30. Been Waiting #2
We hit a red light, and he slows to a stop. The car idles in that thick, charged kind of quiet.
“You really do look beautiful tonight,” he says, voice softer now.
“Right back at you, Brody.” I gesture to his outfit. “Who let you look this good?”
His hand slides down the wheel. “You did.”
The heat between us doesn’t go anywhere—it just shifts. Curling low and quiet. Waiting.
He taps the wheel again.
“You nervous?” I ask
He glances over, amused. “No.”
“You sure?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“If this is an actual date or not.”
I smirk. “Guess we’ll have to find out.”
We drive for the next hour exchanging first date questions. Favorite colors, songs, foods. Mundane things we had completely glazed over.
I’m not surprised that his favorite color is black or that his favorite food is Thai—although I already knew that. What does surprise me is that he learned to cook some dishes while working in Thailand.
The second the Mustang turns the corner, I know exactly where we are.
Neon lights flicker down the boardwalk, the old wooden coaster slicing the skyline. Coney Island stretches out in front of us—quiet in the off-season.
“No way,” I say, eyes wide as he pulls into a weather-worn lot near the boardwalk.
He looks smug. “You like it?”
“I love it. This is...not what I expected.”
He parks and cuts the engine, the silence settling between us like it has weight.
“I haven’t been here in years,” he says after a beat. “There’s this place up near the pier. Burgers, chili fries, milkshakes. My dad used to bring us—before he got sick.”
His voice goes quieter, like it doesn’t want to carry too far.
“I was nine. I remember thinking it was the best day ever. Before…you know. Everything started to turn.”
I glance at him as he stares out the windshield, hands still on the wheel. The dash lights light his face from underneath, and for a second he looks younger. Softer.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I had a day like that too. Last good one before the shitstorm hit.”
He looks over at me, waiting.
“My year twelve formal,” I say. “This guy asked me out—cute, played guitar, had that floppy surfer hair thing going on. He picked me up in his mom’s old Corolla, decked it out in fairy lights.
Wore a tie. It was the sweetest thing anyone had done for me up to that point.
I’d gone all out—hair, makeup, heels—the whole deal. ”
“What happened?”
I laugh under my breath. “He ditched me halfway through the night.”
“Why?”
“I wouldn’t let him finger me in the backseat.” I chuckle, shaking my head.
Broderick blinks. “What?”
“Yeah. Said I was a tease. Dropped me off early. I spent the rest of the night on the back steps with my heels off, eating Macca’s and listening to my friend cry over some rugby guy.”
He shakes his head. “I gotta find that punk and knock his lights out.”
I smirk. “You don’t even know his name.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’ll find every guy who owns a beat up Toyota Corolla in coastal Australia and just start swinging.”
I laugh—and it cracks something open in my chest.
He reaches over, warm fingers brushing mine. “Anything to defend your honor, sweetheart.”
“Pretty sure you obliterated any shred of my honor when you fucked me in the ass.”
He laughs incredulously. “You and your filthy mouth.”
He doesn’t let go of my hand when we get out of the car. The sea breeze still biting, but something about it feels…warm.
The boardwalk creaks beneath our boots, sea wind tugging at my coat. Most of the rides are shut down, lights dimmed, but the bones of it are still there—candy-colored signs, the distant buzz of arcade machines, the smell of salt and grease and something sweet.
Broderick leads the way.
“You think they’re open?” I ask, squinting at the glowing sign ahead—Lou’s Grill, flickering.
“They’re always open,” he says. “Even in a hurricane.”
The place is barely more than a window with a counter, a few cracked stools out front, the scent of fried onions thick in the air. An old guy in a Mets cap leans over the grill, flipping patties like time doesn’t mean shit.
We step up to the window. Broderick lets go of my hand to pull his wallet out and nod at the chalkboard menu.
“Two chili dogs. Fries. Chocolate shake,” he says, then glances at me. “Unless you’re gonna go all diva on me and want a salad?”
I squint at him. “Do I look like someone who orders salad at a place like this?”
“Didn’t think so.”
“Add extra pickles on the fries please,” I tell the guy behind the window. “And can we do the shake half chocolate, half strawberry?”
Broderick raises a brow at me like I’ve just committed a federal offense.
“What? It’s called balance.”
“You’re deranged.”
The grill guy smirks but doesn’t comment, just rings us up and turns back to the fryer.
Broderick pays, then leans his elbows on the counter beside me, shoulder brushing mine. I can feel the heat from him even through our coats.
“This was your go-to?” I ask.
He nods. “Every time. Right here, same order. Dad would pretend we were broke and it was a big treat. Mom always knew better, but she’d play along. We’d sit on the beach and eat like kings.”
The corner of his mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close.
I reach for his hand again, and he folds his fingers around mine like it’s instinct.
“That’s such a beautiful memory… he sounds like the most amazing man—like someone else I know.”
I nudge him gently, a quiet smile pulling at my lips.
Broderick’s gaze softens in the dim light. Then he draws me in, tucking me against him, my head resting on his chest, his chin settling atop my hair as we watch the waves roll in and break along the shore.
Our food comes in no time, and my mouth waters. I take a bite of the chili dog, mustard smearing the corner of my mouth, and lean back against the boardwalk railing. The ocean rolls dark and endless past the lights, the air is crisp—yet soothing.
“Alright,” I say, licking my thumb. “This was a solid call.”
“I know,” Broderick says around a mouthful of fries. “You doubted me?”
“I always doubt you.”
He grins, brushing salt off his fingers. “Good, keeps me sharp.”
We finish the food standing there, paper trays balanced between us, grease soaking through in all the best ways. I tip back the shake, pass it to him, and then catch sight of the amusement park gates again.
“You know,” I say, nodding toward it, “this would’ve been even more fun if it wasn’t closed.”
Broderick doesn’t answer.
Instead, he takes the empty shake from my hand, drops it into a nearby trash bin, and pulls a small black keycard from his coat pocket.
He holds it up between two fingers.
“What is that?”
“Let’s find out together.” He offers me his other hand, and I place mine in his warm palm.
We walk hand in hand until we reach the rusted gates and he swipes the card over a small panel near the side entrance. A green light flashes. The lock clicks.
“What the hell, Brody—”
The gates creak open.
And then—like flipping a switch—the park comes alive.
Lights blink on in rows. The carousel turns, slow and dreamlike.
Music starts somewhere in the distance, old-timey and warped, like we’ve stepped into a memory.
The Ferris wheel lights up, a slow mechanical hum cutting through the quiet.
People appear out of nowhere—park staff.
My jaw actually drops.
“You did not rent out all of Luna Park just for us?”
He slides the keycard back into his coat. “Technically, I called in a favor.”
“Why?”
He looks at me, then glances toward the glow spilling over the boardwalk.
“I hate lines,” he says. “And I didn’t want you worrying about someone snapping a photo of us with ketchup on our faces and selling it to Page Six.”
I stare at him.
“You’re insane.”
“Rich,” he corrects, holding out his hand. “Come on. I want to see you scream your lungs out on the Cyclone.”
I don’t move. Not right away.
Because the lights are too soft, and the night too still, and my heart too full.
But I take his hand anyway.
We ride the carousel first.
It’s slow, corny, and something in me loves it anyway—Broderick half-lounging on a tiger, legs spread like he owns the whole park—which for the night he does.
Broderick shoots me a grin over his shoulder as the music wheezes through the speakers and the lights spin above us in dizzy gold.
We hit the bumper cars next. I sideswipe him so hard he spins out. Broderick gets his revenge two minutes later with a full-throttle slam that nearly cracks my spine.
Then the swings. The ones that lift you so high your feet skim the clouds. He laughs the entire time—loud, unfiltered—while I scream every curse I know in English and Tagalog.
By the time we stagger off, windblown and breathless, something’s settles between us.
It dawns on me—this is the longest we’ve spent together—alone, start to finish, without kissing. Without falling into each other like gravity. No heavy touches. No urgent mouths. Just...space. Laughter. Heat tucked in the background, waiting its turn.
And it still feels electric.