Page 25 of After We Fall

Luke knocks on the wooden counter. “The rules are, you’re not allowed to order a salad, a vegetarian meal, or anything labeled as lite.”

I gape in horror. “What? Why are those the rules?”

He leans in and aims his mouth for my ear. “Because everyone’s got to live a little, kitten.”

Kitten? A cross between offense and thrill trickles down my back.

I straighten my spine and take a high-heeled step toward the cash register. “Fine. I excel at following rules.”

“What can I get you today, ma’am?” The teenager behind the counter smiles a mouthful of metal at me.

I clasp my hands and rest them on the wooden block, leveling my voice. “I’d like the Rock Star, please.”

He nods, his long brown hair brushing the shoulders of his faded restaurant T-shirt as he writes down my order. “A half or a whole?”

Glancing at the menu, I note that at $11.25, half of this monstrous steak, ham, salami, cheese, and sauce hoagie costs almost twice as much as the other sandwiches.

“I’d like a whole, please,” I say without changing my facial expression. That should be plenty to make winning this challenge extremely satisfying.

Luke barks his laughter. “A whole? Where are you going to put all that food?”

I slide my gaze to his and glare.

He holds his hands up in surrender, then turns his attention to the shocked kid behind the counter. “I can’t be outdone by a pint-sized city girl. By all means, I’ll have the same.”

“Uh-huh,” the kid says without writing anything down, his perplexed eyes darting between the two of us. “Anything to drink?”

I nod. “Water, please.”

“Water? With your three-thousand-calorie hoagie?” Luke pulls his wallet out of the back pocket of his pants, shaking his head and chuckling.

“Three thousand is my lunch calorie-intake limit.”

This time his laughter comes from deep within his chest, and as I stride toward the drink station, I can’t help myself when a smile curls my lips.

Once seated, I smooth out the vinyl blue and white checked tablecloth. A spot refuses to stay in place and wrinkles back.

“These walls have stories,” Luke says, glancing around the restaurant. He sets his drink on the table and next to it plunks the plastic sign denoting our order number. He pulls out the chair opposite mine and sits. His body moves with extreme control and power, but somehow he makes it look casual. He leans back, crosses his arms over his chest, and stretches a leg into the aisle. “So. What’s your story, Penelope?”

I fold my hands in my lap, out of Luke’s sight. “What do you need to know?”

He grabs three packets of sugar from the rectangular plastic box of sweeteners. “Where are you from?”

“How does that pertain to the vandalism?”

“You never know what details might help.” Holding the packets at one end, he bats them against his other hand.

I’m never comfortable discussing myself. My past. What exactly does he want to know, and, better question, how little information can I reveal and still satisfy him?

Buying me a little time before I have to approach the topic at hand, the cashier from earlier delivers our food. He places the monstrous meals and silverware in front of us, his eyes bouncing between Luke and me.

My sandwich sits in its full state, staring me down, while the accompanying potato chips flank it like they are its loyal subjects. The proud, sturdy roll holds an enormity of meat, and the oozing cheesy sauce divulges the tight fit inside. A tomato had slipped out of the side, and after I tuck it back in, I say, “This looks wonderful.”

When the teen doesn’t move from his spot, I raise my eyebrows at him.

He tucks the tray under his arm. “I was kind of hoping you’d let me watch you tackle that beast of a hoagie.”

“Maybe I should sell tickets,” Luke murmurs, smiling down at his food. He claps his hands loudly and rubs them together.