All I’ve had to eat today is that scone at Starbucks, as well as some unsalable produce, which I ate over the prep sink. Half an apple with a wormhole in the other half. A chunk of watermelon too mangled to wrap in plastic. A carrot that looked like two legs and a torso. All the imperfect things no one wants to buy, as if everything has to be free of bruises and blemishes or it’s worthless. There’s a McDonald’s just down the street. When I walk in, my mom’s old best friend, Heather, is sitting at a table for four. Her eyes slide over me, like she’s waiting for someone and I’m nothing but a vague disappointment. With a sigh, she looks back down at her phone and picks up a limp french fry from one of two half-eaten Happy Meals on the other side of the table. After I get my order, I take the next table over so that I’m sitting with my back to her. I get out my phone and pretend to be engrossed in it, tilting my head to let my hair obscure my face. Jason hurries in. Heather’s ex-husband.
