Last Chances
Ryan
The Lazy Spoon was just down the block from where I worked. That was convenient, because anytime I wanted a meal or piece of pie, all I had to do was walk fifty-seven steps from the door of The Exchange to the door of the diner. It was also convenient because anytime I wanted to see Miriam, it was exactly fifty-seven steps from the door of my job to the door of hers. That also made it very inconvenient and possibly troubling, because I found myself wanting to make the excuse to go see her all the time, and it's difficult to talk yourself out of taking only fifty-seven easy steps that get you to where you want to go. And if she turned me down again this morning, those fifty-seven steps would forever be a painfully near distance, and an infinite chasm of melodramatic longing.
Plus, I’d have to find somewhere new to eat breakfast.
I didn't even bother unlocking the door to my work. I hopped out of my truck, still in a fantastic mood from the great weather and the win the night before. I practically skipped the fifty-seven steps down the block. The sunshine and cool breeze cheered me on. I had a good feeling about this.
There wasn’t much traffic on the street this time of day. Most folks had either already gotten to work already or were sleeping off whatever they had done to themselves the night before. The appliance store across the street had a couple cars parked in front. An empty bag of potato chips flapped in the gutter. Just another day in paradise.
The bell over the door jingled as I walked into The Lazy Spoon. Miriam sat at the bar, her back to me. Even though she was eating, she still had on her blue server's apron. Her red hair was pulled back into a ponytail. My heart beat a little faster.
Without turning away from her food, Miriam said, "We’re not open yet."
I slid onto the stool next to her. "Door was unlocked. Figured that meant you were open." Her shoulders slumped and she shook her head. "Nice to see you, too," I said. I plastered a smile on my face, but her reaction hit me like a hard shot to the gut. I felt the wind in my sails slowly dying away.
Around a mouthful of eggs, she said, "So are you gonna order food today, or just sit around here being a pain in the ass again?"
That stung, but I didn't want to show it. "Guess I'll order." I nodded at her plate. "Go ahead and finish your—"
But she spun off her stool with her food half finished, snatched her plate off the counter, and stalked around the end of the bar and into the kitchen. I heard a dish clang in the stainless steel sink back there, and an aggravated curse from the cook. I felt a brief certainty that the best thing to do was to call this fight, give up and take my ass out the door.
Tuck tail.
Run.
But that wasn’t in my nature.
A moment later she reappeared, her notepad and pen in hand.
"What are you having?" Her voice was cold, and she stared intently at her pad. She gripped her pen so tightly her knuckles were white.
"Are you mad at me or something?" I hadn't intended to ask this. It just sort of popped out. "Did I do something to you? I mean, you know, besides —"
Tapping her pen on her pad now, she looked up at me. Her brown eyes bored into me. Hot and angry. They reminded me of the intense, expectant way she had looked up at me from my bed. God, she was gorgeous.
She glanced down at my hands, and her brow wrinkled. “Why are your hands all bandaged like that? Are you hurt?”
I made a show of looking at my bandages. Thankfully, no blood spots had seeped through. “Nah,” I said. “Just cut myself shaving.”
She arched an eyebrow at me. “You’ve been fighting. I’ve seen that kind of thing before.”
I was intrigued. I knew next to nothing about her, except that I liked her laugh (when she actually did laugh), and her sense of humor. And her lack of inhibitions in the bedroom. This revelation was a new thing.
“Are you kidding?” I pointed at my face. “You think I’d risk this gorgeous mug in a fight?”
She seemed to consider a retort, but then she shrugged, effectively dropping the subject. "Are you going to order, or not?"
I've never had a problem with rejection. It happens to everybody. You're interested, they're not interested, it's a natural dynamic. I don't take it personally. But I had never been met with such blatant, overt hostility. Especially from someone I had thought liked me. I suddenly felt awkward sitting on the barstool, as if I might just slip off and fall on my ass. I realized that I clutched the counter-top with one hand as if to prevent just that.
"Well?"
"I'll have eggs, I guess. Three fried eggs. And a waffle. Hash browns." I paused. "Biscuits and gravy." As I called off my order, my stomach started grumbling.
"Jesus Christ," she said, raising one eyebrow. "Anything else?"
I raised an eyebrow. I had to try again, didn’t I? "One more date with you."
She made exasperated sound and threw her notepad on the counter.
"No," she said. "I told you no, and I'm telling you no again. No."
I felt a sinking in the pit of my stomach. I said I don't have problem with rejection. I guess I hadn't realized just how much I liked Miriam.
"Was our first date really that bad?"
In response, she picked up her order pad and pen, turned her back on me, and walked back into the kitchen. I heard the short order cook say something to her, and she said something back, her voice slightly louder than his, angry. I couldn't make out what she said, and I was glad of that.
A few moments passed and then she came back out. She stood in front of me, her face red, her brown eyes on the counter. "It wasn't really a date," she said
At least she was talking. I turned my grin on her. That worked, like, sixty percent of the time. Girls tended to like my dimples.
"I see your point. First dates usually wind up with a peck on the cheek and a have-a-good-night. I recall we got a bit further than that."
If anything, her cheeks got even redder than they were before. Her lips pressed tight together. I knew immediately it had been the wrong thing to say.
"What do I have to say to you? That I'm quite smitten with you? Fine. I am smitten with you." I wasn't used being this direct. But fuck it. Last chances and all that. "I like you. Is there something going on in your head that makes it terrible to be liked?"