Page 41 of Don't Go
Sabrina
There is a 24-hour diner on the corner of 4th and Aldrin. Coffee. One hour. No more.
I drove home the long way, took a shower, and changed into the gray hoodie I'd been wearing the day at the pharmacy because she had spent half of that walk insulting me about it, and I wanted her to recognize it.
I drove to the diner.
I sat in a booth in the back, ordered coffee, and waited.
She came in — shoulders up, chin up, keys in her hand — and stopped for a half second when her eyes found me at the booth in the back.
I stood up.
She crossed the diner without slowing down and came up to the booth without sitting. She looked at my face. Whatever she saw, she didn't name it. She stepped into me, put her arms around me, and held me without saying anything.
I wasn't ready for the hug.
I hadn't been ready for any part of the day — not for the doctor, for Cade in the cafeteria, for Mom asleep in the chair, or for the orange light in the garage. And in some way beyond any of those, I hadn't been ready for Sabrina's arms around my back in a diner.
I leaned into her, closed my eyes, and let out a breath I hadn't known I'd been holding.
She let me go, slid into the booth across from me, and put her keys on the table. She didn't look at me head-on yet.
"How are you doing?"
I shrugged. "I'm fine now. That's what matters."
She raised an eyebrow at the menu without picking it up. "So." She tilted her head. "You finally used the number you stole."
"I didn't steal it. You were right there when Bonnie gave it to me."
"Bonnie gave it to you over my objections."
"Your objections were noted at the time."
"My objections were ignored at the time."
I leaned forward on my elbows. "How is she? How is the cat?"
She finally looked at me head-on. "Pickles is as superficial as he has ever been. Bonnie is good." A beat. "She asked about you."
I grinned.
The waiter came to the table. Sabrina ordered the breakfast plate without consulting the menu — eggs, hash, and two strips of bacon. I ordered the same. Coffee for both of us, refills.
The waiter left.
I picked up the coffee. "Told you she likes me. Watch out, Sabrina. You might have competition."
"Ha." She let her head fall back a quarter inch. "You're no match for her."
I laughed — short and surprised. "Am I a match for you?"
The food came before she could answer.
It came embarrassingly fast — diners that ran twenty-four hours kept the food close to the heat. The waiter set the plates down, topped off the coffee, and left. Sabrina picked up her fork and put a piece of bacon in her mouth.
Then I asked it again, "Am I a match for you, Sabrina?"
