Forevermore

Eight

As we take a seat in a hole-in-the-wall diner, I don't have to look around to know people are staring. Their gazes and gasps weigh heavily on me.

I know my dad hates the attention. He just wants me and Lucas to have a normal life and to my misfortune, that's one of the few things that my manners and the good grades that I work so hard for can't fix.

The waitress that leads us to a table near the back of the diner looks over her shoulder at my father multiple times. She has the look that most people get when they swear he looks familiar, but can't quite place where they've seen him.

When we get to a round red-boothed table, the guys slide in before I get the chance to even think about sitting down.

I end up on the outer edge, next to Ezra.

The chatter in the diner turns to whispers. I try not to turn around and tell them to mind their own business, though the urge to do so gets even worse when I see the sad look in my dad's eyes.

"Here ya'll go," the waitress has a southern drawl that slips through her words as she passes out menus to us. "Can I get you guys started on some drinks?" The notepad and pen in her hands slightly shake while she smiles at us.

After she writes down our drinks, I look at my dad. His eyes nervously dart around the diner. Those nerves are typical in public.

"Who do you think is going to win?" I ask to distract him.

His lips pull into the smallest of grins. "You know I'm going for the Mariners, but I have to admit...the Braves are doing good this year."

"Wow, Dad," Lucas chimes in from in between his friends Levi and Malachi. "Didn't think the government could waterboard something like that from you."

My dad shrugs while Ezra snickers from beside me. Our eyes meet and we both smile.

"It's the truth," Dad says. "I'd bet money on it. Seattle is awful this year. Speaking of..."

The guys get this universal look on their face, one that I've only seen on Lucas when Dad gets into coaching mode. That's when I choose to focus on the menu in front of me.

There isn't much of an option beside chicken and waffles which makes sense since this place is literally called Marisol's Chicken-N-Waffles.

The waitress returns a few minutes later with a tray of all our drinks. She slides Pepsi to me and my father. To Malachi, she gives a glass of apple juice–two dimples appear on either side of his mouth when he smiles at the drink like he's a kid on Christmas morning. The rest of the guys get root beer. Except for Ezra. He sticks to black coffee.

I find myself smiling at the reminder of our coffee run. He's a nice person to be around.

"Are y'all ready to order?" the waitress asks.

My dad and I nod simultaneously while the guys shake their heads.

"I can wait if y'all aren't..."

"Um, just give us a second?" My dad gives her a polite smile to which her cheeks flush red.

The waitress waits off to the side while the guys scan the diner.

Ezra's leg begins shaking up and down as he reads the same pages multiple times. Alas, he looks at the girl with a notepad in her hand. "Are there any, um, healthier options?" he asks, his demeanor stuck between relaxation and insecurity.

Her teeth sink into her lips while she seems to think of the answer. "There's the fried chicken spinach salad."

"What's on it?" His Adam's apple bobs up and down.