Page 137 of Go Back to December

While most students remain unconscious at this early hour, Working Money populates the surrounding neighborhoods, and the diner on the corner is bustling. In the shadow of a barren oak tree across the street, I stare at the customers in the large picture window until my phone buzzes in my pocket.

The one-line text reads, "The eagle has landed."

When my gaze flips back to the diner, the last table by the window is occupied. For a full ten minutes, I try to talk myself into, and then out of what I came here to do.

In the end, that bitch Mother Nature decides it. A cloud passes above. The morning sun blinds me and pushes the shadows from my tree. I can’t hide anymore.

I cross the street, enter the diner, and edge through the crowd to the back table.

“Excuse me.”

Baz blinks up from the menu. His Bowie eyes widen, but it’s the only sign he’s registered my appearance.

It’s possible I may not have actually said anything.

I clear my throat. “Is anyone joining you?”

He shakes his head slowly. Annabel and Luiza just texted their dual cancelations.

“There are no more open seats. If I promise not to disturb you, would you mind if we shared the table?”

One swift jerk of his head is his only response.

I don’t allow him a second to take back his decision. With a smile I can’t contain, I sink into the booth opposite him. I force myself to peruse the menu, while I fight off the desperate urge to drink in the sight of him. All I can glimpse over the top of the menu is a flash of my favorite green shirt. Along with the heady aroma of brewed coffee and fried bacon, the scent of evergreens drifts across the table.

It is torture not to look up to see if he’s watching me.

His choice of the silent treatment is a bold move. I have a new appreciation for what he must have felt that morning I wouldn’t talk to him. But it can’t approximate the frustration I’m experiencing now. That would be impossible.

When the server arrives, I order whole-wheat blueberry pancakes and coffee.

“And you, sir?”

Baz looks expectantly at me.

He’s willing to play along with me, without commandeering the rules. Without being in control.

My pulse river-dances in the end zone.

I smile at the server. “Cheddar and ham omelet. Breakfast potatoes, no peppers. Large coffee.”

Baz nods faintly to confirm and leans an elbow on the table so he can press a fist against his mouth. For a trembling moment, I come close to blurting out my confession before I resolve I will not let him goad me.

I busy myself by opening my bag and pulling out my phone and tablet, like my entire internal operating system isn’t short-circuiting. My fingers cannot summon enough coordination to unlock either of the passcodes on my devices.

When the server arrives with our drinks, I look up. Baz’s expression has shifted from quizzical to evaluating.

We synchronize our first sips of coffee like professional pairs skaters gliding onto fresh ice.

I try to break eye contact.

I fail.

Even when the food arrives, it’s a struggle.

But my stomach is a filthy traitor this morning, just like the weather. The scent of warm berries and sugar is too much for me to handle, and I give in at precisely the same moment Baz slices into his omelet.

With the first bite, a small hum of elation escapes me.