Malik takes my menu and joins it with his behind the mini jukebox. “Waffles and grits, please.”
Lupe clicks her tongue. “Good choice, hon. What to drink?”
“Dr Pepper.”
“Got it,” says Lupe as she turns back for the kitchen.
A group of greasy-looking guys pours in from what I’mguessing was a shift on one of the oil rigs outside of town. “Sit wherever you like,” says Lupe. “Bathroom’s in the back if you want to wash up first.”
I watch as they all file past us for the restrooms, and most of them do that Southern gentlemen’s nod I’ve seen my whole life.
I slide to the end of the booth and study the jukebox for a moment. “We should play a song,” I say.
I reach into my purse for a quarter.
“It’s free,” says Malik.
“What? Really?”
He nods. “Told you this place was worth keeping hidden.”
I scroll through until I land on “Under the Boardwalk.”
“Oh yes!” shouts Lupe from the kitchen. “Play ‘Brown Eyed Girl’ next!”
“Okay!” I call back, not sure if she can actually hear me. I scroll through until I find her request.
“Thanks for coming out with me tonight,” says Malik.
“I like this place,” I tell him. “And I like you.”
I hold my breath, waiting, waiting, waiting. I think I’ve been holding my breath since the Sadie Hawkins dance when he kissed me on the cheek.
He licks his lips and sucks in a breath through his teeth. “I like you, too,” he finally says. Out loud. To my face. Without a single screen between us.
The table rocks as Lupe slides our plates across the surface. “Funny-face pancakes,” she says, “a side of hash browns, and waffles and grits. And a DP for the gentlemanand a root beer for the lady!”
We both look up and say thank you in unison.
After she leaves, neither of us says anything else. We eat our food, which is amazing, or maybe it’s just this moment that makes everything taste so good. I smile the whole time. I smile harder than my funny-face pancakes.
On our way out the door, Malik takes my hand as I walk down the steps. His hand is slick with perspiration. It reminds me of when he escorted me for the pageant. At the time I couldn’t tell whose hands were sweating, because I was more anxious than a hummingbird. Now, understanding how shy he really is, I see what a big challenge that was for him.
After I take the last step, I expect him to let go, but he doesn’t. He holds my hand as we walk to the car, bathed in warm light from the Bee’s Knees. His car is parked just outside the pool of light, and when he walks me to the driver’s-side door, I eye the pitch-black flatlands that surrounds us. The sky above is stitched with endless stars, and I think that this would be the perfect moment for us to share a kiss. A real one. One on the lips.
Because he’s been so brave tonight in ways that are not comfortable for him, I turn to Malik and say, “Remember...” I take a deep breath. “Remember my painkiller-induced text messages from last weekend?” I try not to sound as mortified as I feel.
He snickers to himself. “How could I forget?”
“Well, I still want to kiss your face.” I say it too fast, before I can stop myself.
I think I hear him gulp. “You do?” he asks.
I inch closer, my mint-green-and-black polka-dot hand-painted Keds kicking up loose dirt.
“I really do.” And I kiss him. I touch my lips to his, which are soft and maple-syrup flavored.
His lips press into mine and both his hands trace up my arms to my shoulders and then up my neck until he’s cradling my face in his hands just like in all the movies I love so much. I fumble with my hands, unsure of what they should be doing or where they should go, until I just let them drop down by my sides. My whole body goes numb in a wonderfully tingly way, and for a moment I think Malik is actually holding me steady with his lips.
