Night Shifts Black(4)

I can't let that happen.

"Did you want the jam for your toast?"

"Excuse me?"

"I'm not sure why he put it on my side of the table if you're the one with the toast. Here."

He hesitates, not sure what to do with me and my resistance. I hold my breath. The chair. The door.

"Sure," he says finally.

I smile as if I expected that response, even though I still can't breathe. "I'm going to guess blueberry."

"Orange marmalade, actually."

"Really? Ok, wow. So first you ordered eggs with your toast today, then you chose orange marmalade. I may have misjudged you."

"You assign a lot of value to people's breakfast choices."

"We're in a café. What metric would you suggest?"

The smile returns, genuine this time, and it has a strange effect with the redness still influencing his eyes. It's haunting, in a way. One of those images that I'm afraid will affect me at a later moment, when I least expect it.

"You're right. That's fair. Although I notice you went with pancakes, fruit, and no bacon again."

I don't know why I'm surprised he remembers. It was only three days ago.

"I'm pretty predictable."

"I'd argue that."

The comment warms me, but I let it go. He isn't trying to start a conversation; he's trying to end one.

We stop talking, using our engagement with this cheap breakfast as a shield against another grenade that could destroy everything we've just spent three days building. And to think, this used to be my favorite place for tea. Now, it's my favorite place for pretending to eat pancakes.

I watch my plate clear. Quickly at first, then slower as my stomach fills up. There's something sad about our pace. I know it will be time to leave soon. Time to go back to my apartment and try to work on the part of my life that doesn't include the magnetic puzzle sitting across from me. Time for him to return to whatever it is he does now that he doesn't have music.



       
         
       
        

The server returns, almost stunned we've not only accepted our meal, but consumed it.

"Can I get you anything else? We have several fresh baked goods. Coffee?"

Luke shakes his head and gives his polite smile. Not the real one. I wonder if he even knows how many he has.

"Thanks, but I'm full. This was great."

The server nods and turns to me. I offer an apologetic look. "No, thank you."

"Ok. I'll get your check."

"Thanks," Luke replies. "You sure you don't want anything else? My treat this time since you paid for the last one."

I give him a similar response, but decide not to argue about the bill. He's right. I did cover the last breakfast. And then some.

It's time.

My legs feel heavy as I force a casual front and push up from the table. I reach for my jacket and find myself struggling with the zipper. I don't think it's on purpose, but maybe it is. I don't want to say goodbye yet. I don't want him to know that.

"Thanks for breakfast," I say.

"You're welcome. Thanks for breakfast on Tuesday," he responds.

We exchange a smile. More than a smile.

I begin counting the minutes until tomorrow.



∞∞∞



Luke doesn't show the next day. I order my tea to save face, but I'm beyond disappointed. I entertain all kinds of irrational thoughts. Silly things that only an over-analytical writer could invent. He'd think I'd lost my mind if he were here and I actually shared any of them with him. I wouldn't blame him.

But he's not here. He never promised he would be.

I sip my tea, staring out the window. I can't stare for long until my gaze crosses paths with the chair. It's still vacant. In fact, I realize I haven't seen anyone in it since I'd been an unknowing trespasser. I think it will be strange watching someone sit in it. Irreverent somehow. It won't be his or her fault. The intruder won't know the blasphemy they're committing. I imagine what would happen to Luke's face if he were here eating his toast with orange marmalade and all of the sudden someone sat in the chair. I can almost see the darkness settle over his features, the internal battle that rages every time his present clashes with that part of his past. My instinct wants to call it "his chair" but I don't think it is. There's a ghost there, in that chair.

The hair rises on my arm as I study it, only five feet away. I could probably touch it and even make it look like an accident if I wanted to. I don't know why I'd want to. It's Luke's chair, not mine. I don't touch it. I don't have that right. 





Day Four.





It's hard to admit I'm relieved to see the distinctive leather jacket when I enter, but there's a flood of something rushing through me, so I have to acknowledge it. He's switched sides at our table. I only see the back of his head because he wasn't watching for me like I watched for him yesterday and the day before.

I approach slowly, still not entirely confident he will welcome my presence. If I go in casual, it will be easier to fake a retreat when he recoils.

"Callie."

"Luke."

"You up for some pancakes?" he asks, and a huge weight lifts from my shoulders.

"I don't know. Maybe I'll surprise you today."

He likes my challenge and pushes back my chair with his foot.

"Try me."

"Did you order yet?" I ask.

"Just coffee."

He was waiting for me. At least, I hope he was. I don't think I'll ever know for sure.

"You want some tea?"

I nod. I do love my tea. I love that he knows it. "Tea would be great."

Our server isn't Darryn with a "y" today. It's Shauna, the woman who filled me in about Luke's chair obsession on that first day. I'm not surprised I remember that though. I seem to have every detail of Day One etched into my brain.

"Hi, Shauna."

"Morning. Tea?" she asks. She knows me better than Darryn. I'm not sure why Darryn's had so many of her shifts lately. Maybe she's had other obligations. I realize that I don't know enough about Shauna. I should know why she was off. She knows I like tea.

"I've noticed Darryn's been on a lot lately."

She sighs. "Yeah, I've been picking up the evening shifts instead. The sitter decided to take some classes, so now I have to work when my husband Jake's at home, since I can't have the sitter during the day."

"How many kids do you have?"

"Two. Maddie's four and Mark is two."

Maddie and Mark. That's sweet.

She leans close. "Hey, sorry to make you wait, but I have to go check on Stan's omelet before he calls the FBI."

I chuckle. "No problem. Tea would be great. We'll give you our orders after you take care of Stan."

She delivers a grateful smile, and I don't miss the look she casts at Luke. She wonders about him, too. Wonders about the chair. Wonders why he now stays and eats breakfast. Why I'm special. In other words, she wonders the same things I do.

I feel Luke's gaze after she leaves, but I'm not prepared to meet it. I don't know if it will be admiring or curious or accusatory. I could make a strong case for all three. If I avoid it, it doesn't matter. Except it does matter. I know it matters. Even more than I'm prepared to admit at this point. Eventually, I look up, but after all the debate, I can't read his expression anyway.

"Shauna seems nice."

"She is."

"You've obviously been coming here for a while. Well, for the few months you've lived in the city at least."

"A few times a week."

"Really."

He does the math, and I redden.

"I come more often now." I have nothing to lose.

He doesn't respond, but he doesn't run screaming either.

"Where did you live before this?" he asks finally, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

"A small town. You've never heard of it."

"Try me."

"Shelteron, Pennsylvania."



       
         
       
        

"You're right," he replies.

"Told you. We don't even have a stoplight. Well, we do, but it only flashes yellow so I don't think that counts."

"So what, you graduated high school and had to escape the small town to go make a name for yourself in the big city?"

I bite my lip and look at my hands. "No. Nothing like that. I'm older than I look."

I have his interest now. He's not the only one with secrets.

"How old are you?" he asks.

"Twenty-three. How old are you?"

"Twenty-seven."

"You're younger than I thought."

"How old did you think I was?"

I panic when I realize I lied. I did think he was twenty-seven. Well, about that anyway. I don't even know why I said what I did, and now I'm stuck.

"Twenty-eight."

He smirks and leans back. "Sorry to disappoint you."

"I'm not disappointed. Twenty-seven is a fine age."

"So's twenty-three."

It's the years in between that are rotten. We both think it. I look at the chair. I can't help it.

He clears his throat. He doesn't want to cry in front of me again. "Anyway, since you're the expert, what's good here besides the eggs, toast, pancakes, and tea?"

I pick up the menu as if I'm actually going to have the presence of mind to read it. My head is still spinning.