Page 29 of Malaise

“Everything okay?” He lifts his chin to gesture at my pocket.

“Fine.”

He frowns, yet doesn’t say anything more on it.

“How much do I owe you?” I ask.

“Nothing.” He slides onto the seat opposite mine and rests both elbows on the Formica table. “It’s my shout.”

“Thank you.”

I watch his hands as he reaches for the skinny sugar sachets and pulls them from the holder by the fistful. Carver’s fingers work quickly, shifting the oblong packets around, flipping them over and aligning them into a flower-burst shape.

Every passing second of silence seems to thicken the air around us. The longer he’s quiet, the less appropriate my mundane conversation starters seem. What do I even expect him to say? We covered everything in the car already. I’m just here to eat, right?

“What’s on your mind, Meg?” His eyes never leave the shifting art form before him.

“Nothing.”

“At all?”

I shake my head and turn to look out the window at a sleek grey sports car that’s pulled in beside the fuel pumps. “Nothing.”

What can I tell him? That I’m wondering if there is a side to him that I haven’t met yet? That perhaps the majority of the town can’t be wrong, and there is something with his family that I’d do well to avoid? He said he’s speaking from experience when it comes to dysfunctional families and grief—but why? What happened?

He focuses on the sachets as he replaces them in the holder one by one, making sure they’re lined up perfectly. His normally light eyes are dark, and that crushing smile is nowhere to be seen. The sharp point of his jaw flexes every so often, and I could almost reach out and touch the tension he radiates.

Something isn’t right, but I can’t help the feeling that the unrest doesn’t start with him, it’s merely reflected from something a lot more complex that I don’t want a thing to do with right now.

Me.