6. Saved by the Kelp
Saved by the Kelp
LILLIAN
The diner is old with fixtures that look ripped right from Grease. And it smells like grease, too. The fryers are cooking up something that smells delicious.
I pour over the menu. Meatloaf, salmon burgers, pickled kelp. Pickled kelp? I’m going to have to try that.
“Get whatever you want. On me.”
My eyes shoot up to Matthew. “What? Why?”
He closes his menu and dresses up his cup of coffee with a packet of brown sugar. Cute. “Because I said so.”
I point to my chest. “I was going to buy lunch.”
He pulls a face, lips bending down at the corners and brow furrowed. “That’s ridiculous.”
“No, it’s not. It’s the least I can do for tagging along on your trip.”
Matthew leans back. His knee brushes mine for a split second.
Shouldn’t do anything to me, but it does.
It sends electric pulses through me. We’ve been so close all morning, and all that time my thoughts have been topsy turvy over the dictionary definition of “tall, dark, and handsome” sitting across from me.
“If I recall, I invited you to join me. Wouldn’t be very polite of me to make you pay for lunch.
” He sips his coffee, seeming nonplussed.
“You invited me begrudgingly. I know you’re doing me a favor.”
Matthew shakes his head. “Wasn’t begrudgingly.”
“Alright, well, whatever you want to call it then,” I say, tossing a hand in his direction at the nits he’s picking. “I want to pay for lunch as a thank you.”
“Nope, I’m a gentleman. I’m paying for lunch,” he says with a direct and pointed look.
I cross my arms over my chest. “Where I’m from, the only reason a man would buy you dinner is if you’re on a date.”
Matthew pauses. I assume he’s gathering his wits or about to give me a crash course in the Alaskan way of things, which I will happily listen to. However, he doesn’t do either of those things. Instead, he says, “Call it what you want.”
My jaw nearly drops. Has this been a date the whole time? No way, right?
Matthew’s attention diverts from me to the server, who is also running the cash register and, from time to time, popping in the back to argue with the cook. “Yeah, I’ll have a double cheeseburger with fries and add a slide of slaw.”
The server doesn’t even bother writing it down. “And you, hon?”
I glance down at the menu again, my mind racing to pick out the right thing. At least I know the salmon is probably locally sourced, right? “I’ll do the salmon burger. Do you have sweet potato fries?”
The server smiles. “No, ma’am.”
At least she didn’t laugh in my face. “Okay, then I’ll do the garden salad with the dressing on the side.”
“Something to drink?”
“Water’s fine.”
She starts to step away, but then I remember: “Oh, and could I get a side of the pickled kelp?” I ask.
“Gotcha,” she says without looking back at me.
Matthew’s staring at me. I feel a warmth crawl over my skin. “What?” I ask, busying myself by putting the menu back in the metal holder near the wall of the booth.
“Huh?”
“You’re staring.”
Matthew is caught off guard for a moment, eyes widening, lips parting. Then, he laughs. An awkward laugh. Maybe he didn’t realize he was staring at me. “Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to. I was just . . . that was fascinating.”
A laugh hops out of me. “Fascinating?”
He rubs his hand along the side of his face, his beard scraping his skin. “Yeah, I mean, you both fulfilled the stereotype in my head and then subverted my expectations.”
“What stereotype?” I say with a teasing lilt at the back of my voice.
“You know what I mean. California-type of woman,” Matthew says, lowering his chin.
I fold my hands on the tabletop, leaning closer. “What’s a California-type of woman to you?”
“The type that orders sweet potato fries when they aren’t on the menu,” he retorts. “And orders dressing on the side.”
“Touché. I have to ask, though.”
He rolls his eyes. “You don’t eat potatoes to watch your figure?”
I open my mouth to deny it, but I can’t lie. I definitely backed off the starches after moving to Los Angeles. “Sweet potato fries are like the norm in California.”
“I bet they are.”
I kick him under the table, not too hard but enough to get my point across. “Don’t be rude.”
Matthew laughs, that bright smile appearing on his face. The one that drew me to him in the first place.
This really does feel like a date.
Saved by the kelp. The server returns with a small white dish of green loops of it. “Enjoy,” she says before scurrying off to handle another table.
“And that,” Matthew says, wagging a finger toward the dish. “Was what surprised me.”
“What? That I’d try pickled kelp?”
He shrugs. “You can’t blame me for being a little surprised.”
I stare down at the bowl of kelp rounds. “Have you tried pickled kelp before?”
Matthew appraises the bowl with narrowed eyes. “Can’t say I have.”
“Wowww, and you call yourself an Alaskan.”
He ticks his head to the side. “Fair play. I’ve had raw kelp before.”
“Brag, why don’t you?”
Matthew is beaming. Glowing even. I thought I’d be more reserved for longer with him, but he makes it easy to come out of my shell. “People have been eating all kinds of kelp around here for a long time. Pretty easy to harvest too but not super profitable.”
“Unless you pickle it,” I reply.
“Got me there.”
“Okay, well, then you’ll try it with me,” I say, picking up my fork and skewering a piece of kelp. “Ready.”
Matthew does the same.
We eat the kelp at the same time. It’s much crunchier than I expected compared to a dill pickle. But it tastes the same. The same herbaceous saltiness. However, there’s a brine to it you don’t get with pickles, something inherent about the kelp itself being steeped in seawater.
“Mm,” Matthew says with a nod. “S’good.”
“Really good,” I reply and pick up another ring.
Matthew is quiet, resting a finger against his lips as he watches me eat.
“You’re staring again.”
“Yes, I am.”
I stare back, less affronted this time. I allow myself to sink into his amber eyes. If he wanted to keep me at a distance, he’s not doing a great job at it.
“And I shouldn’t,” he says, looking off and sipping his coffee.
“Why’s that?”
“Not very gentlemanly, is it?”
Our food arrives before the conversation can continue, and I’m disappointed. I would have enjoyed him looking at me a bit longer, gentlemanly or not.
As we tuck into our meals, Matthew quietly picks up a handful of fries and puts them on my plate.
I resist telling him he doesn’t have to do something like that. It’s clear it’s part of his character. He wants to do it. And I like that.
“Your salad looked sad,” he says as a defense.
“It does look a little sad, I guess.” Two cherry tomatoes, some too thick cucumber slices, and a gloopy dressing. I pick up one of the fries and dab it into the glob of ketchup on his plate. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
I may not know Matthew very well, but I genuinely believe he means “anytime.” I wouldn’t be surprised that, for the right person, he’d do anything.