Her soft lilac scent fills the car and makes me think of spring and sunshine and every good thing I’ve ever wanted. There are dog treats in the cup holder, a training manual on the back seat, and a podcast playing softly through the speakers.
Instead of talking to me about the game loss or scolding me about being a forgetful idiot, she asks, “Want to play French Toast?”
This is so April. Taking something unpleasant and somehow making it bearable. Fun, even. Or she just needs a distraction to remain awake.
“Okay,” I say. “French Toast.”
She starts. “French Toast makes me think of breakfast.”
“Breakfast makes me think of pancakes.”
“Pancakes make me think of maple syrup.”
I yawn. “Maple syrup makes me think of maple trees.”
“Maple trees make me think of Canada.”
“Canada makes me think of hockey.”
We go back and forth like this, the word associations ping-ponging between us.
April starts, “Hockey makes me think of?—”
She takes the exit.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“All Ears Diner. All that talk about food made me hungry.”
“It’s one in the morning.”
“It’s a truck stop. They’re always open. French toast made me think of French fries. This place has the best fries in a fifty-mile radius.”
The diner glows with bright fluorescent lights, red vinyl booths, and a jukebox in the corner playing classic rock. We take one of the many empty tables. Only a few guys sit at the counter. I already know what we’re going to order.
“Chocolate milkshake?” she asks.
“Strawberry.”
“Since when do you like strawberry?”
“Since always.”
“You’re a chocolate guy.”
“I’m a strawberry guy when I’m sad.”
Her expression softens, likely about being reminded of our game loss to Denver. “Okay. Sad strawberry it is.”
When the food comes, the fries are warm and comforting. The milkshake helps.
“Thank you for coming to get me. For this.” I gesture vaguely at the table.
“Where else would I be?”
I have to look away before I do something stupid like tell her I’m in love with her. That I want her to be with me forever. I’m spent. It’s late. She’s so sweet. Anything could come out of my mouth at this point.
“So,” she says, stealing one of my fries—she likes the really crispy ones. She reasons that they’re more structurally sound to dip into her milkshake. “Tomorrow we drive to Omaha to get your Jeep out of the impound lot, pay your fine, and get your registration sorted out.”
