Say Something | Ben Tyler Cook/Newsies

Chapter Twenty-two

The drive across the bustling streets of Commonweath Avenue was, for the most part, silent. Ben made several casual enquiries, which I always replied using short, awkward responses. Each time I mentally kicked myself for appearing so disintersted, but I just couldn't shake my awkwardness.

When Ben finally parked his vehicle beside the sidewalk, my eyes fixed on a towering mahogany-painted building. On a signage above the cherrywood double-doors, Devaux was written in gold font. It looked expensive, and I desperately hoped it wasn't. Fancy resturants were definitely not my particular cup of time. Mainly because I always felt excluded from the typically lavish customers that attended.

"First impressions?" Ben asked as we stood in front of the intimidatingly tall restaurant.

"It's certainly...big," I replied as coolly as possible.

Ben only chuckled and curtiously opened one of the doors for me, as I awkwardly waddled inside.

Immediately the delicious aroma of grilled meat and fried chicken greeted my nostrils as slurr of conversations and the faint clatter of silverware filled my ears. Music, though mostly drowned by the exessive chatter, played dimly in the background, adding to the all-American vibe.

A waitress with carelessly applied makeup greeted us, looking like than pleased to serve us. She smiled, revealing a surprisingly white set of teeth.

"And how many in your party?" she asked dully, trying to mask her blatant lack of enthusiasm with a less convincing smile.

"Just two," replied Ben, giving me a side glance.

"Right this way," the blonde waitress commanded, leading us through the crowded building.

She halted in front of a vacant booth and practically slapped the two menus onto the smooth tabletop.

"I'm Ginny and I'll be your sever today," the girl recited manually, retrieving a small notepad from her black apron pocket. Any form of interest had long since been projected.

"Can start you two off with something to drink?"

"I'll have a water with lemon, please," Ben asked, glancing through his menu. He looked expectantly at me, a small smile spread across his lips.

"Sprite, please," I replied presently.

Without a cheerful remark, or any response for that matter, the waitress sauntered away, devoid of any gaiety.

"So," Ben began, leaning his forearms on the table, "what do you think of the inside?"

I studied the interior of the room, hastily deciding that I liked it. I didn't want to prolong my reply for too long.

An abundance of sunlight streamed through the many low, square windows on the walls. They made the polished wooden tabletops and tupperwear glisten.

Ceiling fans whirred above us, propelling a pleasant breeze. Servers roamed throughout the restaurant, smiles embellishing most of their complexions. They were all dressed the same, despite their expressions: a mahogany, button-up shirt with black Jeans, and a color coordinated apron that tied around their waists.

"It's nice," I answered, soon realizing that my response sounded unconvincing.

"Sometimes the guys and I go here after rehearsal." Ben unfolded his napkin-wrapped silverware and set them in the correct order on the table.

"How's that going, by the way?" I asked him. Pride surged through me for asking a plausible question, and, possbily, striking up a new conversation.