Even though everything inside of me is screaming to make this a special moment, the seriousness of it is just too much. So I smirk. And she pushes me. And the moment is lost, but the truth is out—something that had to be said has finally surfaced. Now she knows that I’m hers. And she sure as fuck is mine.
* * *
The breakfast is worse than I ever could have imagined. I’ve never eaten dog shit, but I think if it was scrambled in eggs, her cooking is exactly what it would taste like. So I offer to buy breakfast instead. Diem agrees only after telling me that hell would freeze over before she cooked me eggs again. I believe her. I thank her too.
Now we’re at the Hillsborough Diner and are waiting patiently for our food, which just so happens to be nearly every damn thing on the menu. The silence between us isn’t uncomfortable at all. If we have nothing to argue about, conversation seems awkward. But I want to know everything about Diem. I know it’s selfish to not tell her much about me, but I can’t stand not knowing shit about her.
“Tell me about your job,” I say. Her eyes drag up from the coffee cup in her hands. She continues to blow on it, looking at me annoyed.
“Why?” She takes a sip, makes a face, adds more sugar, then looks at me over the top of her cup.
“Because, regardless of how much we are unlike normal people, I think we should at least attempt to try and get to know each other.” Or me just get to know you, I think.
“I already know everything about you. Just like you know everything about me. Or at least the important stuff.”
“The only thing I know about you is that you’re exasperating, infuriating, and completely fucking crazy.”
“You forgot thief.” She beams proudly.
I decide to let it go. If I pushed any further, I’d sound like one of those housewives off them reality TV shows. Diem would have a damn field day with that.
Our food comes and we eat in silence. It’s only when we’re down to the chocolate chip waffle we agreed to share that she speaks.
“I love chocolate,” she says, scraping all my chocolate chips to her side. The fact that I let her is a milestone. If Rookie would have tried that, I’d stab him with my fork. “I like flowers. My favorite season is spring, and I hate the beach.”
“No girl hates the beach,” I say, figuring long walks on the beach with the sun setting in the background and all that romantic shit is on every girl’s fantasy list.
“I’m not your ordinary girl, Zeke. Haven’t you figured that out?” True. “So there are a few things about me. Not that I give a shit, but please, enlighten me with a little bit about yourself.”
I smirk. She wants to know. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t be looking at me so expectantly. “I love chocolate too. I hate flowers because they smell like funeral homes. I’ve never been to a beach.” With that, her eyes grow wide with shock.
“Are you serious?” I nod. “Who the hell don’t like flowers?” I stare at her in confusion, thinking the beach was a much bigger deal than flowers. Then she smiles. “The beach really is overrated, but you should go. I’ll take you.”
Now I really am confused. “But you said you hate the beach.”
“I do,” she says, shrugging. “But I’ll go for you.” She stares at the table, her brows drawing together in confusion at her words. Then, she mumbles something and excuses herself. While she’s gone, I pay the ticket. And for some fucking reason, I can’t keep the smile off my face.
* * *
“What’s Diem’s favorite color?” Carrie asks me. It’s been two days since I’ve heard from Diem. After breakfast, she’d left and has yet to call or text. To escape the feeling of loneliness in my house, I’d come to Rookie’s.
“Hell, I don’t know,” I tell her, flipping through a magazine on the couch. She’s sitting in the floor folding clothes while Rookie washes dishes—domesticated pussy.
“How do you not know? I mean if y’all are official, then you should know these things.”
“We’re not official. It’s . . . complicated.” Really complicated.
“Are you having sex with other people?” she asks, and I shift uncomfortably at her question.
“No. But just because we’re monogamous doesn’t mean we’re official.”
“Yes it does,” Rookie calls from the kitchen.
“Well, do you know her favorite movie? Or what makes her laugh? Or her favorite food? I mean . . . anything?” I don’t meet Carrie’s eyes. I don’t know if it’s because I feel ashamed or because I feel like it’s none of her business. Either way, I become aggravated at the situation.