Page 26 of Melancholia

“Anything else? I wasn’t sure if you’d want eggs or hash browns. Figured these were the easy guesses.” She slides the plate of bread in front of me, already covered in a sheen of melting butter.

There’s nothing better than buttered toast, especially on sourdough and seared by the chef who somehow ended up here when he can make an omelet I’d pay big money for.

“Yeah, umm…” I pick up one of the half-slices of toast, absolutely delighted when the bread under my fingers proves to be soaked with melting butter. I can’t help myself. It’s rude as hell, I’m sure, but I sink my teeth into the toast, savoring it as I chew, then swallow.

“A cheese quesadilla? I know that’s more lunch than usual for me, but I don’t know. I’m trying to be spontaneous today.”

I’m really not. If I were trying to be spontaneous, I would’ve grabbed my keys, gotten in the car, and found somewhere to go on an adventure. Somewhere further than literally three blocks from my apartment above Coffee Crest.

While Betty looks down at the toast with the light of judgment in her gaze, I just fold the piece in half and take an extra-large bite, as if I don’t see her look. Toast and a quesadilla might not be the world’s most popular pairing, but I’m certainly not going to complain about it. Especially as I sip at my Cherry Coke when Betty leaves, her smile fading as she goes to check on the rowdy high schoolers in her restaurant.

While I wait for my food, I turn to watch out the window, gazing at the late summer sun drowning the town of Still Pines in humid heat. Mid-August means we’re in the home stretch before tolerable weather, but it’s still dreadful outside for the moment. According to the Weather Channel, I’ll be suffering for at least another three days before the heat finally breaks and the world remembers that we’re heading into fall, not another false version before summer takes one last revenge.

Still Pines is never as busy as most places I’ve lived, though it’s not the ghost town I once thought it would be. Cars meander around the square, turning onto the roads connecting us with the turnpike or smaller ones that wind down into more and more rural neighborhoods. A few cars make their exits onto the only other road worth going down most days, probably headed to the big grocery store put in about two years ago.

But most stick to the north or south exits, telling me they’re probably just passing through or heading to Philly. Still Pines is out of the way enough that it doesn’t get a lot of people stopping by randomly or just because they were in the area. Being in the area is intentional.

Whether it’s because of the heat or the time—after lunch, but before people get off work—there aren’t many people walking around the square. A woman appears from behind one building, but I recognize her as a boutique employee. Sure enough, she disappears into the building, letting the door close hard behind her while taking off her sunglasses. A man stares at his phone, earbuds a bright white under his hair, as he passes the diner, then the pharmacy next door. He never once looks up, like his body is on autopilot to get him wherever he needs to go.

Absently, I look down at my phone, horrified that at any moment Hestia will text me and tell me Amir is absolutely interested and on his way to swoop me up on a date. That’s my worst-case scenario, anyway. The one my brain has been oh so helpfully building for me. I’d much rather he laughed off her messages and think I’m pathetic. After all, what kind of person would be into the man who threatened her at her place of work? Not only that, but threatened me with a dog.

For some reason, that’s the more offensive part of things.

As a dog lover, it goes against everything in me to not like a dog as gorgeous as Umbra. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous around his Shepherds that are clearly trained in more than just obedience and being pretty as hell.

I jump when Betty returns, setting down my quesadilla and giving my half-eaten toast a flat look. “Done with this?” she asks, already reaching out her hand for the small plate. But I quickly rescue the piece of toast still there and pop it onto the bigger quesadilla plate before smiling and letting Betty take it.

“Thanks,” I say, spotting the extra salsa she put in a little condiment cup beside the quesadilla. When she leaves, I pick up a triangle, dunking it liberally in salsa before cramming a way too big bite into my mouth.

It is, of course, perfect. Not at all authentic, and honestly simple enough that I could’ve made it in my apartment. But there’s something to be said about greasy cheese smashed between two flour tortillas and seared within an inch of its life in a pan. With salsa dripping from it and nearly making it onto my shirt, I definitely look like I never learned to eat like a normal human. Not that I care. I’m not here to impress anyone, and anyone left to impress doesn’t care—or know—where I’m living.

Is there anyone left? The voice is definitely not mine, even as it sounds in my head, and I focus on my quesadilla instead of looking around. That only invites problems. Honey Clove Diner is my only place to go for food like this in town, and I will not let my brain ruin it for me. Not after stumbling out of here last time like I was being personally victimized by the mother-daughter duo who sat too close to my corner booth.

Go away, I whisper back as I fold the quesadilla in half and finish the triangle that’s still dripping salsa. Right fucking now. I took my meds. I’m not struggling. So, fuck right off.

I’m not sure if that works. My therapist has never really given me an answer on whether trying to order around the hallucinations my trauma-addled brain creates is a good or bad plan, but until she tells me otherwise, I will not be stopping my endeavors.

Either way, the voice goes silent. I tell myself that I will not entertain this today. Not when I know next week is, quite frankly, going to be a bitch.

My birthday always is.

That thought sours my appetite, and I stare down at my quesadilla, sighing over it. My stomach curls and frustration wells up in me at the sudden nausea that strokes my throat like a threat.

No.

No, I’m not fucking doing this.

As if to prove a point, I eat the rest of my toast without really tasting it. Like I can make a point and prove to my body I don’t have to listen to the psychosomatic cues of discomfort.

Unfortunately, I’m not able to finish the rest of the quesadilla. The last two triangles sit there looking sad, shining with cheese-grease and perfectly golden brown except for where the cheese has cooked on the tortillas. I could take it home. There’s no law against having the rest for dinner, though that still feels like some sort of failing on my part.

But when Betty returns, I ask for a box, as if I am in fact going to take it home with me and heat it back up. I can dream after all. But when I leave with the plastic bag of leftovers in my hand, I only make it a block before I dump them into a trash can, as my stomach curls and rebels against my lunch.

“This is all your fault, Nell,” I whisper to myself, running my fingers through my hair. “Why the hell did you have to think about your birthday?” Thinking about it anytime is a questionable choice if I don’t push the thought away. But now? When it’s only two days away? That’s just asking for problems.

Well, at least no one here knows. I’ve never given out my birthday, so there won’t be any cards or fake celebrations. It can pass in obscurity, like I want for every birthday.

And then the day after can go back to being just another day.