CHAPTER NINE #3
I look away because I want to keep it.
That thought should alarm me more than it does.
The storm eases outside. People begin checking phones, coats, equipment, the state of the parking lot. Scott taps on the window from outside under the narrow awning and gives me another thumbs-up. The van survived. The gear survived.
My hair may not.
Darius shifts to stand.
The movement catches.
Barely.
His right hand presses against the booth seat for one heartbeat too long.
I see it.
He sees me see it.
No cameras.
No recorder.
No notebook.
Just the two of us and the rain-washed window.
“You should ice that before the drive back,” I say quietly.
His expression closes halfway. “It’s fine.”
“That word is banned.”
He gives me a sharp look.
I lift one shoulder. “Morgan is educational.”
“She’s contagious.”
“She’s right.”
He reaches for the bill Mrs. Hanley has absolutely not brought. “I’m managing it.”
“Are you?”
“Sienna.”
His use of my first name lands warmer than it should, even with the warning under it.
I keep my voice low. “You don’t have to tell me anything for the piece. I’m not asking for that. But someone on medical needs the full truth.”
“Morgan has enough.”
“That sounded like a captain answer.”
His jaw tightens.
There it is again.
The wall.
But now I have seen the field behind it. The cones. The coach waiting. The boy who stayed useful because useful was safer than being noticed for the wrong reasons.
I should step back.
I do not.
“Elite athletes have a terrible habit of calling problems manageable,” I say, “until someone else has to manage the consequences.”
Darius stares at me.
Then, to my surprise, his mouth almost curves.
“Did Morgan write that on a card?”
“She should.”
“I’ll suggest it.”
The air between us thins.
Not gone.
Thin.
His hand rests on the table. Mine is wrapped around the mug. The recorder sits dark less than a foot from both of us.
For one long second, I can see how easy it would be to forget why dark matters.
Then Nathan appears at the end of the booth, hair wet, shirt damp, arms full of fundraiser flyers that look only slightly less dead than before.
He stops.
Looks at Darius.
Looks at me.
Looks at the recorder.
Then back at Darius.
“Oh,” he says.
Darius closes his eyes.
I pick up my coffee like I’ve never had a private thought in my life.
Nathan’s grin grows slowly. “Did I interrupt serious journalism?”
“No,” Darius says.
“Yes,” I say at the same time.
Nathan points between us. “Interesting.”
“Go away,” Darius says.
“I can’t. Coach Miller needs someone with height to hang the flyers near the register. Apparently I am load-bearing hardware now.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you. Personal growth.” Nathan looks at me. “You coming? Mrs. Hanley wants to know if your crew needs sandwiches for the road.”
My stomach answers before my mouth can.
Loudly.
Darius hears it.
His eyes drop to my untouched half sandwich.
I glare at the plate like it betrayed national security.
Nathan looks delighted. “That was adorable.”
“It was digestion,” I say.
“Adorable digestion.”
Darius stands, slower this time but smoother than before. “Nathan.”
“Fine.” He backs away, smiling. “I’ll leave you two to your totally normal booth energy.”
He disappears into the crowd.
The moment folds back into the room, not gone exactly, but packed away.
I reach for the recorder.
Darius watches my hand.
I tuck it into my bag without turning it on.
Something flickers in his face.
Not disappointment.
Not relief.
Almost both.
We step out of the booth together. Around us, Briarwood gathers itself after the storm. Chairs scrape. Kids argue about who gets the last cupcake. Mrs. Hanley wraps sandwiches in foil with the brisk affection of a woman preparing troops for battle.
Darius holds the diner door open when we reach it.
Rain drips from the awning in silver strings. The parking lot shines under the streetlights, dark and clean and full of puddles that reflect the crooked banner still visible across the road.
The air smells like wet pavement, grass, and fryer oil.
Scott waves from the van.
Nathan and Coach Miller wrestle the flyer box toward the counter behind us.
Darius steps beside me under the awning.
“You’re better at this when the recorder is off,” he says.
The rain taps the metal above our heads.
I look at him.
The diner light catches along his cheekbone, softening the lines the week has carved there.
I can’t tell whether he means I am better at being a reporter.
Or better at being a person.
Both possibilities sting.
Both possibilities matter.
I tighten my grip on my bag strap. “That sounds like either a compliment or a warning.”
Darius looks toward the wet field across the road.
Then back at me.
“Maybe it’s both.”
He steps into the rain before I can answer.
I watch him cross the parking lot, careful but not limping, the crooked Briarwood banner behind him and a storm-washed town reflected under his feet.
For the first time since Maren told me to get his heart on camera, I wonder what happens if the best parts of the story are the ones I leave off the record.
***