Jamie McGuire - Beautiful Oblivion

I nearly choked on my own spit, but that was still preferable to blushing. “Forgive me for thinking coercion was something you didn’t do for just anyone.”

“I don’t. This is definitely a special case.”

“You’re a special case,” I grumbled, searching the dozens of small faces for Olive. She was trying to stretch out her short arms across the pinball machine, and then resorted to leaning from side to side.

“I assume you still have the boyfriend,” Trenton said.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes.”

“Then it’s definitely not a date. Because if it was, you would be . . . well, I won’t say it.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “I will reach across this table and slap you.”

He chuckled. “No, you won’t. You want the entire next generation of Eakins, Illinois, to think you’re an ogre?”

“I don’t care.”

“Yes, you do.”

The waitress waddled over to us, leaning back, away from her burgeoning belly. She looked about seven months pregnant, her green polo shirt barely stretching over her bump. She sat down a small drink with a lid and a straw, and then a bigger red cup full of something brown and fizzy. “Hi, Trent.”

“Hi, Cindy. You should be at home with your feet up.”

She smiled. “You say that every time. What would your friend like?”

I looked up at Cindy. “Just a water, please.”

“You got it.” She looked at Trenton. “Will Olive want the usual?”

He nodded. “But I think Cami’s going to need a menu.”

“Be right back,” she said.

Trenton leaned in. “You should try the three-piece platter with sweet potato fries and slaw. Because . . . damn.”

A man behind me yelled, “Christopher! I said get your ass over here and sit down!”

Trenton leaned over to look around me, and frowned. A little boy about eight years old ran over, closer to me than to his father, waiting.

“Sit down!” the father growled. The boy did as he was told, and turned to watch the other kids playing.

Trenton tried to ignore the scene behind me and leaned against the table. “You still like working at the Red?”

I nodded. “As jobs go, it’s not bad. Hank is cool.”

“Why didn’t you work this weekend?”

“I took some time off.”

“Sit still!” the father behind me snarled.

After a pause, Trenton continued, “I was just going to tell you that if you weren’t happy at the bar, there is a receptionist spot open at the shop.”

“What shop?”

“My shop. Well, the shop I work at.”

“Skin Deep is hiring? I thought Cal just had whoever wasn’t busy answer the phone?”

“He said Thirty-Fourth Street Ink has a hot chick at the desk, so he thinks we need one, too.”

“A hot chick,” I deadpanned, unimpressed.

“His words, not mine,” Trenton said, scanning the crowd for Olive. He didn’t look long. He knew where she would be.

“She likes pinball, huh?”

“Loves it,” he said, smiling at her like a proud father.

“Damn it, Chris! What the hell is wrong with you?” the father behind me yelled, standing up at the same time. I turned, seeing the father’s toppled glass, and a very nervous little boy staring at his father’s wet lap. “Why do I even bother bringing you to places like this?” he yelled.

“I was thinking the same thing,” Trenton said.

The father turned around, two deep horizontal lines in the center of his forehead.

“I mean, you don’t really act like you want your kid running around, playing, or having fun in general. Why would you bring him here if you just want him to sit still?”

“No one asked you, asshole,” the man said, turning around.

“No, but if you keep talking to your son like that, I’m going to ask you to step outside.”

The man faced us again, began to speak, but something in Trenton’s eyes made the man think better of it. “He’s hyper.”

Trenton shrugged. “Hey, man, I get it. You’re here by yourself. It’s probably been a long day.”

The lines above the man’s eyes softened. “It has.”

“So let him burn off some energy. He’ll be worn-out when he gets home. Kinda silly to bring him to an arcade and then get yourself all worked up when he wants to play.”

Shame darkened the man’s face, he nodded a few times, and then he turned around, nodding once to his son. “Sorry, buddy. Go play.”

The little boy’s eyes lit up, and he jumped from the booth, blending into the continuously moving crowd of happy children. After a few awkward moments of silence, Trenton started a conversation with the man, and they began chitchatting about where they worked, Christopher, and Olive. Eventually we learned that the man’s name was Randall, and he was a newly single father. Chris’s mother was an addict and living with a boyfriend in the next town over, and Chris was having trouble adjusting. Randall admitted that he was, too. When it was time for them to leave, Randall held out his hand, and Trenton shook it. Christopher watched both men, grinned, and then took his dad’s hand. They left, both of them with smiles on their faces.

When Olive’s quarters were depleted, she sat at the table, the golden chicken strips before her. Trenton squirted some hand sanitizer onto her hands, she rubbed them together, and then devoured everything on her plate. Trenton and I ordered the adult version of her meal, and we all finished at about the same time.

“Pie?” Olive said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“I don’t know,” Trenton said. “Your mom got pretty mad at me last time.”

I liked the way he talked to her. He wasn’t condescending. He talked to her the same as he did to me, and she seemed to appreciate it.

“What do you think, Cami? Do you like pecan?”

Olive watched me with pleading eyes.

“I do.”

Olive’s sapphire eyes brightened. “Can we shayo?”

I shrugged. “I could handle a third of a pie. Want to share too, Trent?”

Trenton made eye contact with Cindy, and held up his index finger. She nodded, knowing exactly what he meant. Olive clapped her hands together as Cindy brought over the plate in one hand, and holding three forks in the other. The slice was nearly a third of the pie, with a heaping mound of white, whipped topping.

“Enjoy,” Cindy said, sounding tired but pleasant.

We dug in, all humming when the first bite of sugary goodness found its way to our mouths. Within a couple of minutes, the plate was empty. Cindy brought the bill, and I tried to pay for half, but Trenton wouldn’t even entertain the idea.

“If you pay, it’s a date,” I said.

“Do you ever pay for Raegan’s lunch?”

“Yes, but—”

“Is that a date?”

“No, but—”

“Shh,” he said, lifting Olive into his arms. “This is the part where you say thank you.” He put two bills on the table, and then shoved his wallet into his back pocket.

“Thank you,” Olive said, resting her head on Trenton’s shoulder.

“You’re welcome, Ew.” He leaned over and grabbed his keys from the table.

“Ew?” I asked.

Olive eyed me with sleepy twin pools. I didn’t push the subject.

The ride back to my apartment was quiet, but mostly because Olive had fallen asleep in her car seat. Her little cheek was smooshed against the cushion beside her face. She looked so peaceful, so happily lost wherever she had drifted off to.

“Her parents just let the neighbor covered in tattoos babysit their five-year-old?”

“No. This is new. We just started Chicken Joe’s this year on my days off. I watched Olive for Shane and Liza a couple times for about half an hour or so in the beginning and we somehow graduated to Chicken Joe’s.”

“Weird.”

“I’ve been her Twent for a long time.”

“And she’s your Ew?”

“Yep.”

“What’s up with that?”

“Her initials. Olive Ollivier. O.O. When you put them together, it makes an ‘ew’ sound.”

I nodded. “Makes sense. She’s going to hate you for that in six years.”

Trenton glanced at the rearview mirror, and then back at the road. “Nah.”

The headlights lit the front door of my apartment, and Trenton finally looked ashamed. “I’d walk you to the door, but I don’t want to leave Olive in the car.”

I waved him away. “I can get to the door by myself.”

“Maybe we can kidnap you again.”

“I work Saturdays. This was just a freak accident.”

“We could change it to Chicken Joe’s Sundays.”

“I work Sundays.”

“Me, too. But not until one, and you don’t go in until later, too, right? We could do lunch. An early lunch.”

I pulled my mouth to the side. “It’s just not a good idea, Trent. But thank you.”

“Chicken Joe’s is always a good idea.”

I chuckled and looked down. “Thanks for dinner.”

“You owe me,” Trenton said, watching me get out.

I leaned down. “You kidnapped me, remember?”

“And I’d do it again,” he said as I shut the door.

I walked to the building, and Trenton waited until I stepped inside before he began to back away.

Raegan was sitting up on her knees on the couch cushions, gripping the back with her fingers. “So?”

I looked around the apartment and tossed my purse onto the love seat. “So . . . that was maybe the best nondate date I’ve ever had.”

“Really? Even better than when you met T.J.?”

I frowned. “I don’t know. That was a pretty good night. But tonight was . . . different.”

“Good different?”

“It was kind of perfect.”

Raegan raised an eyebrow and lowered her chin. “This could get messy. You should just tell him.”

“Don’t be stupid. You know I can’t,” I said, walking toward my bedroom.

My phone buzzed once, and then again. I fell onto my bed and looked at the display. It was T.J.

“Hello?” I said, holding the phone to my ear.

“Sorry it took me so long to call . . . we just got in . . . everything okay?” T.J. asked.

“Yes. Why?”

“I thought I heard something in your voice when you answered.”

“You’re hearing things,” I said, trying not to think about how adorable Trenton looked with a sleepy Olive draped over his shoulder.

THE BETTER PART OF SUNDAY MORNING WAS SPENT IN BED. Around ten thirty, my mother texted me, asking if I was coming to Sunday lunch. I informed her that because of the trip cancellation, Hank had taken the opportunity to call an employee meeting. It was mostly the truth. The employees hung out at the Red every Sunday afternoon, and then we’d all go home to freshen up for the Sunday night shift.

Mom didn’t hesitate to send back a message meant to make me feel guilty.

“I’m riding with Kody!” Raegan yelled from her bedroom.

“K!” I yelled back from my bed. The phone call with T.J. hadn’t ended until the wee hours of the morning. We discussed vague parts of his project that he could reveal, and then we talked about Trenton and Olive. T.J. didn’t seem even the slightest bit jealous, which sort of pissed me off. And then I felt guilty when I realized I was trying to make him jealous, so I spent the rest of the conversation being super sweet to him.

After a long pep talk with myself, I threw off my covers and shuffled to the bathroom. Raegan had already been in there. The mirror was still fogged, and the walls were still sweaty from the steam.

I turned on the shower, grabbed two towels while the hot water kicked on, and then pulled off my worn Bulldog Football T-shirt and tossed it to the floor. The fabric was so thin it was see-through in some places. It was T.J.’s shirt, heather gray with royal-blue writing. I wore it the night before T.J. left to go back to California—the first night we slept together—and he didn’t ask for it when he left. That shirt represented a time when everything was perfect between us, so it held a special significance for me.

By noon I had dressed, jumped in the Smurf with minimal makeup and wet hair, driven to the closest fast-food restaurant to grab a couple of items off the value menu, scrounged up $2.70 in coins to pay for lunch, and then made my way to the Red Door. The entrance area was empty, but music was playing through the speakers. Classic rock. That meant Hank was already there.

When I sat down at the east bar, Hank came around from the other side and smiled. He was wearing a black button-up shirt with black slacks and a black belt. Typical for him during work hours, but he was usually dressed down on Sundays.

I straddled a barstool, and rested my chin on my fist. “Hey, Hank. You look nice.”