Hallie Weibel
Liberation (8 of 11)

When Trav called me two nights later, I was tempted to ignore his
call.  He’d never called Sunday, not that we would’ve seen each
other anyway.  After much worry, I’d decided to pretend nothing
had happened, but I hadn’t yet realized how much I had changed that night.  On the phone, he was different, too.  He asked why I hadn’t called him for a few days.  I wasn’t still mad, was I?  His accusatory tone bored me, now I understood how I’d always sounded to him.  I cut him off, telling him I’d been busy, that’s all.  When he asked if I wanted to go to a movie that night, I shocked him by saying no.  Maybe it was time for this insensitive ass to get a taste of his own medicine. 

The next Friday night I bussed tables at the diner, glad to clear the dirty dishes, the constant movement distracting me from that night’s plans.  Some girls from Trav’s school came in, giggling loudly and stealing glances in my direction.  Finally one had the balls to ask if Trav had dumped me, I just smiled sweetly, sure that the mischievous sparkle in my eyes would further fuel their gossip.  When my shift ended, I reapplied my makeup in the cramped bathroom, washing as much of the diner’s smell away as possible with scratchy brown paper towels and antibacterial soap.

Waiting behind the building, I suddenly wished I smoked, then I would’ve had something to occupy my hands.  Instead, I twirled my hair, straightened my shirt, and tried to stop myself from fidgeting as my mind raced.  What were we going to do?  What would we talk about?  What if he pulls up and I don’t recognize him?  At five to nine, an older blue Honda pulled up.  Jon’s broad grin was unmistakable, and through the open window I said I’d have guessed he’d be a pickup truck kind of guy.

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