“Not a thing, it’s my pleasure to help,” I tell her, pushing away from the counter.
She graces me with a beautiful smile. “Well, I think I’ll brew a cup right now. I’m just starting my shift, so this will be a good test,” she declares cheerily.
I wave a goodbye, and she darts back through the door to the back. I turn to leave, and that’s when it hits me. That uncomfortable feeling scratching just under my skin. The need to help someone in whatever way I can. I turn around, taking in the restaurant with new purpose. I put a hand behind my back and discreetly conjure my bag of bones.
I told Rogan I would just be a minute. Hopefully, he won’t be too pissed if this takes a bit. Memories of my last reading float to the surface of my mind, and a distinct buzz of excitement-laced curiosity moves through me like a current.
Who will it be, and what will the bones have to say to them?
I look over at the couple, but this feeling isn’t for them. I search for the waitress, finding her behind the counter, refilling the other patron’s coffee cup. The urgency spikes in me, and I move back toward the counter, to where the bones are calling me. As I close the distance, I realize that the feeling isn’t for the waitress either, but for the woman with the curly dark hair and uncertain smile.
“I’ll be with you in a second if that’s okay; I just need to get another pot going,” the waitress tells me in greeting.
I wave her off. “You’re fine, I don’t need anything right now, but thank you,” I declare, and she shoots me a grateful smile and then disappears to the back with the coffee pot.
I take a deep breath and pull out the stool directly next to the woman who I can feel is summoning me for help. I wait for her to look over at me in either a friendly you’re sitting too close kind of way or to shoot me a look of discomfort, but she seems intent on staring at the counter while taking occasional sips from her bowl-sized mug.
“I’m really sorry,” I start, a wide disarming smile on my face. “I promise I’m not trying to be a creeper or to interrupt your alone time, but I just got the distinct impression that you might need someone to talk to,” I start, trying not to look overeager.
A thrill works its way through me, and I can’t wait to find out how the bones and I can help this woman.
She turns to me, taking me in, and I notice that her eyes are more dark olive-green than the brown I thought they were from afar.
“I like men,” she replies simply.
My brow dips with uncertainty. Well, I didn’t see that coming, but I know the bones and I can handle anything. “Is that a problem for you, is that what you want to talk about?” I question, and she looks at me like I’m a little off my rocker.
“No, I’m just telling you that I’m not interested. You’re barking up the wrong tree,” she explains, and understanding flares through me.
I laugh and shake my head. “I’m not hitting on you, I swear. I legitimately felt like you needed someone to talk to,” I defend kindly, but she doesn’t seem as amused or disarmed by my declaration as I thought she would be.
I clear my throat and try again. Maybe I need to be more direct.
“Sorry, it’s just a thing that happens to me sometimes. I get impressions about people and feel the need to try to help if I can. I usually do a reading, one that costs you nothing other than a little bit of time and a listening ear,” I explain tenderly, internally fist bumping myself, because who could say no to that?
“If you’d like a reading, I would be happy to do one,” I add when she just stares at me blankly.
“I don’t,” she answers tersely, her olive green stare returning to the black smooth surface floating inside her mug.
I stare at her for a moment, taken aback by the refusal. I’m about to open my mouth to try and approach this a different way, but the urgent buzzing crawling under my skin stops. One minute it’s driving me hard to take action, and the next all that’s left of the summoning is the echo of it, and even that’s fading with each passing millisecond.
I reach for my phone to grab a card so I can leave it with her in case she changes her mind, but when I only feel ass cheek filling my back pocket, I remember that I lost my phone in the accident. I debate for a moment whether or not I should write my number on a napkin, but doing so makes my I’m not hitting on you claim seem like it’s pure crap.
So instead, I shrug and turn to step off the stool. Before I can, the woman huffs and turns to me with a glare. The vitriol in her eyes makes me stop in my tracks.
“I just wanted a little quiet,” she snaps, getting up and yanking a coat and scarf off the stool on her other side. “I have three boys getting out of school in twenty minutes, and two more waiting for me at home with my mother-in-law, who moved in two months ago. Two. Months. Ago!” she barks as she shoves her hands angrily into the arms of her coat before continuing.
“The thirty minutes I sit here to drink two cups of coffee is the only peace I get these days, and now I can’t even have that, because some beautiful woman with too much time on her hands and skin that is too smooth to be real can’t mind her own business or pick up on the social cues screaming that I just want to be left alone!”
She wraps the scarf around her neck and shakes her head at me furiously. “How do you keep your curls from getting frizzy?” she shouts at me drill-sergeant-style, and I jump and stammer, shocked and a little afraid.
“I use a mousse called Cork My Screw and a little bit of coconut oil on my ends,” I answer hurriedly, but she just glares at me.
“Thank you,” she yells angrily back and then storms out of the diner.
I watch her leave, completely dumbfounded and floundering. I look over to find the two waitresses staring out after the poor, clearly exhausted mother, with sympathy in their eyes.
“Don’t take that personal, hon, she’s got a lot on her plate.”
I nod and close my open, flabbergasted mouth. “Well, on that note, I think I’ll just go,” I announce sheepishly, and then I tuck tail and practically speed walk to the door. The sleigh bells sound oddly more ominous when they jingle as I leave, and I swear it sounds like they’re laughing at me. I hurry to Rogan’s car and practically dive in.
“Omg, go, go, go!” I shout out, ducking my head like I’m some celebrity who’s trying not to get their picture taken. I’m completely mortified and feel so bad about setting a tired mom off.
“What? Why, did you just rob the place?” he asks as he slowly puts his car in gear and pulls out at a safe and calm rate of speed.
“No, worse! I poked a mama bear on accident, and I’m lucky I got out of there alive. Now go before she changes her mind and makes the bear attack in that Leonardo DiCaprio movie look like the Care Bear cuddles,” I yell, officially hitting the freak the fuck out stage of my flight response.
A low rumbling fills the interior of the car, and at first I think it’s some kind of attack—until I look over at Rogan.
“This is not funny!” I yell as I try to duck down lower in the front seat.
Rogan pulls out onto the road and stops at the red light, the car now shaking from the force of his laughter. I punch him in the shoulder, hard, implementing every lesson Tad ever taught me growing up about how to give the deadest of dead arms, but that just makes him laugh harder.