Night Shifts Black(5)

"Um … there are fresh baked goods," I suggest, thanks to Darryn's recitation at our last meeting. Unfortunately, he remembers that, too, and his lips spread into a grin.

"You've never had anything other than the pancakes and tea," he charges.

"I have!"

He crosses his arms. "Really. Like what?"

"The fruit cup."

This time he laughs, and we invite some glances from a nearby table. They're not annoyed, though. In fact, they are curious, intrigued even, and I notice them paying more attention to us now. Well, to Luke anyway. I'm startled by the sudden glimpse of what he was. What it would have been like to enter a room with him and leave with fifty new friends. His laugh does that. His eyes …

I stare at my menu. I'm not ordering the pancakes today.

"The omelets are good, too."

"According to whom? Stan?"

I shrug. "He's here every day. I'd say that's pretty reliable testimony."

"Should we do it?"

"Do what? Order omelets?"

"Yeah. You get bacon and cheese. What should I get?" he asks.

I like this game for some reason. "Western style." 

"Ok, deal. Hash browns or fruit cup?"

"Hash browns for me, fruit cup for you."

"Toast?"

I shake my head. "Not for you, unless you get wheat and put strawberry jam on it."

"Fine, but you have to drink coffee instead of tea."

I wince. "Coffee?"

He raises his eyebrows, and I sigh.

"Ok, fine. Coffee. Cream, no sugar."

"Deal."

He holds out his hand. I take it.

I do an admirable job of pretending the handshake is exactly what he intended it to be, and when Shauna returns, we place our orders. She is confused why I don't touch the tea she just brought and order coffee instead. She also doesn't understand why, when I instinctively order a fruit cup, Luke jumps in and changes it to hash browns. She's especially confused when I apologize to him for messing up my own order, but she's a good sport and promises to be right back with my coffee.

"Living on the edge today. I don't know if I can handle all this excitement," I say after she leaves.

"Wow. So Sheltertown really was a small town, wasn't it," he teases.

"Shelteron," I correct. "And yes, it was."

"They didn't have coffee there, I presume?"

"They only have orange marmalade in England?"

He grins. "You think I'm English."

I blush. I do. Well, I did.

"I guess that means you're not."

He shakes his head. "No. South African." I also think he might regret embarrassing me. "Don't worry about it. I get that all the time, believe me. Especially here."

"Yeah, I know. Ignorant Americans."

"I didn't say that."

"You were thinking it."

"Really? You know me well enough to know what I'm thinking?"

No. I know him well enough to know I have no idea what he's thinking.

"So you weren't thinking it?"

He smiles and shakes his head. "No. I really wasn't. I've lived here since I was fourteen. My accent isn't a true South African accent either. I can't blame anyone for not being able to place it."

"What brought your parents to the United States?"

His eyes shift. Uh-oh.

"As fate would have it, nothing, actually."

I go into triage mode. "Well, then. At least I understand your love of oranges."

He laughs again, but I sense it's more from relief that I let the parent comment slide. "Oranges? You know nothing about South Africa, do you."

"Sure, I do."

"What? Name one thing."

I tap my fingers as I think. "Um … it's in the southern part of Africa."

He grins. "It's true."

"Don't ask me for something else, though."

"After that response, I wouldn't dream of it."

I give him a look and his return smile plunges deep inside of me.

"Fine, smarty-pants. Then name one thing about Shelteron."

"Anything?"

"Anything."

"Ok. Well, it only has one traffic light. I should say, a light that flashes yellow, anyway."

I scrunch my nose. I want to laugh. I don't know why I don't. Maybe I'm afraid I won't stop.

"Am I wrong?"

I smile instead. "No."

I notice his hand resting on the table. It's further on my side than seems natural, his sleeve a little long and covering his wrist all the way to the middle of his palm. I want to touch it. To feel the warmth of his fingers. Or maybe they'd be cold. My fingers are always cold. That would be awkward, my cold hand stunning his. I abandon the idea of reaching for my glass and causing an accidental collision. My eyes rest on the ring, and I freeze. He caught me.



       
         
       
        

The warmth disintegrates as he draws his hand away and tucks it in his lap. I wonder if he'll explain. I want him to tell me the truth almost as much as I don't. I don't want to be reminded that he's someone else to someone else. I don't dare to speak. There are no words for this.

"I was married."

Was. Divorced? Widowed? I don't know how to ask. He's not going to offer. But he's no longer someone else's someone else. That much is obvious.

He shakes his head. "Anyway, let's not do personal stuff, ok?"

I nod. "Sure," I say, as if there's any other response I could give. I'm not here to marry him. I'm here … the chair. My heart starts beating faster. Is she the ghost? I want to look at it as if there would suddenly be new clues after this revelation. I have to look, but I can't. He doesn't either. I watch his eyes instead, waiting to see where they go. They're staring at his hand. I can't see it anymore, but I'm sure he's looking at the ring.

He still wears it.

My heart shatters.

He's widowed.

I try to catch my breath. I want him to know that I know, but I don't know how to tell him without words. Useless, volatile words that I can command at will on paper but seem to hold me hostage in conversation.

He's too young to be widowed. Way too young to be widowed for long. He needs to know that. I clench my fists. Of course he knows that. It killed his music.

Shauna brings our meals, and I thank her for both of us. I know Luke won't. In fact, I'm surprised he's still here. I study his face in silence, watching him consider his omelet. I imagine him wishing he'd ordered toast like usual, but then I realize how silly it would be to think about toast when you have a dead wife. I don't know how to talk about dead soul-mates to twenty-seven-year-olds.

"Luke … " I have to try.

"I said no personal stuff."

"I know."

It's my turn to study the omelet. I need hot sauce. At the very least, ketchup. I signal Shauna. Like everything I could request at Jemma's Café, hot sauce is no problem, and she'll bring it right back.

Luke still hasn't moved. He's lost in his head now. I'm not sure he even remembers that I'm here. He definitely doesn't care.

And then, it happens.

Before Shauna can return with the hot sauce, the hostess seats an older couple beside us. I watch Luke tense as the man takes his seat. No, not his seat, the ghost's seat. The hostess even casts a quick glance at Luke, and I can't tell if she's concerned or gloating about her decision. She certainly understands enough to acknowledge what she's done. 

I suck in my breath, waiting, fearing, watching Luke, anticipating something, but I have no way of knowing what. His blue-green eyes absorb every square inch of the table beside us. I can even see his muscles constricting through his shirt, contracting as he clenches his fist, already punishing the couple for a sin they can't possibly be liable for. But they are, and I understand that, even though I want to rescue both sides from an unjust war that can't occur.

"You want to go?" I ask. I'm sure the concern in my heart is all over my face, but he's not looking at me. He's looking at them. "Luke, we should just go."

"What am I doing? What have I done?" he rasps, shoving back from the table.

I'm stunned. Hurt, but also afraid, as he charges from the restaurant. I don't know what he has to run to apart from me and his chair, but I'm terrified it's only going to make things worse for him.

I can't follow him, I know that. I have no right to offer comfort. I'm only part of his life when he's here, at this table. He hasn't invited me into the rest, but Shauna comes rushing over and prevents such a mistake anyway.

"Are you ok?" she asks, staring at the door just as Luke disappears through it.

"Fine," I say. "It wasn't about me." I glance over at the table beside us and notice the couple whispering to each other. They're watching the door as well, and suddenly I'm angry at their gossip. They don't know. I don't even know. They're not allowed to judge him. I hate them for judging him. Shauna follows my gaze, and I'm pretty sure she understands my message.

"I told Ailee to leave that table open while he's here," she mutters. "I'm sorry."

I want to tell her that it's ok. That it's not a big deal, but it is. There are plenty of other empty tables in the café. It's not packed. It's not ok.

"His name is Luke," I say, drawing Shauna back to the conversation.

"Luke."

She says it like that information answers a lot of questions for her.