When The Rain Falls

16. Weird for Fries

16 WEIRD FOR FRIES

FINN

I grab the paper bag off the counter and walk back to the van. I slip into the driver's seat and glance around the cab, trying to figure out where to set it down. Not on the center console. My sunglasses are there. And those are probably the most expensive things I own. I settle for putting it in my lap.

"That was fast," Aimee says. I hand her a wrapped package that's labeled deluxe and I grab the one labeled BBQ .

"Fast and greasy,” I tell her. I open the plastic wrapper and spread it across my lap like a mini table cloth. Aimee just crumples her wrapper up and tosses it back into the paper bag. Amateur mistake. She's going to get hot grease all over those bare legs. And fuck. Now I'm thinking about what the bare flesh of her muscular legs would look like, slippery and hot. My eyes flicker up to the tattoo banded across her thigh. Above the tattoo is a no-fly zone , I tell myself, glancing back down at my burger. When I lift it to my face, liquid grease drips from the meat in the center down my arm. I can't decide if it's disgusting or amazing.

"Oh my God," Aimee says around a mouthful of burger. "This is delicious."

I pull the handle on the lever that moves my seat back, but it won't budge. I lean into it with my full body weight. Suddenly, my seat flies backward, leveling me horizontally. I get a face full of burger as it slams into my head. I feel hot liquid on my forehead. Well, that was graceful . I pull the lever again and try to sit up, the back of the seat comes with me. When I'm sitting normally again, I look at Aimee. She's laughing hysterically.

"You have a BBQ eyebrow," she says. I take a napkin and wipe my forehead.

"Well, you have a BBQ nose," I tell her.

"No, I don't," she says seriously, wiping the tip of her nose and examining the clean pads of her fingers.

"Yes you do," I say. "Right there." I take the BBQ sauce dripping down my finger and swipe it across her nose, leaving a thin smudge on her skin. Aimee's mouth lifts on one side and she gives me a chuckle. She wipes it quickly away with her own napkin. I don't know why I just did that. Teased her like that. But it felt right.

Aimee obliviously turns her attention back to the burger in her hand and takes a giant bite.

"I’m pretty sure this is the greasiest burger I've ever had," she finally says, wiping grease off her cheek.

"Yeah, I'll have heartburn all night. But worth it. Right?"

“Definitely,” Aimee says, her mouth still full. I take my own bite and a pickle falls out the other end, landing on the wrapper. I pick it up and pop it into my mouth. I didn’t like seeing her cry earlier today. It made my chest hurt. But I also don’t like the idea of her bottling her up her sadness. I’ve only seen a couple of them, but I hate her fake, thin smiles. Probably because her genuine ones are unrivaled.

Funny how she tries to laugh her way through discomfort while I practically drown myself in mine. Because I don’t trust the world anymore. I don’t trust happiness and joy. Not when it can all be snatched away in an instant.

"Is this where you take all the ladies you rescue?" she asks me.

I just huff at that. Right. Me and all my ladies.

"What would Rebecca think?" she asks as she chews on a fry. The parking lot in front of Shady's Drive In is empty, except for us. The single lamppost casts a flickering, fluorescent glow around us. Beyond that, there's nothing but darkness. It feels like we're alone, in the little bubble of the warm cab.

"Huh?" I ask her, confused. I'm not sure what Rebecca has to do with this moment. Also, how does she know Rebecca?

"What does she think about you rescuing women and taking them to the drive thru at 10:00 p.m.?" Aimee studies my face for a response.

"It's not exactly a habit of mine," I tell her. I don't tell her that I do everything possible to avoid being in situations like this. Being alone in dark parking lots with members of the opposite sex. And I don't tell her why. I can't tell her why. I also can't tell her that not looking up her thigh is taking nearly all my self-control. "She'd probably encourage it, actually," I say honestly.

"Really?" Aimee's tone is flooded with surprise. I wrinkle my forehead at her. Now I'm even more confused.

"Wait. Who do you think Rebecca is ?" I ask.

"Your girlfriend ?" The way she says it sounds more like an accusation than a question. The answer hits me in the funny bone. I've never. Not once in my life. Ever looked at Rebecca like that.

"Nope," I say. "Defffffffffinitely not," I draw out the syllables for emphasis.

"Wait. Then who is she?" Now it's Aimee's turn to look confused.

"My law partner," I clarify. "And friend, I guess."

"You guess?"

"I inherited her," I explain as I stick a French fry in my mouth and chew.

"Ok. You'll have to explain that one. I didn’t know you could inherit friends. Because if that’s a thing, I need to get on some list." Aimee sets her burger down to wipe both hands with a napkin.

I stick another fry in my mouth. The salt puckers my lips as the delicacy melts against my teeth as I chew. Fries always taste better when you're supposed to be in bed. Aimee eyes my French fries and it reminds me that she declined to order her own.

“You want one?” I shake my package of fries at her.

Aimee’s eyes shoot to mine and her face turns a shade paler. I look down at the fries to see if maybe a bug snuck into the package. Nope. Just delicious, greasy fries. Heart attack wrapped in paper.

“Don’t tell me you have a thing against fries.” I nudge the fries back in her direction. “Shady’s fries are legendary.”

“No,” she finally says. She slips two tentative fingers into the bag and pulls out three crispy fries. She gives me a weird smile as she takes a bite. Ok, then. The woman is weird for fries.

"Rebecca was Laurel's best friend. I met the two of them in law school," I explain. "When we got married, Laurel told me that it was a package deal and I had inherited Rebecca as my friend," I tell her. "Not sure how Rebecca felt about that. But it worked out alright. And then, after…we've been in practice together almost seven years now."

Aimee chews on the last of her fries. I watch her throat bob delicately as she swallows. "Laurel, what happened?” she asks me carefully. Talking about her like this always hits me in the gut. I just nod.

"It was nine years ago," I say flatly. "I'm sure you don't really want to hear it," I say with a sigh. People don’t really want to talk about things like death, grief, and sadness. They just ask to be polite. And that might be one reason why I never talk about it. I drop the fry I just picked up and look out my side window.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to." Aimee's voice is gentle. Like's she's carefully unearthing a fragile ancient artifact. I take a deep breath. The breath turns into a heavy sigh.

"Sepsis." I give her one word. Because one word is all I can handle in this precise moment.

"Sepsis? What's that?" she asks quietly. And fuck. I wish I lived in a world where I didn't know what that word means. Where I didn't have any reason to know what it means. Somewhere, deep inside, I find the strength to keep talking. Although, I'm not sure where the words come from.

"She was pregnant," I say. That's four whole words now. Maybe I can do this. "She got an infection. One that you need to treat right away. We didn't catch it. Not in time." I drop my head slightly, fighting back the pressure behind my eyes. Why is this still so hard to talk about? It's a huge part of my life, a shadow that follows me around everywhere, but somehow, I can't acknowledge it out loud.

Aimee's quiet for a beat or two. "Oh. That sucks," she finally says. She drops the remaining piece of burger in her lap. “Shit. That really sucks. I’m sorry I asked.”

“No, it’s ok,” I assure her. “I need to be better at talking about her.”

“I saw the photo you sent Ruby. She was pretty. The girls look so much like her.”

"Yeah. I notice that," I answer quietly. “I notice that every day.” Silence settles between us for a moment. And then I have a strong urge to change the subject.

"What about you?" I ask her, ignoring the way my voice threatens to crack. "Do you always date guys like Jack? Or is he a special kind of asshole?"

“I actually don’t date much,” she says. I wonder if assholes are her type. Is that why she keeps hanging around me? Is that why I can't seem to get rid of her?

"Motorcycles are fucking stupid," I mutter, crossing my arms.

"Are you jealous?" she asks. "Just a little?”

"Jealous of Jack?" I huff out. "Why? Because he rides a crotch rocket like he's got the world's smallest dick?"

"You're right," she says playfully. "Why would you be jealous of Jack when you have this sweet ride?" She thumps the dash in front of her seat.

“There's nothing wrong with the van," I say defensively. "Except for the loose bumper. And the scratch on the side. And the broken turn signal. And the leaky window."

Aimee bites her bottom lip in a smile. Her lips look soft and malleable.

"You don't toss something aside just because it's a little dented. Or bent. Or beat up." I run my hands over the steering wheel lovingly and wonder if I’m also talking about myself. "It still has some life in it."

"Whatever you say." She chuckles. She toggles the handle for the glovebox but it sticks. She throws me a triumphant look.

"Honestly," I tell her. "I have a lot of memories in this thing," I say. "For example, where you're sitting," I point to her, "Ruby had explosive diarrhea there when she was a baby." Aimee wrinkles her nose and shifts in her seat uncomfortably.

"And when Vivian was seven," I continue, jerking a thumb over my shoulder, "her soccer team won the local championships. I took half the team out for ice cream. They decided to practice their autographs. All over the seats. You can still see the scribbles if you look hard enough."

“And other things,” I add, my voice starting to choke up. I think about the time Laurel and I were on a road trip and misjudged the distance to the next hotel. We had to sleep in the back of the van for the night. And we didn’t do a whole lot of sleeping. I still remember the bare legs kicking back covers, her soft black hair in my fist, her hands digging into my back. The van rocking beneath us. I feel my face flush.

“What’s this?” Aimee points to the charm hanging from the rear view mirror. It’s a small, crocheted heart made of thin, red yarn.

“Laurel bought that off a street vendor in Cancun. During our honeymoon.” I reach for the charm, brushing my fingers across it. I remember the day she first hung it on the mirror. Ruby was just a couple months old, strapped in a middle pilot seat in her car seat. Laurel was telling me how uncool she felt driving a minivan. She hung the charm and told me it reminded her not to complain. Because her life felt so much bigger than it used to.

I don’t share that though. That’s just for me.

I feel Aimee studying me. The cab of the van suddenly seems to shrink. A drizzle begins to patter against the windows. I glance out the windshield, in search of the rainclouds that seem to have snuck up on us so suddenly. But I can’t see the sky. Because all of our breathing and chatter has frosted the window with a light fog.

I realize I haven’t talked this much in a long time. Outside of work and client calls and the courtroom. I feel a little lighter. Like I just got a bunch of things off my chest. Things I’ve carried around for so long that I didn’t even recognize I was carrying them anymore.

“Hey,” Aimee says.

“Yeah?” I look back to her. The street light shining through the clouded windshield casts a soft glow across her face. It falls against the column of her neck. It dances across her collar bone. It teases the lacy hem that dips low across her breasts.

“Thank you,” she says. Her voice is so soft I can barely hear it. The way her chest is swelling and emptying, I can see that her breathing is strained. I want to catch her breath at the source. To feel her breasts grow full in my hand with each steady lungful of air.

I pull my gaze back to her face.

“You already said thank you,” I remind her. I can barely get out the words. Because her eyes are hungry and I feel them scouring my body, the way I’ve been scouring hers.

“I didn’t mean it before.” She brings a hand up to her neck and traces her collar bone. The drizzle outside strengthens into a torrent of rain. It pounds angrily on the windows around us. It nearly drowns out the pounding of my chest in my rib cage.

“And now?” I ask her. Aimee leans over the center console and tilts her head to the side.

“Now,” she whispers, “I mean it.” She leans closer and plants a soft, gentle kiss on my lips. It catches me off guard. And fuck, that’s the second time she’s done this. She’s about to pull back, to end the innocence of it all. And that’s when I lean in. Because all I know is that I want more. More of her. There is nothing innocent about this girl and I want to feel her fire.

Her warm breath dances against my cheek as I demand she give me more. My lips bear down on hers. She releases a quiet whimper as I tug her bottom lip into my mouth. And when my dick hardens in my jeans, it reminds me to stop being a fucking idiot.

I pull back, but she’s frozen in place. Slightly dazed. Slightly glowing. Slightly breathless. Then she darts her eyes across my face and her mouth cracks into a smug grin. I feel like I just lost a game. A game I didn’t know I was playing.

“What are you grinning about?” I harden my face back into a frown as I stick the key in the ignition.

“Oh, nothing,” she says, easing back into her seat.

“Good.” My teeth clench so hard that I think one cracks.

“I read that all the icebergs are melting. But now I can say I have firsthand experience.” I’m no longer looking in her direction, but her voice bleeds of pure satisfaction.

“You calling me a fucking iceberg?”

She snorts as I feel her eyes fall to my tented pants. “Yeah. And there’s something impressive about just your tip.”

Fucking hell.

I shift uncomfortably and try to think about something unsexy. Vivian’s orthodontist bill. The video I watched about how they make chicken nuggets. The ceramic rabbits my mom collects. The ones that stare at me with creepy, soulless eyes.

When I turn the key, the engine revs to life and sends a blast of cold air into my face. Thank God. Because my head is burning and I’m pretty sure my face has turned fire-engine red.