Chapter 5

Cas

With the top of the Austin-Healey all the way down, Ana and I cruise along the interstate at what feels like a million miles an hour.

I look at the speedometer and note, with some disappointment, that I’m reaching the top speed of 75.

I look over at her and smile despite myself. I can’t believe how beautiful she looks, even after all these years.

She looks at me suddenly, intently.

“Pull over, Cas,” she says.

“Your wish is my command,” I reply.

With a tilt of the steering wheel, we pop a full 360 as the Rolling Stones are wailing something about being pleased to meet you and hoping you guessed their name.

Sympathy For the Devil.

How appropriate, I think to myself.

We look up at the same time and find ourselves at the hilariously named Tick Tock Diner.

“You hungry?” I ask her when we reach a full stop.

She smirks back. “Why do I get the feeling you’re proposing to eat something not on the menu in this joint?”

The blue green neon lights of the sign reflect off her pale skin.

I laugh. “Wouldn’t mind that at all. But, for a change, I’m hungry and would love nothing more than for you to join me.”

She hesitates at first but ultimately acquiesces, and we walk in together.

One quick look around the joint makes us both realize that we’re way overdressed for the occasion. All around us are nothing but Florida-ready retirees demanding early bird specials, “ladies who lunch” in yoga pants and order nothing but salads with “lemon on the side” for dressing (but no doubt go home and binge on Snickers bars), and drunk teenagers slobbering on disco fries to get the rotgut vodka out of their systems.

The waitress, dressed in an ersatz tuxedo-style uniform, comes over to us.

“Someplace quiet,” I brusquely request. “And far, far away from this disaster.”

She looks to be about fifty years old, her face crinkling as snorts, motions to the left with her head, and brings us deeper into the diner. She guides us into a far-away booth that can’t be seen from the front door.

I help Ana with her dress before I sit down myself, then turn to the waitress and ask her for some coffee.

Almost instantly, she returns with a fresh pot and two mismatched ceramic cups, then pops her head around the corner again, and returns with cream and sugar.

This little ritual gives me time to look at Ana—again, something I can’t seem to get enough of doing. But as I reach out to touch her, just to make sure she’s real, she flinches and pulls back.

“Ana,” I say gently, “it’s me. It’s Cas.”

She rubs her wrist and looks down.

It’s only then that I see them—the bruises. Some of them are fresh, bright eggplant color; others are fading into various shades of yellow and blue.

Instantly, I’m flush with rage and grab her wrist.

“Who did this to you, Ana?” I demand.

She shudders, the fear in her eyes becoming evident, and quickly pulls away.

The last thing in the world that I want is to scare her. I take a deep breath and motion for the waitress to come back. When she does, I place the order confidently.

“A Belgian waffle with vanilla ice cream, chocolate sauce, whipped cream, and a cherry on top.”

The waitress gives a slight side-eye to Ana, no doubt curious as to how such a beautiful girl with such a slamming body could maintain that figure while eating such a high-sugar, high-carb plate of shit.

Ana, unafraid of a few nasty glances, tosses a side-eye back to the waitress, who quickly scurries away to place the order in the kitchen.

“You know,” Ana says, “I haven’t had a waffle since…”

I smirk and reach for her again. “You remember, Ana baby? Vegas…the chapel…”

Her eyes shutter, and she pulls away again. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

I sigh in frustration and sit all the way back in the booth, running my fingers through my hair. “Why, Ana? What’s so bad about it?”

“Who said it was bad?” She’s suddenly snappy. “I just don’t want to talk about it.”

“Fine,” I acquiesce, “I don’t want to talk about it, either.”

The waffle arrives with more chocolate sauce, ice cream, and whipped cream than should be legally allowed, and the waitress has the good sense to produce two plates for us to share the sugary concoction.

Ana smiles as she looks at her custom Belgian waffle. “You really know what I like, Cas.”

“How could I forget, Ana baby?” I take a knife and cut into the waffle, portioning some onto her plate.

She looks down at her portion, and while she continues to smile, her eyes still look sad and forlorn.

“Aren’t you happy to be here with me?” I ask her, suddenly worried.

“Cas, I never thought I would be again,” she answers honestly. “But let me tell you something, this isn’t all peaches and cream, you know. We’re not 18 years old anymore.”

“Thank God,” I remark sarcastically, “or I’d be laid on the floor with bullets in my stomach.”

She draws her lips into a straight line. “Great, Cas. Thanks for the reminder.”

She tears into her waffle and shoves a large dollop of whipped cream into her mouth.

“That’s not something you really forget, babe,” I say, matching her dollop with a piece of waffle of my own.

“Well, I just want you to know that the threat of retaliation is real, Cas,” she says, washing her waffle down with some coffee. “Daddy isn’t going to take this lying down.”

I suddenly stop eating. I lean forward, and, while grabbing her wrists, gently whisper as softly as I possibly can.

“Oh, I know,” I say. “And guess what, baby? That’s exactly what I’m hoping for. I want this to end once and for all. On my terms, not your daddy’s.”

She sits back, and it’s only then that I realize that the waffle is all but gone, as is our coffee.

She takes one last sip.

“Let’s get out of here,” she says weakly. “I’m tired.”

I reach into my pocket and toss two $100 bills on the table before taking her hand and heading towards the door.

“Your wish is my command, cuore mio,” I say. “Come. Your chariot awaits.”

She follows, somewhat hesitantly. “Where are we going?”

We hop into the Austin-Healey, and I make the engine roar to life.

“To our matrimonial bed,” I reply triumphantly.

She sighs and settles into the seat comfortably.

The classic rock is back on the radio, and this time, Billy Joel is singing about a time to remember.

I smirk, take it as a sign, and tear down the interstate, kicking up piles of dust in my wake.