The server comes over with waters. She’s a lean woman in her seventies who looks like she’s probably worked heresincethe ’70s. “What can I get you, hon?” she asks Scottie in an accent thicker than any shake.
She gestures to me. “I’ll let him order first.”
I laugh, waving my hands in front of my face. “No, ma’am,” I say. “Ladies first.”
Scottie doesn’t even blink. “No, I insist.”
I tsk and open the menu back up. “Actually, I can’t remember my order. You go.” I look at the server and pile on the charm. “Sorry.”
She pats my shoulder. “Take your time, sugar.” Then she says to Scottie. “Your turn, hon.”
I can almost feel the shade being thrown in my direction.
Scottie doesn’t say anything. I close my menu and look up.
“You ready?” Scottie asks.
I put my elbows on the table, my face in my hands, and bat my eyes at her. “Ready when you are.”
She makes a noise like a cat drowning.
“I’ll have what she’s having,” I say with a wink at the server, who smirks back.
Scottie purses her lips together, breathes, and says, “Two black cherry milkshakes, please. Extra whipped cream. Hold the cherries.”
The server’s already gone before I can protest. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. We’re getting a black cherry milkshakeand holding the cherries?”
Scottie doesn’t give me the satisfaction of glaring. “You don’t like the order, next time order for yourself.”
“No, that’s not good enough. You’ve got to explain.”
She stirs the ice in her water around. “The shake is made with real cherries, which are delicious. The cherry toppings are maraschino cherries, which are candied abominations.”
“Can’t argue with that logic. But the whipped cream—are we talking fresh or that canned crap?”
She looks deeply offended. “Who do you think I am?”
I look at her for a fraction of a second too long. “My bad.”
I watch her throat tense as she swallows. She jabs her straw at ice cubes like she’s trying to sink them. “Why didn’t you just order your own shake?”
“Because I haven’t ordered a milkshake since I was twelve. I figured if you’re craving one this late at night, it must be pretty good.”
“Really? It wasn’t just to mess with me?”
My lungs still burn from the cold air in the tunnel, and my shoulder is humming with that dull, deep ache that comes from overextending. It’s late, I’m worn out, the woman I’ve had feelings for for a year is asking me questions I don’t know how to answer, and I’m too tired to do this.
I fold my arms on the table and rest my head on them. My face is angled in Scottie’s general direction, but I close my eyes.
“You’re on my half of the table,” she says.
I’m six-two and a half—pretty average for a pitcher—and right now, I wish I were six inches taller to get in her space even more. Or six inches shorter.
“You’ll live,” I say.
She sniffs, and I peek with one eye and then with the other. The light from the flickering neon sign outside catches in her pale blonde hair, making it glow pink. She looks almost like a tea kettle ready to boil, and for some reason I like that. I like seeing that pressure rising in her. It’s like her body’s way of acknowledging our push and pull when she’s trying so hard not to. A sign that I was right to think I meant something to her.
Proof that we were on the verge of more.
