“Your Diet.” The waitress places my soda on the table before turning her friendly gaze to Quinton. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“A water’d be great, thanks.”

“Easy enough!” She smiles, putting her untouched notepad back in her pocket. “I’ll be right back with that.”

I’m still trying to rein in not only my thoughts, but my emotions as well, when she walks away. I grab my Coke and take a deep sip, wishing Stanley’s had vodka.

We sit in the silence. Neither one of us seems to know what to say. I’m hoping this means he’ll just pretend he didn’t hear or see anything at all.

But I’ve never been particularly lucky.

“I’m really sorry about your dad. I had no idea.” He’s so quiet that I almost didn’t hear it.

I wish I hadn’t heard it.

“Of course you had no idea, why would you?” I keep my voice even, indifferent.

“I know, it’s just . . .” He scrubs a hand over his head before leaning back in the booth—leaning back in my dad’s spot in the booth. “It sucks, you know? I’m sorry you had to go through that. Life’s not fair.”

“You got that right.” Humorless laughter I can’t contain bubbles up from the ugliest part of my soul.

“I’m really sorry.” A look I can’t decipher crosses his face. It looks like he’s having a battle in his head until he squares his jaw and leans forward, coming to a decision on whatever it was. He reaches his arm across the table and gently squeezes my hand.

Oh. Apparently he was deciding whether or not to initiate physical contact with me. Like I’d throw myself all over him at the slightest touch. And that’s annoying, but not infuriating. No.

“I know,” he says. “Losing a parent—”

That’s infuriating. And it’s all I let him say. Because is he fucking kidding me?

“You know?” I pull my hand back and let his fall flat against the table. “You know what it’s like to watch your father, your only living parent, slowly waste away until he’s so sick, so tired of it all, that he quits treatment?”

“Well, I mean . . .” he stutters and pulls his hand back.

I don’t wait for him to finish because I don’t really want to hear what he has to say anyways.

“So you know what it’s like to spend those months pretending everything is going to be fine, when in reality everything is on fucking fire? But instead, you let him think you’re fine, and watch football games with him while you try to memorize each moment with him because you know pretty soon there won’t be any more?”