The Past and Other Things That Should Stay Buried(13)

“I don’t know why you’re both looking at me,” I say. “Maybe one of the toilets is clogged. Besides, it’s not like this place usually offers up a bouquet of wonderful aromas.” I glance meaningfully at the kitchen. “Now, are you gonna seat us or harass us all night, Hector?”

He clicks his tongue. “No need to get feisty.” Then he leads us to a table as far from the other customers as possible. “Coffee?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer before sashaying away.

“When you said you were hungry,” Dino says, “I thought you meant for good food.”

Monty’s is a hidden treasure that’s sort of like the queer child of a Waffle House and a Cracker Barrel, and it’s a favorite of late-night club kids, strippers, and drag queens, though it’s way too early for that crowd.

“Remember when we found this place?”

A smile brightens Dino’s face, bringing out his cute dimples. “You got us lost trying to find that coffee house where they were doing the slam poetry contest and—”

“I did not get us lost!”

“You were driving.”

“And you were navigating,” I say. “Your only job was to repeat what your phone told you.”

“I did,” he counters. “But someone gave me the wrong address. Broadway and North Broadway are two totally different streets.”

Hector returns with a couple of mugs of dark liquid that resembles coffee. He’s got narrow shoulders, a round waist, and eyebrows peaked like Everest. “Haven’t seen y’all in a while.”

“Been busy,” Dino says.

He wags his finger at Dino. “Hush, boy. I didn’t mean you; I see you more than I see my own mother.” He raises an eyebrow at me. “How come I don’t see you no more?”

“Because Dino got a boyfriend and new friends and didn’t want me cock blocking him.” I catch Dino scowling out of the corner of my eye, and good. Let him be pissed.

Hector smirks. “The friends are rowdy and don’t tip nearly well enough, but the boyfriend’s cute.”

“Wouldn’t know,” I say. “Never met him.” Hector and I simultaneously turn our judgmental spotlights onto Dino and watch him wither under our harsh glares.

“Well that don’t mean you can’t come in and see me.”

“I will,” I say.

Hector pauses a moment, then says, “You hungry or extra hungry?”

“Extra hungry.”

He nods. “Food’ll be out eventually. Angie’s on the grill, but the girl showed up stoned and is pretending we’re too stupid to notice, and she’s been fighting with her boyfriend on the phone since she showed up, so . . .” And then he wanders off to take care of his other tables.

“I missed this place,” I say. “And Hector too.” The carpet’s a mottled brown, probably to camouflage roaches skittering from one side of the diner to the other; the vinyl booths are cracking; there’s not enough bleach in the state of Florida to clean the stains from the tables; and the rest of the decor is straight 1980s, but I think it’s the only place in the entire world where I could walk in wearing a gold sequin gown, a studded leather corset, or a hoodie looking dead, and no one would judge me. Except Hector, but he judges everyone.

“You know I brought Ruby here once,” I say, “but she saw one little smudge on her water glass and ran out the door.”

There’s a hardness in Dino’s eyes that I missed before. A harsh glint in the dark blue that I can’t read, which is surprising because I used to be able to read all of Dino’s moods. But then it disappears; no, more like it tries to hide and make me think it’s gone. “What’d you expect?” he asks. “I don’t think she’s been to a restaurant that doesn’t have a full-time sommelier in her entire life.”

“Look at you and your fancy words.”

“It’s your fancy word, not—” Dino stops and suddenly becomes intensely interested in the table.

“You’re still reading The Breakup Protection Program?”

Dino nods, then says, “Well, for a while. I quit when you ruined the story.” Even though I might have returned from the dead—though I’m not conceding that everyone who touched my body was a moron who missed the signs that I was not, in fact, dead—Dino’s revelation might be the biggest surprise of the night. The Breakup Protection Program is a sprawling soapy story about two best friends who start a business in high school to help couples end their relationships without any drama, which obviously creates twice the drama. I’ve been writing and posting it online since the summer after freshman year.

“You said the writing was shit,” I say. “You said it was a shit book with shit characters and that I was a shit writer who shouldn’t be allowed to write a to-do list.”

Red creeps up Dino’s neck, spills into his cheeks, and climbs to the tips of his ears. “I never said that.”

“Whatever you say, ElevensiesForever.”

“That’s not my screen name.”

“Maybe not your regular one,” I say. “But you’re the only person I know writing Doctor Who and Stranger Things crossover fan fiction.”

“Hey,” he says. “There are at least ten of us.”