Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
POPPY
Fletch has to unfold himself from the car like a camping chair, and the poor little thing creaks when he steps out, like it’s grateful to be free of him.
He stands to his full height, and I swear I hear his spine sigh in relief.
The car door stays open behind him while he stretches, the seat shoved so far back, it’s practically kissing the backseat.
“I’m starving,” I say, walking up to the Evergreen Junction Café. On the window, there’s a faded advertisement for the “Mistletoe Express.” I’m still looking at it when Fletch opens the door.
He doesn’t walk through.
“What are you doing?” I ask, taking note of how tall and broad he is. Outside of the car, somehow he looks even bigger—filling the doorway, practically blocking the frame.
“Uh, getting the door for you?” He looks around like this is the most obvious thing in the world.
Is it?
“Oh, right. Thanks,” I say, brushing past him in the narrow entrance. I catch a hint of cedar from his soap or deodorant, an attractive masculine smell that’s probably called Yeti Bait, or something.
The café is cute, if dated, with red and green plaid tablecloths, garlands drooping from the ceiling, and a fake Christmas tree in the corner that’s seen better days.
A server tells us to sit anywhere, so Fletch and I grab an open table and start glancing at the menu. The cold clings to my coat, and my teeth clatter until I stop them.
Fletch closes his menu quickly and taps two fingers on the tabletop.
“You already know what you want?” I ask.
“A burger,” he says.
I tilt my head. It’s a four-page menu. “I imagine you want to get back on the road, but I’m gonna need a minute,” I warn him.
The server comes by a moment later. She looks to be in her late-50s—pretty and tired. I put my menu down to smile at her.
“Can I get you two something to drink?”
“Chocolate milk,” I say.
“Lemonade,” Fletch says. “And I already know what I want.”
She pulls out a tiny notepad. “Okay. What’ll you have?”
“The Mountain Man Burger, medium rare, no pickles or onions. Add bacon.”
“Got it. And you, hon?” she asks me.
I’m annoyed, because I already told Ollie I’d need a minute, but now I feel like a jerk asking this nice woman to make an extra trip back to the table just because I’m indecisive.
“Actually, what’s your favorite thing on the menu?” I ask.
“Oh, the chicken fried steak—hands down,” the woman says. “I helped tweak the recipe, you know.”
I match my smile to hers, even though the name isn’t exciting me the way it is her. “I’ve never heard of chicken fried steak, but it sounds great! I’ll have that.”
“You’re gonna love it,” she says as she collects the menus. “It’ll be right out.”
Ollie looks at me closely. “You’ve never even heard of chicken fried steak, but you’re going to try it?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“It’s not everyone’s cup of tea.”
“That’s okay. I like trying new foods, and she clearly loves it.”
“But you didn’t even ask what it is. Did you order it because ‘chicken fried steak’ sounded good or because the server was so excited about it?”
That blue-eyed stare could make a lesser people pleaser feel exposed. But not this one. “Does it matter?”
“Nope. Not to me, it doesn’t,” he says. I glower at him as he pulls out his phone. “I need to make a call. Excuse me.”
His knee bumps mine under the table—proof of just how big he is. The second he leaves the booth, I exhale. Not everyone’s cup of tea? That man isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. He’s the chicken fried steak of humans.
Ugh.
I hate being irritated with people. Usually, I shut the feeling down through distraction or avoidance. Pro tip: next time you’re aggravated with someone, try walking away and scrolling Instagram! Numbs those pesky feelings every time.
Unfortunately, I can’t walk away. I’m stuck with Ollie Fletcher.
Double ugh.
Why can’t he just let me smile through the next two days and make other people happy by ordering their favorite food?
My phone chirps with a text.
Mom
Hi sweetie. I won’t make it for the party after all. The weather is too bad and your step-sisters really want to have Christmas at home. It’s not like anyone on your dad’s side wants me there, anyway. I hate this timing. I wish you could be here with us, instead. Will you be okay?
I stare at Mom’s text in shock, but not surprise.
She’s not coming. Did I actually expect otherwise?
My parents divorced when I was in middle school, and she’s not close to anyone on my dad’s side.
I’m not really, either, beyond my annual birthday and Christmas calls from Uncle Bill and Great Aunt Marla.
But I owe it to my dad to be there. Also, I planned the whole thing.
Poppy
Of course, Mom! I totally get it. Give Tim and the girls a hug for me, and I’ll call you after it’s done. Love you!
The server brings out our drinks, and I thank her with a smile I don’t feel.
When she’s gone, I take the paper off the straw, bunching it up tight.
I dip my straw into the water she brought with our drinks, holding my finger over the top to keep the water in.
Then I hover the straw above the bunched wrapper and remove my finger.
A drip of water lands on the bunched up paper, making it uncoil and grow like a worm.
It’s childish, but hey, it keeps me from crying!
I dip the straw back into the water again and fill it up all the way, but this time, I drop the water in my mouth instead of on the wrapper.
I really wanted to see my mom in Rochester. Not just for moral support, and not just because it’s the holidays, either.
But because I quit my job yesterday and I feel lost. Rudderless and anchorless.
I’ve spent years traveling the country for a nonprofit, working first time, non-violent sentencing cases—writing reports, meeting with families, trying to convince judges that defendants are more than the worst thing they’ve done.
I’ve loved it.
And I’ve hated it.
And I never thought I could do anything else … that is, until yesterday, when I snapped. And quit.
Part of me thinks I should call my boss and claim I had a nervous breakdown. But the idea of working on another case, of seeing more offenders and victims and their families—
My hand trembles as I drop water into my mouth, making me miss. It dribbles down my chin.
I can’t go back. I can’t do this work anymore. I can’t see one more family hurt by a broken system. I can’t look in their children’s eyes—
“You okay?” Ollie asks, sliding into the booth across from me.
I force a cheery smile. “Sure. Why do you ask?”
His eyes look extra blue and extra tense. “Forget about it.”
Gladly, I think, looking around at the diner. My eyes fall on the sign for the “Mistletoe Express” again.
When our server delivers our plates, my order looks even worse than I feared. My stomach growls loudly, but the unappetizing mess in front of me makes my appetite shrivel up and die.
“How’s it look?” she asks me.
I make my eyes bright. “Mmm! Can’t wait!”
“And you?” she asks Fletch.
He’s already taken a bite of his burger, so he just nods.
And the server looks back at me like she’s waiting for me to take a bite.
A flattened piece of fried meat sits there coated in thick, soggy batter and drowning in lumpy white gravy, reeking of old frying oil and something vaguely metallic.
I’m iffy on fried food. I despise gravy. What was I thinking?
I cut into the meat (is it chicken? Or steak? Or mystery meat??), and the smell hits me harder, making the hollow spot in my gut twinge. The server just waits and watches.
Waits and watches.
I bring a bite toward my mouth, my stomach flipping. The server’s still standing there, no doubt waiting for me to fall in love with “her” recipe. Then a stroke of brilliance hits, and I point to the sign on the window. “So what’s the Mistletoe Express?”
She looks behind her at the sign, and I use the opportunity to drop the food into the napkin in my lap. When she looks back, I’m fake chewing. “Old steam engine that runs up into the mountains. It’s the only way to get into Pine Mountain in the winter.”
“Ooh, what’s Pine Mountain?” I ask, cutting off another bite slowly. Soooo slowly.
“The cutest little Christmas town. You guys should go if you get the chance.”
“That sounds fun!” I say at the exact same time Fletch says, “We won’t have the chance.”
I wrinkle my nose at him, and he doesn’t even look at me.
The server raises her eyebrows and turns away, like she wants to avoid our little lover’s quarrel.
As if! Though I guess to an outsider, we probably do look like a bickering couple. The thought makes my stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with the chicken fried monstrosity in front of me.
As soon as the server’s out of view, I set my knife and fork down with a loud exhale.
“You’re not even gonna try it?” Fletch asks.
“No.”
“I thought you liked adventure,” he says, taking another bite of his burger, which, for the record, looks and smells delicious. He chews slowly, his chiseled jaw working in a way that makes my hunger even worse. When he swallows, his throat bobs. “You said you liked trying new food.”
“Normally, I do.”
“But you blindly ordered something that sounded gross to you from the get-go because you thought it would make the server happy. Am I right?”
I stare longingly at his burger and whimper. “Yes.”
He gives me a knowing smirk.
And then he slides his plate across the table and grabs mine. “I had a burger for dinner last night, and I happen to love chicken fried steak,” he says. “Don’t read into this.”
His fingers graze mine as he pushes the plate toward me, and I pretend not to notice the way that light touch sends a zing up my arm, warming my heart. He’s pushed his hoodie sleeves up to his elbows, and when he pulls my plate toward him, his forearm flexes.
My eyes well with tears at the gesture, but I shake my head. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He looks away quickly, like he doesn’t know what to do with my tears. “It’s just food,” he mutters.