Page 37 of Riding the Curve

Perhaps fate was right in bringing me back here.

Back home.

The door slams shut, and Emerson starts the truck. The familiar rumble of the loud engine shakes loose all the old memories. All the trips we used to take to get ice cream on hot summer days. The nights he and Ryleigh would pick me up from my study group, and we’d go to the movies. As well as the one I’ve tried to keep locked down all these years.

The last time I saw him. The night he drove away.

“I was thinking, we should get some breakfast. What do you think?”

Emerson’s deep voice pulls me from my thoughts, and I drift back to find him looking at me expectantly.

“Only if we go to Brooks Brothers,” I smirk.

His eyes are focused on the road, but I see his lips twitch into a faint smile. “I wouldn’t dare go anywhere else.”

We pull up to the familiar brick building where I spent most of my teenage and young adult years while I attended our local college for two years. The owners, Paul and Robert Brooks, gave me my first waitressing job when I was sixteen. When they found out that I aspired to be a chef, they let me go in the kitchen and play around with different recipes after hours.

A smile grows on my face, as I remember the day I experimented with soufflé pancakes. I had paired it with a chantilly cream with a boysenberry sauce that made both Brooks brothers almost fall off their stools when they tried it. They even added it to their specials, every Saturday morning.

Something sparked within me that day, and I had started to believe that my dream of becoming a professional chef could come true.

Emerson opened the door, and the bells on top rang its familiar jangle making my lips tilt up. “After you.” He motions, and I walk through. Immediately, I catch sight of the man holding two menus and wearing an exuberant smile.

“Well, if it isn’t two of Oakley Falls’ most famous residents!” Paul Brooks pulls me into a large hug, squeezing me against his chest. “I heard you were in town a couple of weeks ago, and I was wondering when you were going to stop by and visit us. It’s been a long time, Hen, but it’s so good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too, Paul. It’s been way too long.” I smile, and he leads us to the large corner booth. The one that our families would sit in together when we came for breakfast one Saturday a month.

I slide across the light blue vinyl all the way to the back, as Emerson slides around the other side. His arm brushes against mine, and heat immediately stirred in my lower belly. Quickly, I scoot over a few inches, shielding my blush with the menu.

“It’s good to see you too, Emerson.” Paul smiles, then it slowly falls as he says his next words. “My brother and I were so sorry to lose your mother. Autumn was such a wonderful light in our community.”

I glance around my menu and catch Emerson’s expression turn somber, his complexion paling. Discreetly, I slip my hand under the table and squeeze his thigh. The moment I touch him, his hands tighten around his menu, as he replies. “Thank you, Paul. Mama always loved you both and loved seeing your beautiful families grow.”

Paul rocks back and forth on his heels as he speaks. “I heard your Dad was working on getting the ranch up and running. If you all ever need anything at all, we are here for you both. Don’t hesitate at all, we would be happy to help.”

“That’s really generous of you. I’ll make sure to let Dad know.”

“I’ll let you both look at the menu and I’ll get your drinks started. Emerson, coffee black? And Henley, cinnamon latte and a Dr. Pepper, right?”

We both nod. Paul smiles bright, and turns to go make our drinks.

“I forgot how much you liked Dr. Pepper,” Emerson’s lips tilted up ever so slightly.

“And I forgot you liked your coffee void of flavor,” I scrunch my nose feigning disgust.

His smile grows wider as he shifts his leg underneath the table.

Suddenly, I’m all too aware my palm is still latched around his thigh. I whip it back into my lap.

“Uh, y-yeah,” I stumble over my words. “I like it because it’s spicy like cinnamon and sweet like vanilla. Two flavors I’ll never get tired of.”

“Kinda like cinnamon rolls?” He chuckles.

“Old habits die hard I guess,” I shrug, nonchalantly. Even as the one old habit I can’t seem to shake sits beside me.

Paul returns with our drinks and a huge plate of soufflé pancakes, just the way I had made all those years ago.

“Thought you might want a little taste of home,” he winks, and hands us a fork.