I widen my eyes, willing him to unlock the door, but don’t say anything. He double clicks the key, and it finally unlocks. I get in and click my seatbelt. I contentedly peel my banana. Dean sets his banana in the cupholder, and fiddles with the map on his phone.
“Where am I taking you?”
“Portland.”
“Yes, I got that much Where in Portland?”
“Enterprise Rent-A-Car,” I remind him.
“There’s like, five of them.”
“Just pick the closest one then.”
“30 minutes,” He announces, starting the GPS and turning on the radio.
I watch the bare trees pass by on the highway. There’s snow on the ground, but it’s one of those rare days in December where it’s not snowing. It’s still early yet, so it may very well snow today, but the sky is a radiant blue. We drive in silence, and it’s only broken when Dean asks me if I want the heat turned up, which I don’t. I’m bundled in my best puffer coat, and he’s bundled up as well.
The highway is busy, but Dean drives carefully and stays in the right lane. I guess I would too with a minivan like this. I watch the GPS like a countdown clock. 15 miles, 15 minutes, till I have to hit the road myself. 10 miles, 10 minutes and then I’m going to be alone again.
Then I see it.
What looks like a diner. A shiny diamond in the rough of the brush, complete with neon sign and chrome exterior. “Can we stop? I need food,” I ask. “I’ll buy. I think I see a diner coming up.”
Dean answers in a particularly annoyed groan, but takes the next exit. We’re .07 miles from the Enterprise Car Rental, and my heart is beating so fast it’d outpace a NASCAR race. Dean parks the minivan smoothly in a tight parking space, as the parking lot is absolutely packed. It’s probably the only game in town.
When I step outside, tote bag on my shoulder, it’s fiercely blustery, and the cold wind nips at my already sore, pink cheeks. Dean is a couple paces ahead of me already, and he gets to the door before me. Even though he’s acting terribly grumpy, he holds the door for me again.
Is it possible for someone to stand grumpily? If it is, that’s what Dean is doing. His posture is atrocious, his shoulders slumped as he uses his whole body to hold the door open.
The inside of the diner is just as metallic and kitschy as the outside. Teal neon lights adorn the tops of the short ceilings,and the floor is a classic black and white checkerboard pattern. It’s like the place is shaped like one big hallway. Red booths line the long, horizontal space with individual jukeboxes stationed at each laminate tabletop.
This whole place gives me the vibes of a liminal space somewhere between a Johnny Rockets and a trailer park, but still, a perky, cheerful hostess greets us as the checkout counter. Her name tag reads in engraved letters,Hannah.
“Table for two, please.” Dean has been nothing but gruff and grim to me, but gives Hannah a big smile.
“Of course.” Hannah takes two menus that are practically only held together by only the lamination which covers them and walks us over to a booth in between a boisterous family of three and a silent elderly couple. I sit on the side with senior citizens on my back.
We both take our jackets off simultaneously. I stuff mine into the corner of the booth, barricaded in by my full tote bag. I try to keep my eyes averted from Dean’s direction, so I pretend to dig through my bag looking for something.
But in my peripheral vision, I can see him flipping his floppy, brown hair out of his face, pushing his glasses up, rolling up the sleeves to his red checkered flannel shirt. Even I can admit he’s exceptionally handsome, even when he’s scowling.
I keep up the act and eagerly grab my tissues and spritzer hand sanitizer from my bag, and grab my menu, and begin spraying it down before perusing my options.
“What are you doing?” Dean asks. “Why are you cleaning the menu?”
“It’s probably filthy,” I say. “Want me to do yours?”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to just wash your hands after instead of cleaning the whole damn menu?” He picks up his menu. “You don’t need to clean mine.” He almost cracks a smile for the first time this morning, probably at my absurdity.
He’s got me there. I don’t respond because I know he’s right and he’d surely love for me to admit that. I guess it would be easier to just wash my hands after. I put my tissues and hand sanitizer away.
Hannah takes our order: two eggs fried over hard, cooked thoroughly with extra crispy hashbrowns for me; and a short stack of pancakes with bacon and fresh fruit for Dean. She quickly brings back two glasses of water and two cups of coffee.
I keep my eyes down to avoid meeting Dean’s. I try to focus on anything but him, the terrazzo pattern on the plastic tabletop, the crusty sugar jar and the cup of sweet n’ low and splenda, the half-filled shakers of salt and pepper, but it’s near impossible. I’m tempted to flip through the jukebox, but I bet there’s fifty years worth of germs on that thing, so I just hold my head in my hands.
Eventually, my eyes make their way to Dean’s fingertips, holding a phone, covered in a black case, just at the edge of the table. His fingernails are perfectly manicured, his fingers long and delicate. He wears a watch with a brown leather strap and a gold and white face on his right wrist.
From there, I can see his veins and bones clearly and there’s a dusting of light brown hair on his forearms. The rest of his arms disappear into his shirt, so my eyes wander up to his neck, where his white undershirt underneath his unbuttoned flannel is slightly off-kilter showing off his collar bone.
