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It's been a week and four days since I've last talked to Levi. He hasn't come into the diner, he hasn't texted me, nor have I texted him (that's right, I'm that strong), and I haven't seen him around anywhere.
I see those four guys more than I see him.
About every other day they come in, order vanilla milkshakes, call me names like 'gorgeous' and 'cutie' and 'pretty girl', then take off.
I pride myself on knowing their names.
River, Maxen, Nicolas, and Fisher.
River has blonde hair, he's the only blonde one of the group.
Maxen's hair is dark. He likes to act all big and tough. He calls me 'babe' sometimes.
I find Nicolas to be very funny. He has brown hair, like mine but darker. His eyes are also similar to mine, but his are more blue than green.
Fisher is the one who's face was all licked up by that girl at the party. He has 'strawberry blonde' hair. He gets upset if anyone describes him as a red head, or a leprechaun.
I would love to be a leprechaun. The cute green outfit, the freckles, the rosy cheeks, the luck, the gold; who wouldn't want to be one?
It's Wednesday, and it's rush hour at Dan's Diner.
The booths are filled, the counter where I usually work has not one empty seat, and Big D had to call Blake into work today. He also asked me to wait on tables, but since I apparently suck at that, according to Frannie, I just have to deliver the food and prepare anything behind the bar.
Blake touches my shoulder as he passes my back to grab the chocolate drizzle. He's cute, but I would never go for him. First of all, I'm pretty sure he's a crackhead and does drugs in alley's. Second of all, well, there is no second of all but I thought that there would be one.
"Table Three," I direct him, handing him two strawberry shakes. He hurries off, winking at me with a "You got it, hot stuff."
Oh yeah, that's my second of all. He says weird things to me.
There was one night where it was just us two, and he kept asking me if I was free any day of the week. I'd told him no many times, because I was selfishly scared about what my mom would do if she found out. He's stopped asking, but he still has that look in his eye whenever he looks at me.
He touches my hip as he passes again, grabbing napkins.
Lookie there, I have a third of all.
Third of all, he makes me uncomfortable.
I pull down my pink plaid skirt, thankful to have black tights on underneath. At least I'm not entirely bare.
Through the opening in the wall behind me, the chef calls for me to give a burger and fries along with chicken fingers and tater-tots to Table Seven. I grab it off the ledge, ringing the tiny bell for good measure, and hurry out to the tables when the chefs look at me with annoyed faces.
