The Weight of the Night

By nine o'clock that night, my cheer uniform was stuffed inside my backpack, and I was wearing a faded aprons over a plain black t-shirt. The smell of ice and bleach had been replaced by the greasy, heavy scent of burnt espresso and frying grease.

I was standing behind the counter of the 24-hour campus diner, my fingers flying across the touch screen of the cash register.

"That’s one double cheeseburger, large fries, and a vanilla shake. Your total is twelve-fifty," I said, my voice sounding robotic even to my own ears.

The student handed me a crumpled bill. I gave him his change, wiped down the sticky counter for the hundredth time, and checked the clock. Three more hours until my shift ended at midnight. Three more hours before I could sprint back to Freya’s apartment, collapse into bed, and hold my son.

My thighs felt like lead from the afternoon cheer drills. My lower back throbbed from scrubbing the mildew out of the hockey showers. Every time I blinked, my eyelids felt like sandpaper.

Just stay awake, I ordered myself, gripping the edge of the metal counter. You need this paycheck for the electric bill.

The bell above the diner door jingled.

A loud, rowdy wave of laughter filled the small restaurant. A group of five guys walked in, their massive frames instantly making the small dining booths look tiny. They were wearing black and red Crestview varsity jackets.

My stomach plummeted. It was the hockey team. And right in the center of the group, looking effortlessly handsome in a gray beanie and a dark leather jacket, was Casper.

He was laughing at something his defenseman said, his smile bright and breathtaking. It was the same smile he used to give me when we shared a cheap pint of ice cream on the fire escape of my old building. The sight of it felt like a physical twist of a knife in my gut.

"Yo, look who it is," one of the players, a guy named Miller, shouted as they approached the counter. "It’s the locker room girl! Man, Vance, you weren't kidding. She really does work everywhere."

The laughter died out of Casper’s face the second his silver-blue eyes landed on me. The warmth in his expression vanished, replaced instantly by that cold, mocking wall of stone I was growing to hate.

Before he could speak, a girl squeezed past him, wrapping her manicured hand tightly around his forearm. It was Chloe. She had her cheer jacket on, her lips painted a glossy, perfect red.

"Oh, look, it’s Olivia," Chloe purred, her eyes scanning my greasy apron with a look of pure satisfaction. "Babe, we should definitely get a booth. I'm starving after that long practice."

Casper didn't look at Chloe. His gaze was locked onto mine, tracking the dark circles under my eyes and the way my hands were subtly trembling against the cash register.

"What can I get for you?" I asked, keeping my voice dead, completely professional. I refused to let them see me break. I refused to let him know how much it hurt to see his arm wrapped around another girl.

"Get us two large orders of cheese fries, three pitchers of soda, and whatever my girl wants," Miller ordered, tossing a credit card onto the counter.

I typed in the order, my fingers moving mechanically. "That will be thirty-four dollars."

As Miller paid, Chloe leaned over the counter, a nasty smirk on her face. "You know, Olivia, you missed a spot under my locker today during cleaning. My pom-poms got all dusty. Make sure you get under there tomorrow, okay? I'd hate to have to tell the coach you're getting sloppy."

I clenched my jaw, my knuckles turning white against the edge of the register. I didn't say a word. I just nodded. Let her talk. Her words don't pay my rent. This job does.

"Leave her alone, Chloe," Casper suddenly muttered, his voice low and sharp.

Chloe blinked, looking up at him with pouting lips. "What? I'm just telling her to do her job, babe."

Casper didn't answer her. He stepped up to the counter, pushing past his teammates until he was standing directly in front of me. The counter was the only thing separating us, but the air between us felt thick enough to suffocate me.

Without breaking eye contact, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a crisp, hundred-dollar bill, and dropped it into the plastic tip jar next to the register.

"For the extra service," Casper whispered, his eyes drilling into mine with a mixture of intense anger and something else—something that looked dangerously like regret. "Make sure you use it to buy some sleep, Olivia. You look pathetic."

He turned on his heel and walked toward the large corner booth, pulling Chloe along with him. His teammates followed, snickering quietly as they slung their heavy bags over the seats.

I stood behind the register, staring at the hundred-dollar bill sitting in the jar. It felt like a brand, a burning mark of his pity and his anger. Part of me wanted to tear it up and throw it in his face. But then I pictured Caspian’s face. I pictured the empty pantry in our small apartment.

I swallowed my pride, reached into the jar, and stuffed the money into my pocket.

I will survive this, I thought, staring at the back of Casper’s head across the crowded diner. I will take your money, I will clean your floors, and I will graduate. And then, you will never see me again.