Seeking Haven // s.m.

Five

ngl I picked sarah snyder to play the role as wren like a year ago when I first started drafting this story she just fits it so well

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Wren

I arrived at Louis' around 6pm. It was freezing outside, below twenty degrees for sure-- as it always is in Illinois-- and I was greatly appreciative to get through the front doors into the warm, noisy atmosphere.

They were packed today, and I couldn't comprehend why. It wasn't a holiday or important event, and no matter how many times I combed back through my memory, trying to figure it out, I was blank. They must be this busy on any normal occasion, which got me excited. If I land this job, I'll get some pretty good sized tips on a regular basis.

It was a challenge to get up to the counter, but I elbowed my way through the people standing around, waiting to be seated.

"Hi," I say to the woman on the other side of the desk, her face displaying a state of stress as she holds an armful of menus, trying to gather them into one place.

She looked distressed, as if she was the only one working here tonight and all the burden was on her.

She must not have heard me, because she doesn't even look up. I stand awkwardly, clearing my throat and repeating, "excuse me?"

She sighs into her words, "one moment please."

I uncomfortably look around the room, my eyes landing on the several flat-screens hung from every angle, visible to everyone in every corner of the room.

Each eye was staring at the screens like it contained secrets, disregarding their untouched plates of food, their fists clenched, prepared to explode.

Dad used to like watching football games, before all the Haven stuff happened, and happy times like those were stripped away from him.

I remember when I was little, I was the official beer-carrier. Him and Mom and all of their friends gathered in the den to watch, and I'm pretty sure the neighbors could hear their yelps each time a score was made, or just out of reach.

All of the kids would gather in the game-room upstairs to play, but that always got boring to me, since back then, there wasn't much to do.

So I would always sit on the few pieces of tile in the back of the den, by the sink and the mini-fridge, and I would eat all of their chips and snacks and laugh at Dad and his buddies getting all worked up over a silly game.

Whenever I think about that, my throat constricts and my eyes start to sting. Those moments are replaced by occupations, distractions, things he does to keep his mind off of his deceased daughter-- and his living one.

Occupations-- like spending type at the "gym". Or staying at "work" overtime. It was so obviously false, it was like putting up a completely glass, see-right-through front door and wondering who's knocking on the other side.

"Okay, sorry about that, how can I help you?" the woman behind the counter finally sets down her menus, standing on her tiptoes to see me.

She appeared to be relatively young, probably only a few years older than me. Her dark, glossy hair was chopped off into an edgy-looking pixie cut, a look that suited her.