“This Midwest boy grew up mucking out pig pens, so nope.”
“Wow, good thing you didn’t tell my dad about that; he keeps a kosher home. At least ten percent of your carbon atoms are probably pork at this point.”
He grins, all white teeth. “Nah. Hundred percent corn-fed, right here.”
I’m smiling back at him, and it occurs to me in some distant way how odd it is that we’re both standing here in this crowded subway stationflirting—because this is flirting, isn’t it? Am I imagining things?
Suddenly I wish we’d stayed at the jazz bar. I picture us leaning together across that tiny table, the votive light flickering between us, tasting vermouth on Jamie’s full lips.
The train careens into the station, the screech of metal on metal slicing through that dream and bringing me solidly back to the real world—and the smell of stale urine.
The fantasy was great while it lasted.
Three Years Ago
“You know what I miss most about North Carolina?” Cessy said, mouth full of blueberry pancake, a smudge of purple fruit staining the corner of her lips. “Waffle House. Y’all will never understand the simple pleasure of a Waffle House at threea.m.And that is sad.”
“Isn’t it just a chain diner?” I asked.
“It isthechain diner,” Cessy informed me. “The blueprint. The Zeus of chain diners. Once you’ve had their flimsy little paper plate–tasting waffles and soggy eggs all other breakfasts will feel woefully insufficient.”
“You’re really selling this here,” Jamie said with a laugh.
“You won’t understand until you try it.”
“Which is hopefully never,” said Shrishti. She was all but sitting in Cessy’s lap, stuck to her like the world’s prettiest little lamprey.
Cessy just shrugged and stuffed another bite of waffle into her face. I’d never understood how she could eat that much and stay as skinny as she did. Although maybe I did understand; the practice schedule for the dance program was intense, and ballet was obviously a lot of hard work. Sometimes Cessy didn’t get back to the dorm until tenp.m.or even later. And I’d seen the state of her feet, all bunions and blisters and bruises, her pointe shoes battered and frayed after just a week of wear.
“I’ve been to Waffle House,” supplied Sam, one of the other guys in the dance program. “It isnotall that. This place is for sure better.”
“It might be better, but it’s notlegendary.”
“Aren’t all New York diners legendary?” I asked. “I mean, speaking as a New Yorker here…we’re kind of famous for it. Haven’t you seenWhen Harry Met Sally?”
“Nope, and I don’t plan to,” Cessy said. “Eighties movies suck.”
Sam made a face. “That is categorically untrue. Maybe you just have shitty taste, Cessy.”
“My taste isfabulous.”
“Your favorite TV show isSecret Lives of Mormon Wives,” I pointed out. “Your taste is reality TV and drama.”
“I don’t love the drama, the drama loves meeeee,” Cessy quoted, and she and Shrishti shared a snicker. I wanted to scoff sometimes at their flamboyant displays of public affection. But honestly? I wasjust jealous and bitter and single. And far, far too conscious of this diner’s tiny benches and Jamie Larson’s thigh pressed up against my own.
I’d been drawn to Jamie since the day I started at Parker three weeks ago. Hard not to notice his cinnamon-brown hair and sea-glass eyes, or the way the muscles in his forearms shifted beneath his skin as he played the piano. He was tall, too; tall enough to tower over me. Although with me being short, that wasn’t too hard.
Appearances aside, he played like nobody I’d ever heard before. Theprecisionwith which he hit his notes…the soul that he poured into every piece, the movements imbued with narrative and each chord played as if he adored it, as if every note was precious…And of course, Jamie himself bent over the keys, eyes fallen shut and lips parted, tilting toward the keyboard as if he might whisper it a secret.
Cessy finished her pancakes before the rest of us and even stole some of Shrishti’s. Sam demolished his own bacon like a man possessed—and then it was just me and Jamie left. I picked at the edges of my waffle, trying to convince myself to give it another go. Unfortunately, if the waffle wasn’t great hot, it certainly wasn’t good cold.
“I gotta go,” Sam said at last, stretching his arms overhead and cracking his spine. “Early start tomorrow.” For a second Cessy looked confused, and Sam gave her a pointed look. “The master class, remember? Seven-thirtya.m.sharp.”
“Oh, shit,” Cessy said. “Yeah. Okay. I’m headed out too, then. Sorry, guys. Maybe we can hang out tomorrow instead, crack open a couple beers in my room?”
“For sure,” Jamie said.
Shrishti was already scooting off the bench, following Cessy. “I’m going, too. As much as I hate to leave the two of you unsupervised. Can I Venmo you guys?”
