Free Servants of the Storm by Delilah S. Dawson Page B

mopping his face off. He mucks it all up, and I sigh in exasperation and take the wipe from him to clean up his mess. He enjoys it a little too much and smiles like a dog getting a belly rub, so I throw the wipe at his face when I’m done.
    “Smooth your hair, too,” I say. “You look like you slept in a bush.”
    “It’s our first date,” he says in mock indignation. “I’ll have you know I’m not that kind of boy.”
    I know my smile isn’t a decent reflection of his, but I hope he doesn’t notice. What did I start, squeezing his hand like that in the car? He’s looking at me differently now. I still think of him as a childhood friend. But even though I don’t think I’m in a good place to date anyone, I don’t want to hurt his feelings, so I go along with the “date” idea. And I’m glad to have company on my mission, someone who wants to keep me safe. Even though I can’t remember what happened last night, I’m pretty sure something went deeply wrong.
    We lock our stuff in the trunk, but I remember to bring somecash. Luckily, I didn’t touch my piggy bank the entire time I was in the numb fuzz of the meds. If Baker manages to pay for my dinner, we’ll definitely be in dating territory, whether I want to be or not. As we walk to 616, he stays a little closer than I’m used to, and our wrists brush a few times, but I don’t give him a chance to hold my hand. He walks between me and the street, like good boys in Savannah are taught to do. We chat about the play and make little jokes about the people we see, keeping it light.
    At 616 he holds the door open for me, and I slide inside, glad I wore a nicer sweater today. I haven’t shopped in more than a year, since I was out of commission last fall, and my closet is pretty sad. But he’s not dressed up either—just his usual cold-weather costume of baggy jeans, flannel, and peacoat. He’s gotten lanky, and his wrists poke out, just a little. The restaurant is overly warm, and the Pepto-Bismol–pink walls are as campy as ever, glistening in between the posters, junk, and old-fashioned crap that attracts kids and tourists.
    The hostess gives us this indulgent smile, like we’re cute or something, and I excuse myself to go to the bathroom before she can ask embarrassing questions that I don’t want to answer, like how long we’ve been going out.
    “Want me to order your Dr Pepper?” Baker asks, and I have to smile and thank him. There’s something to be said for having a friend who knows just what you need, especially when you’re not sure what you need yourself.
    On the way to the bathroom, I pass the cow table where Carlyand I always sat. It’s painted with black and white cow spots, and a fake udder hangs underneath it, which always cracked us up. The hostess is seating Baker in one of the corner booths, the one decorated with circus memorabilia under a striped awning. It’s the booth they reserve for special occasions like anniversaries and birthdays, and I find that I don’t want to tip the hostess a damn bit for treating us like lovebirds. He catches me watching and grins, and I grin back before I can stop myself.
    I pass the photo booth, which is occupied. The curtain is closed, and the flash flickers to the tune of girlish giggling. Photo strips spill from the pocket, waiting to be added to the wall. All you have to do is put in a dollar, and it automatically takes four pictures and spits them out in seconds. I hurry by before I have a chance to think about all the times Carly and I did that very thing, trying to make the silliest pictures possible.
    But the photo wall stops me in my tracks. It always does. Thousands upon thousands of photos are tacked up, each successive layer covering the one before it. If you pried them all off the wall, you’d probably get down to women in corsets and men in top hats frowning in sepia. But all the ones on top are modern, if still in black and white. Couples, groups of old ladies in ridiculous