinton carries me into Denny's on his back, after somehow successfully managing to give me a piggyback ride from his car to the restaurant. "Hi," He giggles breathlessly to the hostess. "Two...two please."
"Yeah, follow me." I can tell she's trying to suppress a laugh as she speaks. I mean, I can't say I blame her. It's nearing five in the morning, and two grown ass adults just came into her Denny's; one in a man bun and the other one not wearing a man bun on his back.
Clinton slings me off of him and my bottom hits the red cushioning of the booth. Despite its outward appearance, the padding is practically nonexistent, and the force of the booth hurts my still sore pelvis. I won't mention it, though; it'll just make Clinton feel guilty, when it's not even his fault. None of this is his fault, yet he's taking so much of the blame for it. I know he has this immense feeling of culpability regarding the entire situation already, even though literally none of it is due to his actions. It's not his fault his brother's a piece of shit.
"Clint?" My voice becomes shaky as I avoid eye contact with him. "Can I...maybe get a lemonade?"
"Yeah! You can get whatever you want. What's wrong?" He sounds concerned now, and I sigh. I fucked up his good mood real quick.
"Mitchel didn't like me spending money." I shake my head.
"Honey," Clinton sighs, reaching across the table to grab my hand. "Get whatever you want. Don't worry about money. It's okay."
I nod, but just to make him happy. I know I'll still look for the cheapest thing on the menu.
When our waitress approaches, she introduces herself as Amelia, and apologizes for any delay that may occur, as she is the only waitress right now. Honestly, that's just bad scheduling on Denny's part (it's right after bars close in Los Angeles...where else would people be?) but I know it's not her fault.
Clinton takes over the duty of ordering our drinks as I browse the menu. It's a very small gesture, but one I am beyond grateful for. Though I'm calmer now, my brain is still not fully capable of processing and handling situations with its current state. Something as seemingly minuscule as ordering drinks could just be too much.
"What are you thinking?" He hums, eyes flicking up from his own menu.
"I'm not sure yet...all the french toast has something else with it." I pout, continuing to scan over the BREAKFAST section.
"I told you not to worry about money."
"I'm not," I lie. I feel as though some of the ideals Mitchel has instilled in my brain will remain there forever, despite my every attempt to heal. He has ruined me on a level that I feel is beyond fixing. No amount of therapy or rehabilitation will ever erase the damage he has done. His impact is forever etched into my soul.
I finally end up deciding on two slices of French Toast with two eggs, scrambled. Part of me desperately wanted the order that came with home fries, so I could ask for them crispy, and revel in their taste. But when I saw it was two additional dollars, despite Clinton's words, I decided against it.
His order is complicated, as being vegan and eating at Denny's don't go well together. Practically every item on the menu he could not eat, so he had very few options to pick from. Eventually, he decided on a Bourbon skillet, subbing the chicken for extra vegetables, after asking our waitress probably a dozen times if she was absolutely sure it could be made vegan.
Now, we're simply holding hands across the table, his thumb running between my knuckles as they did just a few hours ago. His other hand is holding his phone, which he's scrolling through seemingly mindlessly. I'm just simply lost, daydreaming and dozing off as my brain frolics through fields of thought.
They say the eyes are the window to the soul. If that statement is true, Clinton's soul is a shade of coffee brown, hazel in certain lights. His mind is a million different places than the present moment, I can tell that much. Wide eyes scan the restaurant, as though Clinton is a child, and he is meeting the world face to face for the very first time. He seems curious, though he is not. The emotions behind his dilated pupils are confusing, but so very intriguing at the same time. His eyes tell me to run, but tell me to come closer. They are almost as perplexing as the entire boy himself. Clinton Cave is a mystery....a multi-layer mystery. You have to unravel him slowly, methodically. If he feels he's being rushed, or forced, into opening up, he will shut down on the spot and it will be much more work to even get him close to where he was before.
"What's on your brain?" I ask, squeezing his hand in an attempt to bring him back down to Earth. He looks so innocent, yet like he has everything in the World on his mind.
"Just thinking," Clinton closes his eyes to shake my hand, returning my hand squeeze with a very delayed one of his own. "About how this is our first date."
"Oh no," I shake my head, but make sure to continue smiling, so he knows I don't really mean it. "You haven't even asked me out yet."
"That's cause I don't know if I like you yet." He retorts, snickering. He can't keep up the act for long, as a smile is already trying to peep through underneath his tough demeanor.
"Oh really? So you just hold hands with anybody then?" I wiggle my fingers between his for extra emphasis.
"You got me there." As he grins at me, our food arrives at the table. Our hands break apart as each of our plates is placed in front of us, Clinton thanking the waitress with a smile.
"Bon appetite, then, mon chérie." With a red potato on his fork, Clinton toasts to me, smirk plastered across his face.
