I always did.
My eyes were on my hands as I pulled the notepad from my apron pocket and the pencil from behind my ear, feet moving on autopilot to the newly occupied booth, but when I looked up at the person sitting in it, everything stopped.
Everything.
Time, my heart, the greeting that was two seconds from leaving my lips.
We had plenty of travelers stop in the diner on their way through town — hard to escape that when we were less than two minutes from I-10 — but those travelers usually fit a code. They were the spring break road trippers on their way to the beach, or lonely truck drivers with sad, weary eyes, or a family of four with kids bouncing in their seats and throwing apple sauce while the parents begged me for more coffee. None of them, and I do mean none of them, looked like him.
His sandy-blond hair was tussled, one hand absent-mindedly running through it as he looked over the menu. From the view I had of his profile, I noticed the deep dent of his cheeks, the smooth squareness of his jaw, the long slope of his nose, bent just a little at the top, like it’d been broken before. He was dressed like the men on the magazines lining the grocery store checkout lane, sporting a cerulean blue sweater over a button-up, plaid dress shirt, the sleeves of both shoved up to his elbows. My eyes followed the fabric down to where it gathered above the light brown belt around his hips. When he dropped the menu to the table, I snapped my attention back to his face.
Which was now angled straight up at me.
His eyes were deep honey pools, bright and intense where they lay sheltered by thick, dark eyebrows. And there were two, small, perfectly symmetrical lines creased between those eyebrows as he looked up at me, like he’d asked a question I hadn’t heard, like he’d been asking questions his entire life without finding a single answer.
In a whoosh, reality sucked me back into the restaurant and I blinked in rapid fire, clearing my throat as I flipped to a new page in my notepad. “Can I start you off with a drink? Coffee, tea?”
I tried to keep my eyes on the notepad, waiting for his response, but he was still staring at me. I lifted my gaze to his, tracing those two creases right above his nose. He wasn’t necessarily scowling, but he certainly wasn’t smiling.
“Sir?”
He blinked, but his eyes never left mine. “Coffee. Black.”
His voice was low and modulated, like a smooth pour of the drink he’d just ordered.
I nodded, rolling my lips together. “I’ll give you a minute to look over the menu.”
When I was back behind the counter bar, I refilled the two customers there before pouring a steaming cup for Mr. GQ, massaging my thigh as I did. It was more out of habit than pain, but Tammy eyed me with concern from where she was piling plates on her arm in the kitchen window.
“You okay, Coop?”
I was still in a fog, and I stopped pouring the coffee just before it tumbled over the lip of the small, white, porcelain mug. “Huh?”
Tammy nodded to my leg, and I looked down at my hand still massaging the muscle. It looked normal, under the corduroy black fabric of my work pants, but beneath it was the scar of my loss, the muscle weak and small in comparison to my other leg. Phantom pains still made themselves present from time to time, reminding me of what once was there — before the accident, before life as I knew and understood it had been altered beyond recognition.
“Oh.” I stopped, smoothing the same hand over my apron before carefully balancing the saucer and cup, already heading back to the booth. “I’m fine. Phantom pains, I barely even notice them anymore.”
She forced a smile. “Okay. By the way, what’s the story on that tall glass of water in booth nine?”
I shrugged, pretending like I hadn’t noticed how attractive he was, the blush crawling up my neck betraying me. “Dunno. He likes his coffee black, that’s about as far as our conversation has gone.”
“You should ask him where he’s from.”
“And you should deliver those pancakes.”
She grinned. “You think he’s cute.”
“I think he’s hungry.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Shut up.”
She laughed as I slid past her and back onto the floor, hands shaking slightly as I checked in on my other booths before placing the full cup of coffee in front of my new customer. He wasn’t looking at the menu anymore. He was simply staring out the large windows of the diner, eyes distant, brows still slightly pinched.
“Ready to order?” I asked, pulling out my notepad again. I didn’t even need it. I hadn’t written down an order in more than two years. But I needed something to look at, something other than him.
“What makes you happy?”
He was still staring out the windows, but when a few seconds passed without an answer from me, he turned his gaze to mine.
And I couldn’t speak.
My books, my dog, yoga, the way the sun always manages to come back, no matter how dark the storm.
He didn’t raise his brows or ask again, didn’t tap his foot or wave his hand in front of my face. He just looked back at me, almost with understanding, as if he knew the question wasn’t easy to answer. Maybe he didn’t believe it had an answer at all.
But it did. I had answers — I had plenty. I was Miss Optimistic. I counted my blessings daily. I always looked at the bright side of my life, ignoring the shadows of it, choosing to focus my energy on whatever positives I could grasp.
Still, none of that mattered.
He asked me what made me happy, but that’s not what he really asked.
What he really asked was — are you happy?
And I couldn’t speak.
“I’ll have the steak and eggs, please,” he said after a moment, turning back to the window and reaching down for his coffee. He took a sip with me still staring at him until I finally tore my eyes away, pretending to write in my notepad.
“Coming right up.”
I zipped back through the diner and into the kitchen, ignoring Mr. Hollenbeck as he raised his hand at me indicating he was ready to order, too. I couldn’t take his order, not yet, not until I took a breath.
Ray quirked a brow at me when I blew through the swinging door, spreading my hands flat on the silver metal table next to the sink, eyes closed and head down as I forced an exhale.
“You okay, slick?”
“Steak and eggs, please.”
I opened my eyes again, standing straight, and Ray saluted me with his spatula. “You got it.”
This is stupid, I scolded myself. It was like I’d never talked to a boy before, or seen one for that matter. It was no secret that I wasn’t exactly the most social girl when I was in school, especially after I lost my leg, but I had a few friends. I had conversations with boys — group projects, book clubs, customers. So why was I stunned speechless by this particular one?
Annoyed, I blew out a breath, rebraiding my hair over my shoulder before pushing back through the door. I immediately made my way to Mr. Hollenbeck, smiling and nodding as I took his order, all the while way too aware of booth number nine.
“So, where’s he from?” Tammy asked when I rejoined her behind the counter.
“I didn’t ask.”
“You should.”
I scribbled out the check for the trucker at the end of the bar, offering him a smile and telling him no rush as I slipped it over the counter to him. Turning back to Tammy, I leaned a hip against the bar.