Five Lucas
Five
Lucas
Beck seems lighter as soon as we step outside.
When she first arrived at the restaurant, everything seemed to be going well.
She was bubbly and talkative. She looked over the menu with interest as she told me about her day and asked about mine.
And then something changed. The easy back-and-forth of our conversation slowed.
She was participating, but it felt as if all the energy between us evaporated.
I wondered if I was boring her. I wondered what I’d said wrong.
When she left the table with her purse, a part of me was sure she wasn’t coming back.
“I’ll drive,” Beck says. “Don’t murder me, okay?”
I follow her into the parking lot. “You’re the one with the motorized vehicle. My life is in your metaphorical hands,” I tell her.
She clicks a button on her keys, and lights flash from a nearby car. “Are you suggesting my metaphorical hands might not be capable?”
I look her over. “Not at all. I’m sure your metaphorical and literal hands are both very capable.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Is that supposed to be flirty innuendo?”
“Only if you want it to be.”
“Hmm.” She turns from me, and I watch her round the car and open the driver’s side door.
“Do you want it to be?” I ask.
When she turns to face me again, there’s a smile on her lips. “Get in the car, Lucas.”
I do as she says, no further questions asked.
After a quick stop at her place so she can, and I quote, “change out of these devil jeans and return to true form,” a leggings-clad Beck drives us to a quiet tavern a few blocks away from her apartment.
Beck must be a regular at the tavern, because as soon as she steps inside, she is greeted by the hostess, who asks if she wants her usual table.
I try to be friendly to the barman who greets her as she passes by, but all I get in response to my “Hey, man” is a grunt.
I take it I’m not the only one smitten with Beck.
Don’t worry about me, I think to the barman. I’m no competition. I’m just a traveler passing through. A fun weekend. A soon-to-be memory.
The place is charming. Simple. A bar, some booths, a few wooden tables. Some board games sit on a shelf. No TVs. No music overhead. Just the murmur of voices from the employees and other customers who, like Beck, seem to enjoy the quiet.
And the seasoned curly fries? Best I’ve ever had, no ketchup required.
Beck nods to the plate between us. “I know it’s not exactly vacation-worthy, but they’re good, right?”
“Depends on the vacation,” I say, which earns me an eye roll.
In truth, it’s not what most people would go for, but I like the place. More than that, I like being here with Beck, who sits across from me with one leg tucked up under her. She seems at ease. Comfortable and cozy and cute as hell.
“Can I ask you something?” she says.
“Go for it.”
“What’s your ideal vacation?”
I want to answer her, but I come up empty. “I don’t know,” I say. “I’ve never thought about it.”
“I guess you don’t have to think about it when your whole life is one big vacation anyway,” she says.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I say, though it doesn’t feel true.
I look around the tavern and, for a moment, wonder what it would be like to be a regular here. I think of Beck’s name on that iced coffee cup behind the cash register yesterday and feel envious of her. The only places I can call myself a regular at are airport lounges.
Maybe it’s time for a vacation from my vacation.
“What’s on your mind?” Beck says.
“Nothing,” I say.
Whether or not she believes me, she doesn’t press further. She pops a curly fry into her mouth, then wipes her fingers on the napkin beside her. She does it after every bite. Fry. Napkin. Fry. Napkin.
Sand on her feet. Crumbs on her fingers. Earplugs in her purse. Changing her clothes.
I’m starting to get a clearer picture of her. Not so much that I feel like I really know her, but enough to know that I want to see more.
If only I had more time.
We linger at the tavern and talk until it closes. About the places I’ve been. About our favorite TV shows. We swap worst first-date stories and rank our favorite fast-food fries and, yes, we talk about turtles too.
“Thanks for going out with me,” I tell Beck when she parks her car out in front of my hotel. “I had fun.”
“Yeah, me too,” she says.
There’s a beat of silence as we look at one another. I need to get out of the car, but it feels impossible to walk away when I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again.
“So . . . do I get to see you tomorrow?” I ask.
Beck doesn’t respond right away. She looks me over, and for a moment I’m worried that whatever connection I’ve felt between us is one sided, and she has just been too polite to say so.
But then, she smiles. “Text me your plans for tomorrow, and I guess you’ll find out.”