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Charlie makes a move to the left side of the diner, where the couple sits, hoping to snag the booth next to theirs. Safety in numbers. But the woman chooses that moment to let out a drunken cackle, sending Josh to a corner booth on the opposite end of the diner, next to a jukebox pushed against the wall. Charlie has no choice but to join him.
She leaves her coat on after sliding into the booth across from Josh. Since she’ll be going right back outside to make a phone call, she sees no point in removing it. There’s the added bonus that, likea bullfighter’s cape, its bright red has attracted the attention of others in the diner. Normally, Charlie hates feeling conspicuous, but now she appreciates the attention. If all eyes are on her, then Josh will have to be on his best behavior.
That moment of something working in her favor lasts only a few seconds. Because as soon as she’s situated, Charlie looks out the window and her heart sinks into her stomach, which sinks to the diner floor.
The pay phone is right outside.
Just on the other side of the glass.
In full view of Josh.
Inches from him.
Charlie takes a breath, trying to stay calm. Maybe she should change her mind and make a scene anyway. She does another quick sizing up of the rest of the diner. The couple in the opposite corner is shrugging on coats and slipping on gloves, clearly preparing to leave. The woman—the drunker of the two—gets her hair caught in her scarf and barks out another laugh.
“You okay to drive, hon?” the waitress says as they pass her on their way out.
“We’re fine,” the man says.
“Suit yourself,” the waitress says. Under her breath, she adds, “But if you wrap your damn car around a tree, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Charlie watches the waitress watch the couple climb into the compact car parked outside and pull away. She respects the way the woman is looking out for others. That flinty concern might be needed if Charlie decides to abandon the phone call idea and straight-up ask for help.
The waitress closes the dessert case and flips a switch. It lights up like a window display at Christmas, the three levels of pies inside slowly rotating. Grabbing two menus, the waitress then makes her way to their table.
She looks familiar, but in a way Charlie can’t place. Like a character actress she sees on a TV show and then spends the rest of the night trying to think of what else she’s been in. Charlie assumes it’s because she’s a walking, talking stereotype of a movie waitress, right down to the pencil tucked behind her ear.
Still, she makes note of her name tag.
Marge.
“What can I get you kids to drink?” she says with a noticeable smoker’s rasp.
Josh orders a Coke and a coffee. Charlie orders a cup of hot tea.
“Scalding-hot, please,” she says, thinking ahead, picturing a scenario in which she has to throw it in Josh’s face in order to make a quick escape.
Marge, clearly a pro, doesn’t need to jot it down. “Hot as Hades,” she says. “Coming right up.”
She leaves them to peruse the menu, which is encased in a plastic sleeve that reminds Charlie of the license in Josh’s wallet. Although she suspects it’s really Jake’s wallet. Like their game of Twenty Questions, she no longer thinks it was a movie-in-her-mind situation. It’s more likely that Josh switched licenses at some point, probably at the toll plaza while talking to the toll collector. He’s smart. She’ll give him that.
She needs to be smarter.
“What are you going to have?” Josh says.
Charlie scans the menu, her stomach roiling at the thought of eating anything. But she needs to order something to keep Josh from getting suspicious. She settles on a plate of fries, thinking that maybe she can manage to force one down if she needs to.
Marge returns with their drinks, setting a cup in front of Charlie, the water inside it still unsettled, as if it’s just stopped boiling. It’s followed by a Lipton tea bag, a lemon slice in a tiny bowl, and two plastic containers of creamer.
“Sugar’s by the condiments,” she says. “And be careful, hon. Don’t burn yourself.”
Charlie rips open the tea bag and drops it into the water. The cup’s so scorching that even the handle is hot. She curls her fingers around it anyway, the heat on her skin the only thing preventing her from lifting the cup and tossing the contents at Josh.
She pictures it. More fantasy than a movie in her mind. The tea flying. Josh screaming, then recoiling, then falling out of the booth as Charlie runs. The fantasy ends when Marge comes back with Josh’s drinks and says, “What’ll it be?”
“Just an order of fries, please,” Charlie says.
Marge grabs the pencil tucked behind her ear and pulls a small order pad from her deep apron pocket. “Gravy on the side?”