Free That Girl by H.J. Bellus Page B

aware of how much I use mine. Upon exiting the bathroom I notice my to-go box is ready in the window. I snag it and head for the door. The diner is packed, and nobody notices me exit through the front. Tonight I’m definitely showering, and over the weekend I have to find a Laundromat. I smell like a walking fried nacho, and I’d bet if you licked my shirt it would be tasty as a cheeseburger. I’m saturated in Boone’s.
    Before getting completely out the door, I grab my keychain and ready myself for the short walk home. The night air is warm, quiet, and very peaceful. Nights like these at home, I’d sneak outside with a towel if we had any and lie on it under the stars and wish like hell. Looking up into the sky, I spot several stars and wish like hell just like I did when I was a child.
    “What are you wishing?”
    A familiar dark shadow walks out of the darkness and into the streetlight. It’s Lincoln.
    “What are you doing?” I squeal, my heart pounding. I mentally pat myself on the back for not breaking my other wrist or tossing my food into the air.
    “What did you wish for?” he asks again.
    “To be found. I’m tired of being lost,” I say softly.
    “How’s the wrist?” he asks, avoiding my wish.
    “Sore.”
    “Good day?”
    “Busy,” I reply.
    Then the awkward silence settles between us, and this is when I realize it’s my turn to make the small talk. It’s how it works. I’m use to loudmouth Jazzy running the show or my mother screaming. The last year I’ve been on my own, only talking when a job demanded it.
    Diving head first, I go for it. “Have you eaten?”
    “Nah, long day.”
    Going out on a limb and feeling every single fiber freezing, I ask, “Want to?” I gesture with my box toward a picnic table on the side of Boone’s. The stars and moon light up the table. The streetlights don’t hit it.
    “Actually, I do,” he says, a slight smile flickering at the corners of his mouth.
    “Want me to order another one?”
    “I think I’d like to share with you,” he replies.
    It’s a square picnic table with four sides. Lincoln takes the bag of ice from me with a frown and a shake of his head. I settle down on one side of the table, expecting him to sit across from me, but instead he scoots in right next to me.
    “What are we eating?” he asks, adjusting the ice bag on my wrist.
    “Bacon cheeseburger.”
    “My absolute favorite.”
    Before chickening out, I take the plunge of all plunges and try to make small talk with him. Jazzy was my only friend, and everything came naturally to us growing up. This is a first for me.
    “How was your day?” I ask, and immediately cringe at the boring question.
    There is only one thing worse than the “how was your day” question, and that’s any question that deals with weather. Those two types of questions are sure signs of digging for conversation.
    “It was okay. Training camp started, and I’m exhausted from it.”
    “For soccer?” I ask.
    Lincoln turns his head in dismay and lets me have it. “You think I’m a soccer player? Are you fucking shitting me? Do you think any soccer player could light up someone like I did for you last night?”
    Unable to hold my giggle any longer, I let it out, and I can physically see the worry and hint of anger leave his face. He wasn’t impressed, but now realizes it’s a joke and smiles. “So, she can joke around.”
    “I’ve got jokes,” I say.
    “Good to know.”
    “Who do you play for, and what position and all that jazz,” I ask, opening my to-go box and sliding it toward him.
    “CSU,” he says around a bite of burger.
    I watch as he passes it to me to take a bite. I guess I didn’t think this plan through very well. When I talk about splitting a meal, there’s a knife involved, and cutting.
    Lincoln continues talking, like this is no big deal. “I play defense. My dad played in the pros for Texas, and my only brother plays there now. I have big shoes to fill, you