Chapter 8
Gabrielle
Cal wobbled slightly as we crossed the tarmac toward the diner. But there was a shift in his posture, as if surviving the flight let him stand taller.
The airfield diner—really just a glorified snack bar with delusions of grandeur—buzzed with laid-back chatter and the clink of glasses. The air smelled of fried food and aviation fuel, a peculiar perfume I’d always found oddly comforting.
Cal stood close at the high-top counter, tugging at his sleeve, hair a little mussed. He looked like a man grateful to have both feet back on solid ground.
“I owe you a drink,” he said, running a hand through his hair as he eyed the menu board.
“This is my turf. Let me buy.” I smirked. “Besides, you’ll need your money for therapy after that flight.”
He shook his head, suppressing a smile. “You returned me to earth in one piece. It’s the least I can do.”
I shrugged and leaned against the counter as he ordered beers and a basket of fries. The cashier handed over two frosty mugs, amber liquid sloshing against the sides, condensation already fogging the glass.
We claimed a small table by the window where sunlight poured over the worn vinyl checkered tablecloth. I slid the basket of fries closer, the scent of salt and grease rising up. Cal settled across from me, taking a tentative sip of his beer.
“That’s actually not bad,” he conceded, surprise flickering over his face.
“See?” I teased. “You’re discovering all kinds of new things today.”
His laugh was low and genuine. “I suppose it’s good to challenge one’s comfort zone every decade or so.”
He relaxed with each sip, the tension from our flight slowly unspooling from his shoulders.
“So, you do this sort of thing often?” His tone was teasing, but I caught the thread of genuine curiosity beneath it.
I nodded, dipping a fry in ketchup. “Every chance I get. Though fuel prices have skyrocketed, so I have to watch my budget. But yes. Call it my version of therapy.” I took a sip of my beer, hoping to nudge the conversation somewhere lighter. “You were a very good sport.”
“Good sport,” he mused, leaning back in his chair and taking another drink. “Does that include the part where I nearly lost consciousness?”
I laughed, the sound mingling with the clatter of plates and the low rumble of a plane taking off outside. Voices rose and fell in an easy cadence around us, but our little table felt like its own quiet world.
Cal followed my gaze out the window to the runway beyond. “I can see why you love it,” he said, quieter now. “There’s a freedom to it.”
“It’s like nothing else.”
I watched him over the rim of my glass, and the sunlight caught in his hair—glints of gold and chestnut woven through the deep brown.
There was something fragile about this—sitting here together, letting go of everything but the present—and I wondered how long it could last before reality intervened.
“Do you have plans for the rest of the weekend?” Cal asked with an intentional offhandedness that made me smile.
“Studying, mostly,” I replied, trying not to sound sheepish. “Some homework for your class. And a psych paper due Friday.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Homework for my class? I intentionally don’t assign weekend work.”
I shrugged, looking down at my beer to hide the warmth creeping into my cheeks. Sunlight spilled through my mug, rippling gold across the tablecloth. “The assignment due Wednesday.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Which is based on Monday’s material.”
“Yes…” I hesitated, considering. “I struggle with the hybrid experiential setup of the course. I’m more of a top-down learner rather than bottom-up, so I compensate by working backward.
I look at the homework, which assesses the overarching concept, get a feel for it, and then the integrated lecture and lab activities make more sense to me. ”
He blinked, jaw slightly slack. “You are,” he said, voice dipped in admiration, “terribly overachieving. And remarkably well-versed in pedagogy.”
“Oh, that’s my Aunt Suzy. She’s a professor of education at the University of Houston. When I struggled in Dr. Watkins’s class last fall, that was her assessment. It took us halfway through the semester to figure out that I needed to work backward, but it solved my problem.”
A plane roared to life outside, the vibration thrumming through the window and into my bones. His eyes were on me, intent and searching, and that familiar twist tightened in my chest—a blend of thrill and fear, but not from the flight.
“I’m nothing short of impressed, Gabrielle.”
I took a long gulp of beer, trying to cool the heat in my cheeks. “Anyway,” I said, hoping to deflect his gaze with a quip. “What about you? Grading papers all weekend?”
Cal tipped his head back. Light skimmed across his hair again, accentuating an errant lock that never stayed put. He looked like every serious thought he’d ever had was a little further away today, just out of reach.
“I’m afraid so,” he said, looking faintly amused. “And reviewing a few research proposals that have been glaring at me all week.” He paused, the hesitation just enough to give away whatever pretense he intended. “But my plan is to finish tonight and free up the day tomorrow.”
I tilted my head. “What’s happening tomorrow?”
He glanced around the diner, then leaned across the table under the guise of reaching for a fry. His voice was low and inviting. “I’d like to claim your day tomorrow, if you’re open to it.”
Surprise fluttered through me, leaving me momentarily without words. He was close enough for me to notice the fine stubble along his jaw, feel his presence humming in the air like static.
“Oh,” I managed, smiling despite myself. “Well, when you put it so sweetly…”
A hint of mischief flickered in his eyes before he settled back in his chair, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“Are you sure you can handle two days in a row?” I teased, feeling suddenly bold.
“I’m willing to risk it. But…”
“There’s a catch?”
He grinned. “I get to choose the activity.”
My imagination sprinted straight for the gutter before I could stop it. I ducked my head, willing my face not to give me away. But when I risked a glance up, Cal’s eyes shot wide, and he shifted awkwardly in his seat.
“I didn’t mean…” He fumbled, retreating into his beer. “I was referring to…” He covered himself with a guilty cough.
A laugh bubbled up, but I swallowed it down. “No harm done. What’s the plan?” I asked, leaning in, suddenly daring.
He set down his mug with deliberate care, a faint flush creeping up his neck as he reclaimed a measure of composure. “That,” he said, affecting a mysterious air, “is for me to know.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“I’ll pick you up at ten,” he added, dodging my gaze by staring out the window.
“Don’t I get a hint?”
His eyes flicked back to mine, gray and earnest. “Dress warmly.”
“Warmly?”
“Similar to how you’re dressed now.” A beat. “Which is quite becoming, by the way. Though I probably shouldn’t say that.”
The warmth in my chest had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the way he looked at me. Like we were alone in this crowded room. Like nothing existed but this crazy stolen moment.