Chapter 7
DEEP CONVERSATIONS AT THE WAFFLE HOUSE
Sera
The sporadic headlights from oncoming traffic blur behind the raindrops falling more and more frantically.
A glow of red taillights ahead lines up at the highway exit, and we slow to match the pace of traffic.
Along the roadway, the trees bend and sway with the heavy winds and rain, twisting my nerves tighter inside my chest.
“Thane?” I squeak. “I think the storm is getting worse. Maybe we should stop and let it pass.”
“We have four hours to go. We can make it,” he insists.
“I disagree. It’s getting super hard to see through the windshield, especially with that huge spiderweb crack.”
“Look, Fina. If we stop now, the storm is just going to get worse. If we keep going, we can get to the other side faster. It’s only going to get darker once the sun completely sets. I’d rather drive in daytime rain than nighttime rain.”
“Let’s be honest with ourselves. We haven’t seen a ray of sunshine for hours. Everyone is running their headlights because no one can see. Just get off at the next exit and we can take shelter somewhere for a bit.”
“We’ll be fine. I can see far enough ahead of me…”
A surge of lightning branches across the sky, illuminating the black clouds above us.
A split second later, everything goes dark.
The streetlights that line the highway go out.
The billboards and street signs dim and extinguish, and the houses and businesses throughout the city plunge into darkness.
Thane slows way down, and I look nervously out the windshield.
“I’m not sure there is a place we can go to now, even if we did stop,” he says quietly.
I nod slowly.
“I think the cars getting off the road back there knew something we didn’t.”
“Yeah. But I’m not sure what to do now.”
Around the next bend, standing out like a beacon in the darkness, is a familiar bright yellow and black sign. At the same time, Thane and I both shout, “Waffle House!”
“They’re still open! There’s hope!” I say, laughing with relief.
“We only need to worry when the Waffle House closes!” Thane replies, putting his blinker on to exit.
We park the car and run as fast as we can through the rain to the door. The usually brightly lit restaurant has every other light dimmed or off, and the grill cook works with a gooseneck lamp clamped onto a shelf above him.
“Welcome in!” the waitress says over the hum of a generator running out back. “Take a seat anywhere you can find a place, I’ll be with you shortly. Power is limited, but the gas grill is running. Here’s an updated menu.” She hands us a sheet of laminated paper.
“Thank you,” I reply. “We’re just grateful for a place to go.”
“We’re open twenty-four hours. You can stay as long as you need, or until the generators run out of fuel,” she responds with a tired smile, and walks away.
We shuffle over to a small corner booth and glance over the menu.
“No waffles tonight, but they’ve got hash browns scattered and covered,” Thane says, wringing out his shirt onto our feet under the table. “I’m satisfied as long as I can get crunchy, cheesy hash browns and eggs.”
I shiver under my wet hoodie. “Does the coffee pot still run, I wonder?”
“I sure hope so. After that stressful drive, I’m drained.”
“Same,” I say, wiping the mascara from under my eyes. “And how is it that I’m so hungry already? I guess it is dinnertime, but I thought I’d never be hungry again after that Philly cheesesteak.”
“There’s always room for Waffle House,” Thane says, perusing the short menu.
The waitress comes to our table, fills our coffee cups, and takes our order.
I grab my mug and hold it between my hands until it permeates warmth to my bones.
I take a small sip, and it eases the anxiety in my stomach.
I have been in survival mode since Philadelphia, and the knot in my shoulder is proof of it.
“So,” Thane says from across the table, “how are we going to sift through our dumpster fire and be civil to each other? Our moms are counting on us to play nice by the time we get there.”
“You’re out of your mind if you think that we can patch everything up that easily. There are years of baggage to go through.”
“Maybe. But the longer we put it off, the longer it will take,” Thane says with a shrug. “I know we can’t do it all before we arrive tonight, but we ought to start.”
“At the very least, we need to be able to fake it in front of our parents well enough that they’ll get off our backs.”
Thane rubs the back of his neck and refuses to make eye contact. “Yeah, I guess that would work too.”
“That bothers you. Why?”
He sighs. “You know what? It’s fine. Whatever will make this easier for you, we’ll do. I know that you were kind of bombarded with a lot all at once.”
I mull over the words that float from his mouth to my ears for a moment before responding.
“I think that’s our best way forward. At least for now,” I reply, but something inside me longs to face this head-on. To finally heal. I do what I’ve done for years, and ignore it.
He looks up from the straw paper he’s been twisting and nods in surrender. I study his face for a moment. The weight of something etches in the crease of his brow, and guilt sits down on my shoulders. I open my mouth to speak—
“One hash brown bowl, one two-egg breakfast, and a glass of milk,” the waitress says as she plunks our order onto the table.
“No rush to leave, but I’m gonna give you your check now so I can empty my ticket book a bit.
Also, cash is preferred because the card system can be glitchy during a power shortage.
I’ll check back on ya in a minute.” She waits for our nods of approval, then pivots on her heels and heads back to the grill.
I’m not sure if I’m grateful for the distraction from the heaviness that sits in the booth with us, or not.
It’s my turn to avoid eye contact as I eat my eggs, but Thane’s gaze burns into me.
I hate that the person I used to feel unapologetically myself with makes me feel all uncomfortable.
A civil war breaks out inside me between the “open up and let it all out” camp and the “do what keeps you safe and bury it” camp.
I know that whatever mending we need to do is going to hurt—a lot—but I’ve done enough hurting lately.
Zero stars. Do not recommend. Will not do again.
Ever. But the expectation to solve everything in such a limited amount of time presses down on me.
My mom’s words about how I need to fix this circle my brain.
My stomach swirls with confusion and anticipation of what’s coming, and I brace for the rug to be pulled out from underneath me again.
The air in my lungs is heavy and unyielding, each breath fighting its way in and out.
My heartbeat speeds up, and I know that if I can’t get my emotions under control, I’ll blow.
I let out my hundredth exasperated sigh today.
That has got to be a record. But only Thane Donnelly can push me over my limits like that.
I have finally had enough of being in my own head. I slam my hand on the table.
“Fine! I can’t handle all this pressure! Say what you need to, but just get it over with!”
“Get what over with?”
“The agony! I can’t stand this… this… air between us!”
“Don’t you have things you’d like to get out in the open, too?”
His words hit me hard. Every tear I cried after he left had things I’d like to say attached.
Every made-up argument I had with the shampoo bottle in the shower rushed back to me.
I had repeated those words in my head for years, just in case I ever got the chance to say them to his face.
And there I sat with my chance, right across the table from the boy who taught me how to love, and I couldn’t muster up the courage to utter one word.
Tears burned the brims of my eyes, and I blinked manically to get rid of them.
Oh, Thane. If you only knew the things I’d like to say to you.
I inhale slowly, resetting my face to an indifferent expression. “That’s beside the point,” I say, gliding around his question like an Olympic ice skater.
“So, you do?”
My eyes shoot up to his. A flood of emotions rush to my throat, squeezing and fighting to pass each other in the small space.
I swallow hard to force everything back to its proper hiding place, but I’m outnumbered and losing the battle quickly.
The pressure valve for my heart begins to overflow and scream, transforming into words as the emotional steam escapes.
“Of course I do. But I don’t even know where to start. There’s all this pain and anger and frustration and…” don’t say love, don’t say love… “anger toward you!”
He smiles softly. “You said ‘anger’ twice.”
“Well, maybe I feel it twice,” I say forcefully.
“Okay. So we can deduce that you’re mad at me.”
“Great job, Sherlock,” I say sarcastically, swiping at my stupid tears.
“It’s a good step, Fina. Keep going.”
“I don’t want to keep going. I want to completely close off and shove everything back into their tiny little boxes of sadness.
I want to scream and yell and fight. I want to fly across the table and tackle you to the ground.
I want to stomp on your heart until it’s bruised and bloodied like you did to mine.
But even then, that wouldn’t make you feel even a fraction of the pain I have because of you. ”
I force myself to shut my mouth, but not because I’m afraid of causing a scene.
Everyone who frequents the Waffle House knows that arguments and fistfights are inevitable, and no one bats an eye.
I can’t give Thane the satisfaction of stirring me up.
So I take another deep breath, stuff everything back down inside, and force a smile.
The corners of Thane’s mouth twitch, which fuels my fire.
“What are you smiling at?” I snap.
“Nothing. I’ve just never seen you boil over in such a public place before. It’s great.”
“It is not great. It’s humiliating and embarrassing.”
“Those both mean the same thing,” he replies, allowing the grin he fought to finally win.
I narrow my eyes. “You. Are. Infuriating,” I say as controlled as I can under my breath.
“So I’ve heard.”
I rest my elbows on the table and raise my eyebrows expectantly. Thane fidgets under my stare and finally asks, “What?”
“I feel like it’s only fair that you share something after I emotionally vomited all over you.”
“Okaaaaay,” he says slowly, and allows a pause to hover between us before continuing. “I’m hurt too.”
My stone heart softens at the realization that he carries wounds from us as well. Still, I fold my arms to keep him out.
“How so?”
He thinks for a moment, then takes a deep breath. “Let’s just say that the future I had hoped for, I never allowed myself to have.”
“I’m not sure what that means.”
“Maybe I can explain it better later,” Thane says as an inebriated man staggers past and slumps into the booth behind me. “This hardly seems like the place.”
“You’re probably right. Plus, I’ve had enough of whatever just happened. For now, at least,” I say, emptying my coffee cup for the third time. “Maybe we can talk more at the lake tonight.”
Thane’s eyes move toward the window, and his brow furrows. “I’m not sure we’re going to make it to Amethyst Lake tonight, Fina.”
I glance out the same window, the rain pouring down it in a steady stream. “I was afraid of that. But how will we find a hotel when there’s no power?”
Just then, our waitress walks up to take away our plates.
“If y’all are lookin’ for a place to stay and ride out the storm tonight, my Meemaw has a B&B just down the road. I can call her and ask if she can take ya.”
A sigh of relief escapes me. “Oh, that’d be great. Thank you,” I reply.
“You bet! I’ll be right back.” She turns and walks toward the back of the restaurant and pulls out her phone.
A few minutes later, she returns with a thumbs-up and a smile. She scribbles the address on her order pad and rips the paper out. “Here’s the address. She knows to expect you. She has no power, but plenty of candles, a gas water heater, and a comfy place to lay your head.”
“Thank you,” Thane says to our waitress, and slides his mug of milk between us. He pulls a snack-sized bag of Oreos from his pocket and splays it open on the table. “I know we technically aren’t at the lake house yet, but tradition is tradition.”
My heart stumbles.
I reluctantly take a tiny cookie from the bag and clink it together with his. We both dunk in the mug at the same time, and our fingers touch, sending a wave of familiarity through me.
Milk and cookies at Amethyst Lake was our thing. Every night after the rest of our families went to sleep, we’d sneak down to the kitchen and raid the cookie jar, just the two of us in the silence. Sometimes we never even spoke. We just… were.
It started the year Patrick Donahue dumped me.
Thane found me in the kitchen one night bawling my eyes out, drowning my sorrows in Oreos, and pulled up a barstool.
He didn’t say a word. He just poured his own glass of milk and shared the space with me until I was ready to talk about it.
After a while, it wasn’t even about the treat.
It became a way for us to feel heard, seen, and not so alone.
We sit in silence in the dim light of the Waffle House while the memories of what we once were pirouette around us. When the bag is empty, Thane finishes off the mug of milk and stands.
I take the paper with the address scrawled on it, and we thank our waitress. Thane pays and leaves her a generous tip for saving our bacon, and we shuffle toward the exit.
We hover in the doorway, staring out at the sheets of rain falling. The rental car might as well be a mile away if it’s a foot. Thane puts his hand on the small of my back, sending a familiar ache through me. He looks into my eyes and smiles.
“You ready to run?”