Chapter 7 #2
Her eyes land on Shawn, who straightens with a grin when he sees her, and she groans.
“Hi, Darla!” he chirps. “How’s your day going?”
Her nose wrinkles as if she smells something bad. “It was going mediocre. Then you showed up.”
Shawn leans on his elbows. “And me showing up means…?”
Sometimes I wonder if my brother is a masochist.
“It means that I have to look at you. Stop smiling. You’re always doing that. It’s fucking annoying.”
“Sorry. I’ll just…” Shawn presses his lips together hard, and I think he’s trying to force the happy expression off his face, but he physically can’t manage it.
This is like watching a goofy golden retriever mooning over a black cat that’s all claws.
So cute. So sad.
“Order up,” Billy calls out. “One burger, extra pickles, and a Bunsen!”
The diner goes quiet—or at least it seems like it does—as I watch the cook’s words register on my brother’s face.
His brows crinkle. His mouth gapes. His eyes seek out mine as if I’ll explain.
“Never mind.” Darla chuckles with an evil edge. “I’m so glad my break is over for this.”
“Did he just say…a Bunsen?” Shawn asks. “Like, there is a dish at Cornfield’s named The Bunsen?”
George stares at me, too, only with an unreadable expression.
“It wasn’t my idea,” I mutter in my defense.
“You’re here!” Sally comes bustling out from the back office at just the right—scratch that, make it wrong—time. Pure delight is on her face as she spies the plate I set in front of my brother’s best friend. “Oh, this is perfect! You got The Bunsen.”
“The Bunsen?” Shawn repeats on a choked breath.
“Yep! It’s our new special.” She points at the chalkboard, where we see The Bunsen written in block script with the description of a Reuben sandwich with a side of “safe flight” fries in a chalk-drawn cloud.
“We’re getting new menus printed this summer, and it’ll be a permanent addition then.
” She clasps her hands under her chin while her daughter snickers at her side.
“I…” George stares down at his sandwich, which has a little plastic toothpick topped with an airplane stuck in it. “You didn’t have to.”
“Nonsense. You saved a member of the Cornfield family. You’re a hero.
And we need a picture!” Sally herds me around the counter toward the bemused pilot, then pulls her phone from her back pocket.
“Hold the sandwich, Beth. And you two get nice and close. We need to memorialize Bunsen eating The Bunsen with Beth, the waitress who owes him her life!”
“He would’ve died, too, Mom,” Darla points out. “Not like it was a selfless act.”
“You hush and take the picture.” Sally hands her phone off to my snarky friend. “I always manage to get my thumb in it.”
Darla frowns, then flicks her eyes toward my pouting brother and regains her glee. “Of course. I’d love to immortalize this moment. Especially when people are going to be eating The Bunsen for years to come.”
“I’m going to cry.” Shawn drops his head on his arms.
“Don’t tempt me with a good time,” Darla taunts while holding up the phone.
“Get closer together. Beth, tilt the plate a little bit. No, not like that, you look like you’re about to dump it on his lap.
Here…” Darla hands her mom’s phone back, but only so she can stalk up to us.
She has apparently decided to take the best picture of The Bunsen possible.
I’d like to think it’s to please her mom.
But we all know it’s to piss off my brother.
Okay, you don’t really piss off Shawn. He rarely gets worked up. You more piss on him. Like Grumps enjoys doing to the neighbor’s tulips.
With brisk movements, Darla sets the sandwich to the side, palms George’s knees to manspread his legs, then grabs me by the waist and pushes me between his set of perfectly sculpted man thighs.
She picks the plate back up and arranges my hands on the edges as if I don’t know how to hold a plate.
Then she adds George’s hands to the mix, and I start to get what she’s going for—an action shot of me handing him The Bunsen.
Still, I don’t know why I need to be surrounded by his thighs to do that.
“Okay.” Darla backs up and retrieves the phone. “Now look at the camera.”
I do as directed, trying to wear a smile that says, Thanks for landing that plane so well. Here’s a sandwich, rather than Please press your knees together so I can be the corned beef in your leg sandwich.
“Now look at each other,” Darla directs.
This isn’t over yet?
I turn my chin and meet a set of slate gray eyes. I prepare another awkward I’m not panicking smile.
But then George murmurs, “Engine failure was worth it just to have this over Shawn for the rest of his life.”
A laugh cracks out of me, and a second later Sally claps. “That was the one!”
Well, I guess me laughing is better than my hostage-situation smile.
I finish passing The Bunsen to the original Bunsen and step away, wiping my sweaty palms on my apron as I hurry off to check on my other customers.
The next time I circle back, Shawn looks fifty percent less devastated as he tries not to be obvious about how he’s staring at Darla while she aggressively fills the napkin holders.
George is slowly chewing his food, and I take the moment to thank him.
“That was nice of you.” I tilt my head toward the booth where the reporter-in-training was sitting when he arrived. “To agree to Riann’s interview. She’ll be gentle, I promise.”
Something twinkles in his eyes, and he wipes his mouth with a napkin.
“I don’t mind.”
Does he actually not mind, or is this an extension of his guilt?
“Do you need help with that?” Shawn asks Darla, distracting me from my thoughts as he continues to take his life in his own hands.
She glares at him. “You think I’m doing it wrong?”
“No. There’s just a lot of them.” He waves around the diner.
My friend narrows her eyes at Shawn in suspicion. Then she stalks behind the counter and comes out with a large container of salt. She plops the jug down in front of him. “You can fill the shakers.”
“Darla,” I sigh.
“He offered.”
“I did offer,” Shawn insists. Then my brother slides off his stool and strolls over to the farthest booth and proceeds to top off the salt.
“He’s not getting paid to do that,” I point out half-heartedly. It’s not like I’ve never thought about what it would be like if Shawn had to do some of my tedious diner work. Just to better understand my life.
Darla smirks. “It’s called delegating. Demonstrates I have good leadership skills.”
“And what skill set is he honing?” I wave toward my eager brother, who is eye level with the saltshaker, his tongue between his teeth as he concentrates on pouring it exactly right.
She shrugs. “Hand-eye coordination?”
George snorts, and when I throw an incredulous look his way, he drops his gaze to his plate.
“Don’t take forever with that, Newton,” Darla calls out as she goes back to her napkins. “You’ve got pepper next.”
“Yes, boss.”
I sigh in defeat, then realize George is staring at me again.
“What?”
“Have you thought about my offer?”
Only every hour since we last flew together. “A little.”
“And?”
And I want to take you up on it so badly.
“Shit.” I glance over at Shawn’s curse in time to see him trying to wipe away some salt from the tabletop.
“Did you spill it?” Darla calls out.
“No!” He cringes. “Okay, maybe. But just a little.”
“Beth.” George recaptures my attention, holding my eyes this time. “There’s a cookout hosted by the flying club I’m in this Sunday. A meet and greet. Come to it.”
“Can I?” The question is hesitant as I think back on the voicemail I received when I inquired all those years ago. George knows I’m not about to shell out thousands when I can’t even pay him for instruction.
“Potential members are allowed to attend two events before joining,” he says as if reading my internal worries. He pulls out his phone and quickly types a message. A moment later I feel a buzz in my pocket. “That’s the info. Just come. Then make your decision.”
It’s been five years. Maybe the pilot who left that message is gone. Or the rules have changed.
“I’ll think about it.”
“I’m getting better!” Shawn announces, now halfway through the diner on his salt-refilling mission.
“I don’t care,” Darla responds.
George and I both glance at my brother to see that the lack of encouragement has in no way deterred the man.
“Do they actually let him do anything at BnB?” I ask, low enough that only George can hear. “Or does he just play video games in a nice office?” Shawn and I don’t talk about his work much. I’m not interested in anything closely related to Karl Newton, although I haven’t outright said that to Shawn.
George refocuses on me. “BnB?”
A blush heats my neck, creeping to my cheeks. “I meant BBN. BnB…that’s just something I call it in my head.”
Something very close to a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“He’s head of the sales department. He’s usually first in the office. Last to leave. An asset to the company. Everyone loves him over there.”
Shawn sets down his latest shaker and catches us watching him. He gives us two enthusiastic thumbs-up, then heads to the next booth.
A pang sets off in my heart.
“I believe it.”