Page 2 of Meet Cute

Me

im okay. going to bed now. talk soon. love u.

One quick swipe and a tap turns on do-not-disturb mode before she can even start typing. I wish she was here right now. I wish anyone was here. Going through all this alone is the worst.

Even in the fading gas station lights I can tell my face is a mess right now. Wiping my tearstained cheeks does little to fix them, but at least I tried. I can’t be bothered to care about that right now. So what if people know I’m a wreck? What’s there to lose?

Stuffing the stupid thing into the pocket of my garnet-red hoodie, I finally step out of the car into the cool night air. I wouldn’t go inside if I didn’t have to, but I’m hungry and I want to consume as many calories as possible since I’m gonna cry them out later anyways.

And gas. I came here for gas.

TWO

A cute little electronic jingle rings throughout the overwhelmingly bright gas station. The floor is tiled with something gray and shiny, and the walls are a really ugly vomit-esque beige with two green stripes at the bottom.

I wouldn’t call it small, but I wouldn't call it big either. Smack dab in the middle of it all is one of those weird circular counters, although the cashier standing behind it doesn’t even bother addressing me. It’s not like there’s anyone else here, but I probably wouldn’t be in a good mood if I had to work at nearly one in the morning either.

My car is full of gas now but my stomach is empty, so I head to the back where all the fridges are and grab the biggest bottle of soda I can find. Doesn’t even matter what kind it is. My liver should consider itself lucky that I’m driving otherwise it’d be some tequila and a nap.

That annoying jingle plays again when I’m grabbing a bag of chips and a chocolate bar, but this time it’s followed by the deep grumblings of some beefy trucker in a denim vest.

His arms are scarily muscular, and his face is hidden behind a navy green baseball cap and a ridiculously thick salt and pepper beard. He towers over every shelf so he’s gotta be six feet minimum.

The trucker pushes past me, grabbing a bag of nuts and a six pack of cheap beer. He reeks of alcohol and sweat, but it’s not as if I’m gonna say anything. Every step he takes is so heavy and menacing that I almost feel bad for the guy behind the counter.

He must be all alone this shift, which has to suck. The employee is on the huskier side and shorter than I am, with wavy light brown hair that probably hasn’t seen a brush in a while since his bangs are haphazardly pushed to the side. But what really gets me is when he looks up at the trucker, his features become more noticeable.

The guy’s got the kindest hazel eyes sitting behind half-rimmed glasses, with the faintest rosy tinge on his full cheeks. He paints me as the nerdy but sweet type.

“Pack of Marlboro Reds.” The trucker lets out in a strong southern drawl, although it’s so mumbled I almost don’t make it out at all.

The cashier turns, grabbing them off the shelf and sliding them across the counter. “Can… Can I see your ID, sir?”

To my surprise the trucker actually laughs at him, but it’s ugly—like he can’t believe it. “Don’t got it on me, kid…”

“Then… I can’t sell you these…” The cigarettes begin sliding back towards the cashier. “I’m sorry, sir… I’ll put the beer back—”

“Are you some kinda fuckin’ retard? Take one good look at my mug n’ tell me I ain’t twenty-one.”

Those disgusting words come out so quickly that I don’t process them at first. The cashier’s expression drops, and it takes a me a moment to realize he's shaking. His lips are moving but he isn’t speaking, just stammering while this overgrown asshole stares at him.

“You hear me?” A meaty fist slams down against the counter, and the cashier physically recoils back. “Or you gonna keep standin’ there and acting stupid!?”

Confrontation is not my specialty. I’m usually fine with keeping to myself. But what do I honestly have to lose at this point? This guy’s being a piece of shit towards someone who probably wouldn't even hurt a fly. If I get beat up, at least I was trying to do something nice.

At the end of the day, I’ve got nothing to lose.

“Why don’t you leave him alone?” I’m surprised my voice doesn’t quiver as I step up to him, setting my stuff down on the counter as well. “You forgot your ID, not him. He’s trying to do his job, so relax a little.”

This is so stupid. I sound stupid. The man’s eyes dart between the cashier and I, before he just growls and turns around. While storming out he makes sure to kick over the cheap display of sunglasses, letting out incoherent animalistic noises. Why did that work? Did he decide it wasn’t worth it?

“You okay?” My attention shifts to the cashier, even though I’m trying to process what the hell happened. He’s not trembling anymore, just staring at me with his brows pushed together.

After a moment of hesitation he speaks. “Y-Yeah… I… I’m not really good with… that kind of thing.”

“That guy was an asshole. Don’t worry too much about him.”

He squirms, and when he raises his hand I notice it’s balled into a fist. “I’m not… you know I’m not… a retard, right?”