Chapter 3 #2
Webb picks up the discarded ice and sets it back on my arm.
“You should keep it on for fifteen to twenty minutes to really help with the bruising. And especially if you sprained something.” He pauses.
“Are you supposed to work tomorrow? Maybe you should see about getting the day off to give your arm time to heal.”
“I’ll be fine by tomorrow,” I reply. “And how do you know I should keep it on for that long? Were you a doctor in the Army? Or a medic?”
Though I don’t know a lot about Webb, during our brief conversations in the diner he’s shared that he used to be in the Army, but chose not to renew his contract when it came up three years ago.
From there, he worked in New York for a couple of years before moving to the West Coast to join a security company.
Oh, and he’s also told me about his love of the outdoors, grown from the camping trips he used to go on with his dad, how his favorite teams are the Steelers and the Pirates, and since he moved here a year ago, he’s been on a quest to try all the best craft beers in the Pacific Northwest.
So I guess I actually know more about him than I thought.
While I wait for his response, I spin his possible answers in my head.
Could he have been a military doctor? Or was he a combat medic, risking his life to save others?
Unless he wasn’t in the medical field at all.
Maybe he was in Army intelligence. Or he was an enlisted soldier, the first to rush into battle.
A weird sensation hits me, like a fist wrenching my heart.
I don’t like the idea of Webb in danger. Not that I’d want that for anyone I know, but with Webb? There’s a bone-deep wrongness to it.
“Not a doctor or medic,” he says with a smile. “Although I’ve taken plenty of first aid courses. It’s from experience. After nearly twenty years in the Army, I’ve had my fair share of sprains and bruises.”
“Here you go,” our server announces. She sets our lattes and plates of carrot cake down with a clatter. Then she sets a white paper bag down with a soft thunk. Her voice is significantly less friendly than before. “Do you need anything else?”
At first, I’m confused about her sudden change of mood. Then I notice her gaze move from Webb’s hand, which is still holding the ice to my arm, to his eyes, which are completely focused on me.
Part of me wants to explain to her that it’s nothing. That he’s not really interested in me. That his attention stems only from concern. That if she sees him around town, she might have a chance with him.
Is that true, though? Really?
Am I going to pretend I haven’t noticed that he intentionally sits in my section whenever he comes into the diner?
Or the hopeful looks he gives me whenever he asks about my plans for the upcoming weekend?
Will I really insist that every brush of his fingers against mine when he hands me back the check book is accidental?
I may not have a lot of dating experience, but I have enough to know when a man is interested. And the signs Webb’s been giving me all say the same thing. He likes me. He’s attracted to me. And he’d ask me out if I gave him the slightest encouragement.
If I’d met Webb at the diner around the corner from my old theater in Portland, back when things were still normal, I probably would have.
When he asked what I was up to for the weekend, I would have said something like, “Oh, not much. Just puttering around the house, really. Although I was thinking of a hike, or maybe checking out the new restaurant that just opened near me. What about you?”
But things are very much not normal, as evidenced by the awful text I just got. And from the fact that I’m not living in my garden apartment in Portland anymore, but a small studio above a garage in Williston.
Oh, and I’m not a stage manager anymore, because my dream career went down the tubes along with the rest of my life.
So it’s probably not the best time to think about dating, no matter how nice Webb is. Even if his touch gives me chills in the most delicious of ways and the best part of my shift is when he comes in.
“Nothing else,” Webb replies without taking his attention from me. “Thanks.”
As soon as she leaves, he says, “I was a pilot, actually.”
“A pilot?” I’m immediately hit with the image of Webb in a fighter plane, dive bombing an enemy encampment, dodging gunfire and missiles as he weaves through the air.
He leans across the table. His voice dips. “A helicopter pilot. I don’t usually tell people what I did specifically, because it leads to a lot of questions I can’t answer.”
I feel like smacking myself. Of course, he wasn’t a fighter pilot. That would be the Air Force, wouldn’t it? Or would it? Crap. My knowledge about the military is cobbled together from books and movies, which I’m sure isn’t terribly accurate.
I make a mental note to myself—research the Army when I get home. Just to educate myself, not because I want to know more about Webb’s experiences.
“Why would there be questions you couldn’t answer?” I ask.
His smile sobers. “Because I was a Night Stalker. And a lot of the ops I was on, the details were confidential. I couldn’t tell anyone who wasn’t involved about them. Not my friends, not my mother, not anyone.”
“A Night Stalker?” It sounds familiar, and after combing through my memories for a few seconds, I remember where I’ve heard of them before.
It was not long after my dad died, and I had been having trouble sleeping.
So I’d taken to watching TV until my eyes couldn’t stay open anymore and I’d finally get at least a few hours of sleep.
The movie—I can’t remember the title of it—was about a team of Green Berets on a mission in Afghanistan.
They ended up in trouble, and a helicopter flown by two Night Stalkers made a daring nighttime rescue to save them.
In the movie, the helicopter was being shot at as it flew away, and one of the Night Stalkers who was piloting it was hit and nearly killed.
“That was really dangerous, wasn’t it?” I ask. “I don’t know much about the Army, but I saw this movie…”
Webb takes the ice from my arm and brushes his thumb across it. Unexpectedly, shivers zip through my body. He pushes my latte towards me and says, “Drink. I promised you—”
“Sugar, I know.” Obligingly, I take a small sip. With a smile, I add, “If your mom says it helps, after all.”
He smiles back at me. “I always told her hot dogs worked just as well. Or McDonald’s. But she never went for it.”
“I suppose those aren’t very healthy.”
“And carrot cake is?” He chuckles. “Even if it does have a vegetable as an ingredient.” But instead of mocking the cake, he spears a bite with his fork and pops it into his mouth.
After a few chews and a swallow, he says, “That’s actually really good.
I like the combination of the cake and frosting. It’s different.”
“It’s cream cheese frosting. Plus, there are a bunch of spices in it, like cinnamon and nutmeg. My dad and I would have it for dessert around Christmas, so whenever I have it, it reminds me of him.”
Webb sets his fork down. Sympathy darkens his gaze. “He’s not around anymore?”
My throat goes thick. “No. He died seven years ago. Cancer. He didn’t even know he was sick until it had spread too much to treat.”
“Noelle.” His voice gentles. Then he covers my hand with his. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.” I’m a little startled at myself for telling him. “It’s been seven years, so I’ve had time…”
“It’s not fine. And it doesn’t matter how long it’s been.” That vulnerable expression comes back into his eyes. “My dad died when I was twenty-five. So it’s been fourteen years now. And it still hurts. Sometimes just as much as it did back then.”
“Webb.” Something new plucks at me. Not attraction—because I am attracted to Webb, despite my own insistence that it’s the wrong time—or interest, but something deeper. Something I’ve never felt for a man before.
“That’s why I came into Doug’s Diner the first time,” he explains.
“I was headed back from the airport after getting in some flight time. I like to go a couple of times a month to keep my skills at least somewhat fresh. And instead of hitting the McDonald’s in Newberg for breakfast, I decided to come into Williston instead. Just to see what was here.”
“And?”
“I saw the awning for the diner. And it reminded me of the place I used to go with my dad. He loved diner breakfasts. He said they were better than any fancy restaurant’s. So I stopped in. Then I sat in your section, and…”
Trailing off, he gives a little shrug. “I guess I like diner breakfasts the best, too.”
The heat from his hand seeps into mine, chasing away the clinging chill I haven’t been able to get rid of for weeks.
Though I think I already know the answer, I ask anyway.
“But if you’re not going to the airport every day, why have you come into the diner so often?
Especially when you don’t even live in Williston? ”
Webb hesitates. “Where I live—and work—is about ten miles from here. So technically, this is the closest town.”
“Oh.”
I shouldn’t be disappointed. It doesn’t matter why he comes to the diner, after all. And I’m not looking to complicate my life any more than it is already.
“But.” Webb nudges my latte towards me, waiting until I’ve taken another sip before continuing, “I found something at the diner I like even more than food. So I guess that’s why I keep coming.”
My heart jumps.
“Noelle.”
“Yes?”
“I was thinking, would you like to go out sometime? Since you’re new to the area, we could visit someplace you haven’t been before. Like Mount Hood, that’s a must if you live near Portland.”
“I was living in Portland,” I blurt, revealing another part of myself I hadn’t intended. “Before I moved here.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize. I just assumed you’d moved from further away. But if you’ve seen Mount Hood—”
“I haven’t. I mean, I have from afar. But in the five years I lived in Portland, I was always too busy to actually go there. Which sounds kind of sad when I think about it. But work always took priority.”
And look where that left me. Job-less, home-less, friend-less…
No, I remind myself. That’s not true. Even if my life took a drastic detour, I do have a job, albeit not the one I worked years to get. I have a place to live. I have Jaz, even if she’s across the country.
Then there’s Webb, sitting across from me with that hopeful look again.
“We could go,” he offers. “I’ve flown over it, but never seen it close up. The falls are supposed to be beautiful, and there’s a Bigfoot museum nearby. That could be fun.”
“A Bigfoot museum?”
“Yeah. One of my buddies took his wife there while they were out visiting. He said it was pretty entertaining.”
I’m torn. On one hand, it does sound like fun. And heading out to Mount Hood on my next day off sounds a heck of a lot better than moping in my apartment.
But I’m not looking for a relationship. And if Webb is… I don’t want to lead him on.
“I’m not sure,” I say. “I work a lot. And I’m not sure when we’d have the same day off.”
Webb replies, “I have to head up to Seattle tomorrow, but I’ll be back the day after. After that, my schedule’s pretty flexible. So I could—” He stops. “Maybe Mount Hood is too far. You probably don’t want to drive all that way, especially not knowing me well…”
“It’s not that.”
He rises from his chair and pulls out his wallet, then extracts a business card from it. On the front is a simple logo of twin arrows intersected by a blade. The text above it says Blade and Arrow Security.
“It’s the company I work for,” he explains.
“There are three branches, one in New York, one outside San Antonio, and ours, which is right nearby. You can look up the website. My name isn’t on there, but you can see we’re legit.
I’m not some weird creeper who just wants to get you alone on a mountain. ”
A beat later, he turns red. “Shit. That sounded bad.”
I can’t help laughing. “Maybe. But I don’t think you’re a creeper. Or that you want to get me alone on a mountain.”
“No?” He cocks his head. “That’s good.”
“No,” I affirm. “I already thought you were nice from the times you came into the diner. And what you did on the street, and bringing me here… making me drink my sugary coffee and getting me ice… That doesn’t seem like something a creepy guy would do.”
A crooked smile quirks his lips. “Just a bossy one?”
My lips twitch. “Maybe a little.”
“Do you think,” he adds as his thumb strokes across the back of my hand, “you might want to go, then? Or if that’s too much, just dinner in Williston?”
The logical voice in my head pipes up, asking, Shouldn’t you be focused on getting your life back on track? And not going on a date with a man who already intrigues you more than he should?
Probably.
But it would be nice to get away for a day. And I just know, without having to look up the website of Webb’s company, that he’s a good guy. One I’m pretty sure I can trust.
Friends can hang out, I remind the logical voice. Friends can take a perfectly innocent trip to Mount Hood to see the Bigfoot museum. And really, couldn’t I use another friend right now?
The logical voice doesn’t have an answer to that.
With silence echoing in my head, I meet Webb’s gaze and say, “Yes. I’d like to go to Mount Hood with you.”
He smiles, his eyes brightening along with it. “Great. It’s a date.”
I could tell him it’s not. That it’s just a friendly outing. But I don’t want to ruin the moment, so instead, I return his smile. “I can’t wait.”