Night Shifts Black(2)

"Sure," he mutters. I suspect it's more out of politeness than a desire to allow me access to his life, and I quickly regret my impulsive request. He doesn't really want me here, that much is obvious, but neither can I back out now in any reasonable way. At this point, I'm committed to picking up my saucer and sliding across the narrow aisle to his table.

"I'm Callie, by the way."

"Luke."

"You're not from around here, are you?" I cringe.

Nice work, Callie.

There's that brief smile again, and my embarrassing cliché is momentarily forgiven.

"No, I'm not. Are you the law in these here parts?" he teases back, and now I'm officially hooked.

"Sorry. I know. That was probably the worst thing I could have said."

"I can think of worse."

"Do you come here often?"

This time the slight smile becomes a full-on grin.

"As often as you, apparently," he responds.

"You must think I'm stalking you."

"Are you?"

"A little." Before I can control it, my gaze shoots to the chair, and his smile fades.

I wish I could take it back. I wish I'd been strong enough to stop it, but we both know that's why we're here. We both know we're connected for no other reason.

Neither of us says a word. I have no way of knowing if his mind is in the same tailspin as mine, but I sense it probably is. I'm sure his head goes to places most of us could never understand.

The server approaches and seems surprised to find us together.

"Can I get you something?" he asks Luke. I don't miss his quick glance in my direction, but he doesn't let it linger long enough to force me to respond.

"Toast, please," Luke answers.

"White, wheat, or rye?"

"Rye."

"You got it. What about you? Still fine with just tea?"

I glance at Luke. I am, but a cup of tea isn't long enough. "Actually, I'll take an order of pancakes. Small stack."

"Hash browns or fruit cup?"

"Fruit."

"Bacon?"

"No thanks."

"Sure thing."

He shuffles off to fulfill our orders, and I'm suddenly nervous at the thought of being alone again with Luke. I'm nervous because he's enigmatic, and beautiful, and sad, and debatably weird. Although clearly not as weird as I am I've learned.

"No bacon?" he asks.

I'm relieved he's forgiven me for my earlier chair blunder.

"I wanted you to think I'm healthy."

"You care what I think?"

"Maybe. I don't know. I'm not sure yet. Just covering my bases in case it turns out that I do."

I'm rewarded with another smile. "Fair enough. I don't want to know how I rate with my rye toast."

I shrug. "I'm reserving judgment until I see what you put on it."

This time he actually laughs, and now I'm sure he was someone else once. He would have occupied this whole restaurant wing with his fancy suits and perfect hair, surrounded by a crowd of admiring acquaintances. This is a man who wasn't alone until recently. His magnetic laugh wouldn't have allowed him to be alone. He must not laugh anymore.



       
         
       
        

"That's a lot of pressure for a condiment," he observes.

"There has to be a marketing campaign in there somewhere."

"Maybe, but what about you? Pancakes come with many possibilities as well."

"True. You'll just have to wait and see."

He nods, and I fight with my brain to keep the conversation flowing. I know if it stops, he will get lost in himself again and retreat to that place I can't go. I don't know why it's so important to me that I prevent that from happening, but when I see his eyes move to the right, a small ember of panic begins to ignite. I'm losing.

"Do you live in the city?" I ask, drawing him back to earth.

He seems to have to shake something before he can respond. "No. Well, not really."

"Just visiting?"

"Kind of. What about you?"

"Yes, I do, but I've only been here a few months."

He nods. He's being polite again. Polite does nothing to help me.

I need to bring him back to the café, this table. "You know, Stan's been watching you like a hawk."

"Stan?"

I motion to the table by the door with my eyes.

"Ah, yes. He's the one who needs a jacket."

"I think he's amazed you actually stayed this time."

"He's not the only one."

Surprised, I go to meet his gaze but he's not looking at me. That wasn't a flirtatious comment. He's not even referring to me. I might be partially responsible for his shocking delay for toast, but I'm just an excuse. Maybe even a roadblock. I'm still not entirely certain he wants to be here right now. The way he fidgets with his fork and absently bounces his knee, it's like he's already left the café and his body doesn't understand why it can't catch up.

"Look, I'm sorry. I'm afraid I'm being rude. I don't mean to be. I'm just … "

He doesn't finish. He can't. Not because he's going to cry or anything, he's just not good at this sort of thing anymore. Conversation.

I understand and smile to let him off the hook. He seems relieved, and I watch as his grip relaxes on the fork for the first time.

"We don't have to talk. I'm kind of tired anyway. Late night," I explain.

He nods and rubs his eyes as if commiserating. I can tell he knows late nights, too.

"Thanks. It's not personal."

"Oh? I didn't think it was until now."

He smiles, but his eyes aren't in it this time. I've definitely lost him and know he's counting the seconds until he can finish his toast and escape. He's regretting this, staying, participating in life again. I feel like I've been whacked in the stomach but I don't blame him. He doesn't owe me anything. This is my fault, not his. I have mercy on him. 

I look at my phone and force a curse. "I'm so sorry. I didn't realize what time it was. I actually have to be at work in ten minutes," I lie. "Don't hate me, but I have to run."

Our eyes do meet this time, and for the briefest moment, I think he knows what I'm doing. I don't know how or why I think that, but he almost seems grateful for my sacrifice.

"Sure, no problem."

"Here." I slap some bills on the table and force the most genuine smile I can. "Breakfast is on me."

He shakes his head, but it's instinctive. "That's not necessary. It's the least I can do for making you move … twice," he adds.

"Really. I wouldn't feel right forcing you to pay for food I didn't even eat. But it was nice to meet you...Luke." The dramatic pause before his name sounds awkward, but it doesn't seem right to leave him, maybe forever, without making our goodbye personal.

He appears to notice my embellished farewell. He almost seems disturbed by the sound of his name, like he's not used to hearing it anymore.

"Thanks. You too. Callie."

I grin at his pronunciation. It's not quite right with an "a" that sounds more like an "o," but I like it better the way he says it. Now, I don't want to leave. I'm not sure I can, but I have to. I don't belong here, in his world.

I get the sense no one does.





Day Three.





It's another three days before I finally go back. I wanted to go the next day, and the next, but I used all the strength I had to let my will overcome my compassion. I wasn't ready to face that chair, whatever it is. Whatever he is. This fledging relationship built on a mutual understanding that there isn't one. It felt like I'd be breaking one of our rules if I went back too early. Like I'd be pushing for a place in his life when he clearly doesn't want me in it. If I waited, though, just a couple days, even, then we could blame it on chance. It wouldn't be fair for him to claim my favorite café and force me out permanently. He'd understand that and have to respect the fact that I'd reappear eventually.

So here I am. Day three.

I take the table beside the one with his chair again. The same one where we almost shared breakfast last time. When I see him enter, my pulse quickens. I don't know if it's attraction. Probably. How could it not be? But it's also something else. Fear maybe, that he won't accept my presence. That he's spent the last few days in this spot without me, relieved I've disappeared and left him in peace.

My fear dissolves into a rush of something else when he nearly smiles and heads straight for our table.

"You're back," he says, removing his jacket and placing it on the back of the chair. His vintage t-shirt is thin today, and I notice the hint of tattoos peaking through the light-colored sleeves. He's also muscular, more than I would have thought. Not obsessively so, like he spends every waking hour working on his body, but naturally, like he lives a life where it's inevitable. I can't help but wonder what fills his hours when he's not in Jemma's Café staring at that chair.

"The tea here is second to none."

He smirks and drops across from me. "If this is going to be a regular thing, you'll have to do more than drink tea. It's a little too obvious."



       
         
       
        

My heart soars. I don't even know why, unless it's because it's the first time he's acknowledged that I've made an impact.