“Buying or selling?”
“Selling.”
“So is Myles your real name?” I ask as I nudge him with my elbow.
“Yep. But friends call me My or Milo.”
That name causes a strange feeling to hit my stomach. I must have reacted because I suddenly feel his warm palm on my leg. The heat permeates the thin fabric of my leggings.
“You good?” he asks as he studies me.
“Mhm. So, any family?” I ask, trying to keep the conversation flowing. He pulls away from my question, and I already miss the feeling of his touch.
“Not anymore.” His voice is low and filled with pain…One I know too well.
“Wife?”
“Nah.”
“Girlfriend?”
“Nope.”
This man needs to give me something more so I can figure him out.
“What about you? Got a family waiting for you at home?” he asks. My fingers tighten around my leather steering wheel cover. It crackles and squeaks.
“No.”
We fall into a silence. He’s looking out the window as we drive through the sleeping town. It's nearly sunrise.
“It’s lonely…” he says quietly. His gaze still drifts over the open fields along the road.
“What is?”
“You don’t have family at all?”
“No. Not anymore.” My voice is sharp. I don’t want to talk about it.
“Sorry. I get it, though.” I can see him studying me out of the corner of my eye. He’s trying to figureme out.
“It’s fine…I just don’t like to talk about my past.”
He sighs as he closes his eyes and leans his head against the headrest.
“We’re here,” I say as we pull into the old, worn-out parking lot. The lines are barely visible, even in the daylight. The pavement is cracked, chipping away from age. Some of the potholes could eat my whole tire if I’m not careful.
“Wow…I didn’t think it could get shittier looking, but it did,” Myles laughs as we step out of my truck. He kicks a chunk of pavement, and it skips across the parking lot before hitting the dirt.
He holds the door open for me. The sensor chimes as we step inside. The regular overnight waiter, Mark, is here.
“Hey, Mi…” he starts, but I slide my finger across my throat. He stops and glances back at Myles. “Me…Friends…Uhh…Welcome to Ray’s. Grab a seat, and I’ll be right over. Coffee?”
“Please and orange juice,” Myles says.
“You got it, friend. Miss? Anything for you?” he asks as if he hasn’t seen me at least 3 times a week for the last few years.
“Just coffee for me. Thanks.” I slide into my usual booth, but Myles doesn’t join me.
