Prompt: zero
Garrett has his palms pressed against the table, a too big glass of pink lemonade between them. He's standing, leaning over his lemonade, bracing himself on the table, just sucking away on the straw.
"Slow down," I tell him. He lifts his eyes to me. He doesn't stop drinking.
My conversation with Sam went something like this:
"Sam."
"Hey, Bella. How've you been?"
"I heard you called? You're going to be around tomorrow, apparently?"
"Yeah, I am! Did Garrett tell you I want to take him to lunch? And you too, if you want."
"How long are you in town for?"
"A couple days. I just flew in from Vegas and have to head right back out on Monday."
"Mmhm."
"I'll pick up Garrett around noon?"
"I don't think so. I'll bring him to the restaurant," I said, not entirely meaning to be so curt.
"Sure, that'll be fine. Where does he like to eat?"
"Red Robin."
"Yeah, I know it. We have 'em here in Vegas. All right. I'll see you tomorrow. At noon, right?"
"Do you know which one? We have three."
"No, Bella, now that you mention it, I don't know which one. Why don't you tell me so I don't show up at the wrong restaurant."
"Neither of us has heard a word from you in over six months, Sam. I don't think you have any rights to dick behavior. Are you going to show up this time?"
He was aghast.
"It's a valid question," I said.
Then he was quiet.
"I'll be there. Where is it?"
I told him the street. I said that if he breaks Garrett's heart again I'll be sure he'll never be able to do it again. Garrett heard me.
Garrett is slurping up the last of the lemonade, loudly and very much on purpose.
"Was it good?"
"It was all right," he says and flops back in the wooden booth.
He burps, doesn't even try to cover it up. I look away, pretending that we don't have any rules against all forms of bodily expulsions of air in public. Garrett is angry with me because I wasn't nice to Sam. Well.
Our server swings by our table again; I ask him to come back in a few minutes.
"My dad is coming," Garrett announces, and the server smiles, nods, walks to another table.
"What are you going to get, Professor?"
"I dunno." He glances down at the watch I bought him last week.
"Should I call him? Maybe traffic's keeping him?"
"I don't care," Garrett says. "He's probably nervous."
Ohhh, low blow, buddy.
"I'm sure he's not." Garrett shrugs, absently patting the backpack he brought. "Are you going to tell me what's in there?" I ask, nodding to the backpack.
"Dad!" Garrett jumps out of the booth and right into Sam's arms.
Part of me wishes Sam didn't show.
As soon as Sam slides into the booth next to Garrett, our server is back. Garrett suddenly knows exactly what he wants: burger with swiss, zero pickles, cooked with no pink in the middle, fries, and after being goaded by his father, a chocolate shake. Garrett's not a big milkshake drinker.
"You look good, Bella," Sam says.
"Thanks. So do you." He does look fantastic for someone being so busy flitting from one city to another. He's tan, built, hair perfectly coiffed, teeth freshly whitened. "George Hamilton better watch out."
Sam covertly glowers at me then turns his attention to Garrett. The two start in on what's been going on with Garrett: school, friends, everything that's happened to him in the past two years—even though it hasn't been that long since they've seen each other. I'm guessing that Garrett wants to make sure Sam doesn't miss a thing. Garrett's mood is exponentially brighter and he opens up his backpack.
Inside is a scrapbook he's made of all the things he wants his father to know about him. Stuck to the pages are pictures of him playing soccer, him at a Lego League tournament, his favorite foods. There's one of Felix, another of his best friend, Kate, from school, and a close-up of the wolf he made for his diorama.
"Did you help him with this?" Sam asks.
"No. Did Mrs. Cope help you?"
"I did it by myself, Mom." I ask him for how long he's been putting it together. "I don't know. For a while. Look, Dad. I used double-sided tape so the pictures didn't get bubbly. Sometimes the color fades from the glue. Did you know that?"
"I didn't know that, Son. How'd you get to be so smart?"
I excuse myself to go to the bathroom.
Leaning against the sink, I have a horrible urge to text Edward. This is one of those things I'd tell him all about at work. He'd talk me down and we'd make jokes, as wrong as it would be, at Sam's expense. Sometimes being vindictive for five seconds makes everything easier. I haven't spoken to him since yesterday, not that I expected I would, but…
We both have some things to figure out. All in due time, right?
Instead, I call Shelly. My new best friend is a 58 year old widow who's dated more men in the past year than I have in my entire life. She asks if the Devil has taken any souls. I tell her no. She tells me to breathe. I tell her I'll call her later.
When I get back to the table our food has arrived. Garrett, not Sam, waits for me to sit down before he dives into his burger. Operation Be Mad At Mom has been abandoned.
Garrett nudges Sam. "Um, Garrett and I were wondering if it would be all right if we hung out today. Maybe go see a movie?"
I hate it when he does this. Showing up out of the blue and making plans with Garrett without talking to me first. I look at Garrett. "Is that what you want to do? Yeah? Okay, have him home by seven."
We finish lunch and walk toward the exit. At Sam's rental, I lean down to kiss Garrett on the cheek. (I make a mental note that I don't care he's only 10, I'm going to buy him a cell phone on my way home.)
"Don't forget this," I say to Sam, handing him the scrapbook.
"Do you mind hanging on to it? I'll pick it up when I drop off Garrett."
No, you won't. "Sure."
At Target, I'm reading the features of the pay-as-you-go phones. They're easy to use, cheap, and Garrett will be bored with the simplicity of them. He'll also think I think he's a baby. I choose a phone similar to mine.
I'm waiting for a cashier to show up, and behind me, store ads and television trailers loop on flat screens which blare in this weird echo.
I wonder what Garrett and Sam are doing. If Garrett is having a good time. If he's uncomfortable. If he feels the need to impress his dad. Glancing at my phone, I check the time. 5 hours. Why did I say to have him home by 7?
Still no cashier. I search the counter for that black button you're supposed to press when there are no associates in the area, and just as I find it a red-shirted kid appears out of nowhere, and I'm glad. I always feel like I'm going to get someone into trouble if I press that stupid button. The kid apologizes, rings up the phone and says his little sister has the same model.
I sign the receipt, thinking how long the next five hours are going to drag, and when I look up to exchange the receipt for the phone, there's Edward. He's across the aisle watching me. He looks tired. His clothes are rumpled right along with that mess of hair he has. He's behind a shopping cart full of plastic tubs, and then Leah is next to him.
Well now. Edward POV for the next one. In fact, each of the remaining Saturdays this month will be in EPOV. BUT, this weekend is pretty busy, so it might not be until Sunday until the next chapter is posted.
Thanks so much for reading and reviewing. Also, obsmama - thanks for the rec. :D xo