"You don’t want to talk about it," she confirmed. "No worries. Apology not necessary, but accepted."
The blanket of disappointment then turned to an unacceptable sheet of awkward as they picked at their pancakes.
"I gotta be honest with you, I’m not good at the touchy-feely shit," he said, finally.
"Well, I’m not good at ‘rolling with it’ so I guess we are both imperfect." She poked at her pancake with the tines of her fork where the maple syrup pooled.
"Last night felt important," he said, his jaw clenching. "When I try to understand heavy emotions like that, I freeze. It’s like it becomes this constant state of discomfort, you know? But then last night I got comfortable…"
"And that made you uncomfortable?" she asked cautiously.
He nodded. "Hey, it’s who I am. I guess I’m cool with it."
She hated that she was part of what made him so uncomfortable. Hated that he’d given her everything and she’d given him… pancakes this morning.
"Clean slate for today," she announced, smacking a hand on the counter. "What do you say?"
He lifted his eyebrows, his fork raised to his lips. "Clean slate?"
"Yeah, what happened yesterday happened. We can’t change it, so we start over today fresh. No regrets and no looking back."
He let out a relieved sigh, ran his hand over his hair. "I think you might be getting too good at the roll-with-it game."
She took her plate to the stool beside him and settled there, then she said, "I’m hoping today the game involves more major purchases and checking things off my imaginary bingo card."
"Why the hell not? Let’s check the spaces and fill that baby up." He smiled at that. "Quick, don’t think: up or down?"
"Um… up," she replied, taking too long because she did actually mull that over for a quick moment.
"Spinning or not?" he asked.
"Spinning," she replied, faster this time and without thinking about it first.
"Dog or fish?" he asked.
"Dog," she replied, because who wouldn’t pick the dog?
"Done," he agreed with a sly smile that had her excited for what came next. "Let’s roll."
And that’s how they found themselves eating hot dogs for lunch, 13,000 feet over the Pacific Ocean, in a shiny silver helicopter. The rush of the wind, the sound of the helicopter blades slicing through air, and the sight of the ocean rolling underneath them was invigorating and unlike anything she’d ever experienced. She’d thought Mach’s motorcycle was an adrenaline rush, but it had nothing on this.
For miles, there was nothing but the shimmering ocean, interrupted only by small waves. The sun sparkled off the water and cast a dazzling otherworldly light across everything. Sort of like this whole experience with him.
As with all kickass things, it had to end. They landed, and when the helicopter blades came to a stop, Mach helped Darla to the asphalt. A dozen paparazzi clicked away from behind the fencing surrounding the helicopter pad.
Two of them were the same from yesterday so Darla gave them a jaunty wave.
"One sec," she said to Mach.
"You’re gonna feed ’em again, aren’t you?" he asked.
She nodded and then she skip-walked to the camera guys. She pulled out a handful of granola bars from her bag.
"Anyone hungry?" she asked, as she pushed the bars one by one through the chain-link fencing. Today, they wanted the paps to follow them around for a while so no one said she couldn’t give them treats.
Honestly, yesterday’s excursion had netted them excellent placement on multiple tabloid websites. The beast was being fattened up before it hibernated forever. And, since Darla had literally fed the guys chili-cheese fries, the paparazzi were really nice to her in the captions to the photos this morning.
"What’s your favorite tourist spot in L.A.?" she asked one of the guys from yesterday. "Other than the sky since we already did that."
