We wait.
Cal jerks his head toward the cafe. “Let’s go, then.”
“You’re going to need a shirt,” I say. “This is California.”
Cal grumbles, swerving back toward the trucks and presumably his suitcase. “Meet you there.”
Lou watches him go, fear edging her gaze. I understand being attached to the child she’s been caring for — for his sake. But there’s something about Lou’s fear that’s … off. As if she needs Cal to survive. Not nefariously, I don’t think. Otherwise, the universe wouldn’t be giving Cal a choice. No, if Lou was hurting him in some way, she wouldn’t have made it out of the Federation with us.
“What?!” she snaps at me, then pivots away to join Jewels and Angie. Trixie has retreated into the playground, but her gaze is on me. A hint of regret in the look.
That regret deepens when a tiny gasp comes from Jewels. Her hand is shaking as she stares down at the ticket she’s just scratched.
I turn away, heading toward the diner before Jewels can look up and do something stupid like thank me again. I know now that she doesn’t really mean any of it. The comment that the Cataclysm could have done worse things to me is sticking with me. I can’t fault Jewels for doing whatever it takes to save her unborn child, but I don’t need to inflict my presence on her any longer.
A gorgeously maintained vintage metallic-green Mercedes-Benz 280 SE, its cognac-leather interior visible through the windows and sunroof, is parked in the handicapped spot next to the door of the diner. The sight distracts me from the morbid bent of my thoughts, as it was no doubt intended to do.
Apparently, the universe is delivering all sorts of bonuses today. First the sunglasses and now the car.
I won’t mind driving up the coast in that beauty. I just hope that whatever I have to do to get my hands on the keys doesn’t take too long. I’m exhausted. And for the first time in a very long time — maybe the first time ever — I want to be home and surrounded by the few people who actually see me, see me and care for me, as a person. Not just as the vessel of the Conduit, a means to an end, or one of the nefarious purple-eyed awry.
Six
As I step into the diner, my gaze settles on an older, dark-skinned man in the far corner booth. A younger woman sits with her back to me, visibly fussing over getting him to eat in a way that suggests she’s family. His eyes instantly rise to take me in as I enter the cafe. We exchange nods.
The only booth available is right at the window by the entrance, so I slide into it, keeping my back to the door — instead of traversing the next path primed to open for me. I need to speak to Cal first. His next choice will affect mine.
A minute or so later, the preteen, now adorned in a faded red T-shirt, enters and drops himself onto the red-and-white vinyl bench seat across from me with an exaggerated huff.
“Made it through the gauntlet again, did you?” I ask, teasing. But also knowing that another argument with Lou likely took place before Cal made his way into the diner.
He narrows his eyes at me, grabbing the menu. “Don’t know what that means.”
I let it drop. My opinion of Lou shouldn’t factor into the relationship I already know I need to build with Cal. The connection between us is gossamer thin. I need to reinforce it before he makes the choice I already know he’s going to make. Nothing I say in the now will make a difference. Not at the moment. It’s the days and weeks after we part that I need to look toward.
“What are you eating?” he asks. It’s a serious question. Cal isn’t one for small talk.
“Chocolate milkshake, fries, and maybe a Caesar salad.”
He grunts. “You need meat, you look terrible.”
Meat, or protein as he more broadly means, isn’t a cure for what my body has suffered in the last few weeks … the last months? It won’t close the wound still festering under the bandage across my shoulder and lower neck. The neckline of my oversized T-shirt is narrow enough to cover it, thankfully. Finally feeling a bit more clearheaded about the events of the past day, I wonder if that was Jewels’s intent when she bought the top for me.
The last months. I make myself say it, even if only in my head. I’ve been held for months. Not days, not even weeks. I’m definitely avoiding noting the exact date, but the more I acknowledge the timeframe, the less hold it can have on me. I’m just easing into it all.
Cal is watching me. “I’ll add grilled chicken to the salad,” I say easily. He squints, assessing me for sarcasm.
Letting him have a moment to simply look at me, I remove my sunglasses, carefully placing them in the case and setting them on the white-flecked, chrome-edged formica table. I don’t have a purse or any other bag. I meet his gaze over his menu, my violet eyes locked to his dark-blue.
He nods, then says, “We should order, then?”
“Sure.”
He twists around in the booth, waving at the server hovering by the pass-through window to the kitchen. Red-vinyl stools with shiny chrome pedestals fixed to the floor line a long countertop standing between the kitchen and the booths. The resemblance to the Choices Cafe where I met Presh does not go unnoticed, though the exterior facade of this building has been plucked from a long-past era and meticulously reconstructed to appeal to the robust prone-to-nostalgia tourist trade.
Two differences. I had selected a different table at the Choices Cafe — or had had that selection made for me. And the shiny beauty of a car parked just beyond the window is not my own. Yet.
Apparently impatient, Cal slides out of the booth, hustling over to give our order to the server across the countertop. He adds the chicken to my Caesar salad and asks for the dressing on the side.
