The Billionaire And The Waitress (gxg)

20 - a memory

TEN YEARS AGO

MUSE sat at the kitchen table, watching the minutes on the clock above the stove tick by. 

    Her teeth had been grinding together so hard she felt certain she'd need dental work after this. Which sucked, because her dentist had already told her she'd have braces her first year of high school. She was only twelve still, but she was dreading it. 

     The clock flashed 10:37 p.m. in glowing neon green.

     Muse had no patience left. It had been hours since her parents and her baby brother had gone out to get ice cream. Mom had promised she'd help Muse with her math homework. What was taking so long?

     10:37 p.m. ticked to 10:38. 

     One minute. She would never forget it―how fast a world could change, how fast it could fold in on itself and crush her, ruin her. From worrying about her algebra test tomorrow to hearing a knock on the door.

     "Hello," said the police officer, as soon as she opened it.

     If Muse hadn't been so stunned at seeing a real officer outside her apartment, full uniform, badge and all―just like the movies―she might have realized what it meant. She might have taken note of his expression. The resignation that creased his face, the heavy set to his mouth. The way his face fell when he saw her. As if he knew whatever he'd say would tilt the axis of her whole life.

     "Are you Muse Gardner?"

     "Yeah," said Muse. Still in shock. Still wondering why he'd stopped here. She'd never talked to a police officer before. She'd never even really seen one up close. 

     The only other time she'd even been near an officer had been when one knocked on the apartment door a few months ago. Muse's mother had answered. It had been about a stolen Amazon package. Some neighbours had complained.

     This was not about a stolen Amazon package.

     At 10:38 p.m, the officer said, "There was a car accident. Your family . . ."

     Muse was twelve, going on thirteen in a few days. She would never forget the power of one minute. Because it was then, within those sixty seconds when she had first answered the door, that everything changed. Everything. 

     The officer trailed off. Later, Muse would wonder if he had been in charge of delivering terrible news for so long that he'd stopped finishing sentences. Because maybe people just got it. Because maybe people only had to take one look at him, and hear those first few words―There was an accident―to piece it together.

     Muse just looked. And looked. She didn't get it. "My family? What about them?"

     Twelve, going on thirteen, and nothing bad―nothing real―had ever happened to her. She stressed about math tests and getting good grades and crushing on the girls who sat on the other side of the class.

     She was twelve, and she was stubborn, and bad things happened to other people. Not her.

     "Your family was in a car accident, Miss Gardner. Your parents died on impact. Your little brother is in critical condition in the hospital. They're operating on him as we speak."

     Muse crossed her arms. Huffed a little. And said, "That's not true. My parents wouldn't―"

     She'd stopped, then. How could she finish that?