Page 106 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

“Vienna beef on a poppy seed bun.”

His eyes snap to me.

“Relish. Sport peppers. Onion.”

I nod. “With a side of an Italian beef⁠—

“dipped in gravy…

“Topped with giardiniera.

“A Hank’s Root Beer.

“And a bag of Red Hot Riplets.”

His head lifts.

“You say Riplets?”

He squints.

“Where the hell you even get those?”

“I know a guy.”

Andrew throws his head back and laughs, throat-deep. “Jesus. I could seriously go for it right now.” His hand floats under the water, brushing my thigh. “Sloppy, greasy-ass, coma-after food.”

I blow out another cloud of smoke.

“With a Gatorade. Purple.”

I shrug.

“Or blue if they’re out.

“But you gotta act mad about it first.”

“Exactly. Team Riptide Rush—Yo,” he interrupts himself. “You ever eat so fast you don’t even taste it? Just inhale?”

I’ve known this pain in all my lives, and add, “Then get all mad at yourself for not enjoying it?”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Shit fuckin’ sucks.”

“Happens at every damn diner,” I mutter. “My favorite place.” I bring the cig near my mouth, my eyes swinging to him. “Full menu, all hours—breakfast, lunch, dinner, dessert.”

He nods. “Like Ikea. For food.”

My smile hits. “With a cook named Dex hookin’ it up in the kitchen, sweatin’ through his tank top, every plate slappin’ like he loves you—full-course meal for ten ninety-nine.”

“Mad underrated,” he agrees.

“Take me to 1993,” I spiral. “‘Bed of Roses’ playin’ from the jukebox, all hungover and heartbroken and on my third cup of coffee, waitin’ for my French toast, a pile of buttery scrambled eggs, a melt with jalapeños and onion rings… Freshly baked pie. At like 1:45 a.m.” I scrape my thumbnail against the filter of my cig, seeing a buffet in my mind. “You can only get that shit all at once at twenty-four-hour diners.”

He pulls my leg over his.

“I’ll take you to a diner.”

I lift my head. “You will?”