Loving You Differently

Thirty

Aria Adkins

I find myself walking Austin out to his jeep at 5 A.M., groggy and practically swimming in one of his oversized Saints sweatshirts. Standing underneath the dim sky and the faint glow from a flickering street light to our left, we lean against the driver's side door wrapped up in each other's arms, anxiety and fear radiating off the both of us in waves.

Austin was nervous to reunite with his father for the first time, and I was nervous that he had to do it alone. Realistically, I knew hopping in the passenger seat and making the five hour drive to New Orleans wasn't possible, but it didn't stop me from wishing that it was. I made him promise that he'd call me with updates, and just to talk or rant or vent if he needed to, and he made me promise that I'd keep the deadbolt locked at all times the entire week he'd be gone.

Austin pulls me into his chest and plants a deep, sensual kiss on my lips, and with a sigh I reluctantly release my grip on his hoodie and step back. I feel like a little girl as I stand there in front of my door with a petulant frown on my lips, already missing him seconds after he pulls out of my driveway, his taillights glowing in the dark. As I lock the front door and make my way back to the comfort of my empty bed, eager to sleep the next few hours away until my shift at RJ's, I try to push away the fact that he'll be gone for a little while out of my mind. It's just for a week, I remind myself.

It doesn't work. My bed suddenly feels bigger, colder, lonelier without him in it. I'd gotten so used to sleeping with him wrapped around me each night that it feels wrong to be in bed by myself. And despite desperately needing as much beauty sleep as possible, hours later I find myself tossing and turning until my alarm finally goes off.

Sighing, I throw the comforter off of my body and stand. Sleep deprivation seeps into irritability, and I end up grumpily stomping to the bathroom without even realizing it. I quickly wash my face, brush my teeth, run a brush through my hair, and pile it in a low, messy bun, tendrils messily framing my face. I don't even bother with my usual application of concealer and a swipe of mascara, not feeling it for today and not giving a single fuck.

I hastily pull on my casual work uniform, my RJ's t-shirt feeling snug against my chest, which is sure to make me swelter as I work near the kitchen all day. Feeling lazy, I grab a pop tart from the pantry and throw it in my purse, deciding that I'll eat it on my walk to work.

After grabbing my purse and locking up, I start my walk to work, hoping my bad mood will eventually fade away.

——

Work is a shit show.

I can't remember the last time RJ's was this slammed. Alongside Sidney and three other girls who typically work opposite hours but were called in as reinforcements, we're all kept busy from start to finish as we tame the ever-growing crowd of Memphis regulars as well as hungry tourists who just stepped off of Beale Street. Every hour I attempt to reel in my grimace, my customer service facade slowly slipping by the second as my skin grows hot and sticky and my feet throb in my sneakers.

Cashing out a boisterous family of four, who's order got mixed up not once, but twice, thus resulting in only a two dollar tip (even though it wasn't my fault, I swear), I hand over their receipt with a flat stare and promptly throw myself against the counter with a heavy sigh the minute they scramble away.

"Hanging in there?" One of the waitresses, an older woman I never cared to learn the name of, asks, loudly snapping her gum.