10
the romantic date vibe
The late summer air was warm and humid the next day as Niklas’s convertible wound through the back roads, towards civilization. Niklas didn’t have practice, and I hadn’t heard back about the job yet. We were free.
Niklas turned the car in the direction ofmyDetroit. The area grew more familiar as the hilly estates turned into suburban blocks and businesses. I took a deep breath of Michigan air. My relief at being back on familiar ground, hearing English again and being able to read road signs hadn’t waned yet, though Niklas said it probably would in a couple weeks.
“Turn here,” I said, pointing down the enormous boulevard.
Niklas peeled out onto Woodward Avenue. After a couple blocks, I pointed him into the parking lot of a 1950s-style diner I hadn’t driven past in at least ten years. He turned off the car and rested his hand on my thigh in a move that felt more intimate than sexual.
“This was your high school hangout?” he asked.
“My friends used to come here on Friday nights sometimes. To maybe get a glimpse of those elusive Bloomfield Hills guys.”
Niklas’s face brightened. “Really? Am I getting some insight into your secret past?”
I snorted. “It’s hardly secret.”
“You don’t talk much about it.”
“You never really asked.”
He turned and studied me for a moment.
“I’m asking you now,älskling,” he said. “Come on, take me on a tour.”
As far as I could tell, the diner hadn’t changed at all since my last visit, which I supposed made sense, given the 1950s theme. The neon signs and shiny metal exterior brought on a new wave of nostalgia.
But as I stepped out of the car, I stiffened. My fear was sudden and irrational. Still, I couldn’t help but glance around the parking lot. A few cars. No cameras. What was I expecting? An entourage of press following them around Detroit? Would I look over my shoulder every time we went out together?
I shut the car door and tried to push the thought out of my mind.
Niklas opened the door of the diner, and the scent of vinyl seats and greasy fries wafted out. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Niklas watching me.
“Where do we sit?” he asked.
“You mean where did I sit when I used to come here?”
He nodded.
“Over there.” I pointed to a horseshoe-shaped booth in the corner.
“Not the counter?” he asked, pointing to the short stretch of sparkly Formica. “I was hoping you’d say you sat on one of those stools and sipped milkshakes.”
I rolled my eyes. “I think you’re mistaking my life for some ‘50s movie you saw. But we can sit at the counter if you want to indulge your fantasies.”
Niklas laughed.
“Not even the milkshake part was right?” he asked.
“I did order a few milkshakes,” I conceded. “But I was more of a fries girl.”
“I see.” He furrowed his brow and nodded in an exaggerated show of interest.
“Enough,” I said, swatting him on the arm. “Let’s sit down.”
I chose a stool, and Niklas slid in beside me. Our waitress materialized immediately, eyes fixed on Niklas with a smile just for him. I sighed a little louder than I had meant to at the young woman in my low-cut uniform. I still hadn’t gotten used to this part of being with such a physically impressive man, and I wasn’t sure I ever would.
