Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
HAPPILY EVER BEFORE
Arden
The diner glows like a beacon, all harsh fluorescent lights and worn vinyl booths that had heard a thousand stories. Will slides into one side, I take the other, our knees somehow finding each other beneath the laminate table that has seen better decades.
"Breakfast at 1 a.m.," I point out, picking up the sticky menu. "Clearly the most responsible decision we've made yet."
His lips pull to the side, desire and desperation still pinking his cheeks.
The waitress approaches, her name tag 'Greta’ likely from decades before, and sporting a look of mild exhaustion that suggests she's seen everything this late-night crowd could offer.
"Scrambled eggs with rye toast and a cup of coffee, please." I hand her back the menu and she just tucks it casually under her arm while scribbling the order onto her notepad.
"Can I have the Denver omelet, double bacon, a biscuit, and" he takes a pause and looks at me before proceeding with what he already knows is a good decision. "A side of fries for the table."
And then we just sit here in silence.
Our earlier intensity has mellowed into something more contemplative. But the look on his face tells me his mind is flashing back to moments between us like mine continues to.
When our food arrives, Greta tops off my coffee, and I wonder what story she’s made up about us in her mind. We look like we could be on a date, though not dressed for this one. There’s a pulse here that I can feel just being in his proximity, and I wonder if strangers can also.
He pushes the plate of fries to the middle of the table.
I'm acutely aware that this is exactly how it starts. The casual intimacy. The shared food. The way he tilts his head when he's about to tell a story about a museum guest that he knows will make me laugh, the way we are tracing all of our paths knowing how closely they’ve been crossed for longer than makes any sense.
It’s dangerous.
That’s the problem.
The absolute crisis of this moment. He’s sincere, he’s charming. And not in the social media kind of way, but in the way that suggests he actually listens. That he finds the weird, quirky parts of a conversation fascinating rather than something to be politely ignored. All wrapped up in a smile that looks crafted just for me. The conversation flows like the diner coffee. Warm and slightly bitter, but unexpectedly smooth.
"You know," he said, taking a fry, "I didn't expect tonight to end like this."
"In a diner. Eating carbohydrates. At an hour when most sensible people are asleep?" I thread it with sarcasm and hopefully he picks up on that rather than the bit of fear in my voice that I, too, am completely and utterly surprised. Cards on the table, fries on the table, I didn’t see him coming.
"Precisely," he repeats, mimicking my earlier tone. "But I’m not usually called sensible."
There's something almost hypnotic about the casual way his fingers move, how they remind me of those same fingers trailing across my skin.
"So," I say, dunking a fry in ketchup with perhaps more concentration than strictly necessary, "do you make a habit of seducing women and then taking them out for breakfast in the dead of night, or am I special?"
Will's laugh is low and rich in reply.
"One more and I get a free grand slam breakfast… and you said no to coffee, and dinner…"
I try not to smile but fail miserably. The remnants of our breakfast-at-night are scattered between us, and I'm struck by how comfortable this feels. Dangerous territory, that comfort.
"Well, I certainly didn’t expect it to play out like this…” I swirl my hand in the air hopefully to capture the undefined this in my statement. “So I’m not exactly sure where things went wrong."
"Oh, I’d say things have gone surprisingly right." His voice reaches across the laminate table top as his feet entangle mine beneath it.
Greta swings by with more coffee, forcing us to untangle our feet as she leans between us to pour. The steam rises in lazy spirals between our faces and I notice how she smiles knowingly at us, probably adding our story to her mental catalogue of late-night diner romances. If only she knew the half of it.
"You know what I think?" Will says after she leaves.
"I'm sure you're about to tell me."
"I think you're trying very hard not to like me." The honesty in his statement has me almost choke on my coffee.
" Excuse me?"
"You keep throwing up little walls, these clever remarks designed to keep me at arm's length. But then you laugh, really laugh, and I can see you forgetting to maintain the distance." He’s saying all this while finger painting the condensation of his water glass like it's the most casual moment, not the accusation it is.
"That's..." I start, then stop, because damn him for being perceptive. "That's a lot of psychological analysis for some whose day job is giving a decent tour." And damn him if he isn’t proven right by my instinct to deflect him with a taunt.
His lips pull to the side in smirk as he shakes his head near imperceptibly. Clicking his tongue in disapproval. He leans back, stretching his arms along the back of the booth, and I definitely don't notice how it makes his shirt pull across his chest. Except for the fact that I do.
He might have a lot to say about me putting up walls, but he has just as many witty deflections as I do, with the added bonus of a self-admitted habit of running away.
"You’re right, I do like you.” And with those words the smile blooms across his face. “But I think we should just enjoy this for what it is. No pressure, no expectations. Just two people who hooked up in a questionably clean bathroom, had great sex, and now find themselves enjoying each other's company with absolutely no expectations for the future because we both have enough of those." Our laughs betray us both in different ways.
"When you put it that way, it sounds almost reasonable." He reaches across the table, his fingers brushing mine.
"Well, I think we've already established that neither of us is particularly sensible," I murmur, elbows propped on the table.
"True. Sensible people are definitely asleep right now."
"Exactly. So why don't we leave sensibility to the sleeping masses and just..." I pause, gesturing vaguely with my free hand as the other reaches for a fry, "see where this goes?"
"And tonight ," he breathes, his voice dropping lower, "where do you see this going?"
"Well," I hesitate, watching his eyes darken, "I was thinking we could start with pie." Start with pie. Because we both can tell where this will go. There's something infectious about his joy, about the way he seems to take everything in stride without taking anything too seriously.
He flags Greta down with a wave. "A slice of apple pie, please. à la mode."
"Look at you, making executive decisions," I tease, settling back.
"Don't tell my father," he confides, eyes full of a teasing mischief, "but I can be very decisive when it comes to important matters."
"You're doing that on purpose," I accuse, heat rising in my cheeks.
"Doing what?" he challenges, innocence belied by his foot against my ankle.
He accepts the pie from Greta with a thank you that makes her beam, though his gaze remains fixed on me.
"Lucky for you," I say, watching him, as I deliberately taste the ice cream, "it seems to be working."
He is just as transfixed as I am. There's that look again, a gaze heavy with promise.
"Don't push it," I warn.
But he does push it, metaphorically and literally, sliding the pie plate slightly toward me in offering. The diner is quieter than before, just the soft clink of dishes from the kitchen and the vibrations of the lights overhead. It feels like we're separate from the real world with all its complications and consequences.
The front door opens with a jingle of a bell, and the new patrons have me glance outside for the first time since we walked in. And while the sun isn’t up yet, she’s beginning to yawn in that lazy way you do before you're ready to wake up. When I see the clock on the wall it's clear, we found a mist to get lost in for more hours than I could have imagined.
"We should probably go," I say, though I make no move to leave, waiting for him to confirm.
"That would be sensible" he agrees, then flags down Greta for the check.
As we slide out of the booth, I feel a sudden reluctance to let this night end. Which is ridiculous, because this isn't anything. It can't be anything. It's just a random connection, a spark in the dark, temporary collected moments of madness.
Outside, the street is quiet except for the distant sound of traffic and our own footsteps on the sidewalk.
"So," I say, because what else is there?
And before I can build another wall or make another joke, he's kissing me. It's different from our earlier kisses, which have all been heat and urgency. This is slower, sweeter, tasting more than coffee. His hands frame my face like I'm something precious, something worth savoring, and I let myself melt into it just for a moment under the spill of the gossiping street lights.