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“I can get our orders,” I insist.
“No way. You’re off the clock. Sit back and let me take care of it,” the young woman states with a polite smile.
“Sprite,” Brody orders, reaching for the menu he probably has memorized.
I wait for TD to put in his drink request, but when he just gazes at me, waiting, I go ahead and speak. “Ice water, please.”
“And I’ll have iced tea.” TD takes a menu and slides it in front of me. When I don’t open it, he just chuckles. “I guess I should have realized you don’t need one of those.”
“I’ve had it memorized since I was seventeen,” I state proudly. A few menu items have changed over the years, and the daily specials are always evolving, but for the most part, Frannie’s Diner is the same as it was back when I first started working here eighteen years ago.
Our drinks are placed on the table and orders taken. I opted for the grilled chicken salad with raspberry vinaigrette dressing, while both boys opted for something a little heartier and ordered the all-you-can-eat fried chicken special with mashed potatoes and gravy and rolls.
When TD glances over and catches my smile, he asks, “What?”
“Nothing,” I insist, shaking my head. “I just don’t know where you two put all the food you eat.”
He gives me that cocky grin I’ve always loved and rubs his flat stomach.
“We burn a lot of calories, right, TD? I mean, Coach?” my son says between sips of his soft drink.
“We sure do, buddy. And you can call me TD when we’re in a social setting like this, remember?”
Brody nods, and there’s no missing the affection he has for his football coach and friend. “I know, but I don’t want to make the mistake of calling you by your real name in front of the team.”
TD grins back at my son. “I understand.”
“Besides, his real name isn’t TD,” I state, fighting the smile.
Even though I keep my gaze locked on my son, I can feel TD’s the moment he looks my way. “We’re not going there, Ellie,” TD grumbles, and I finally lose it and snicker.
“Why don’t you like your real name?” Brody asks curiously, giving the man beside me his complete attention.
“It’s not that I don’t like it, per se, it’s just so formal and old school. My teachers used to call me Thomas when I was little, and I hated it. Worse, they’d call me Tom or Tommy.”
I continue to laugh, closing my eyes and keeping my face cast down.
“Tommy,” Brody says, as if trying that name on for size. “You don’t look like a Tommy or a Tom. Tom’s are old and Tommy’s are young.”
“Thanks?” TD replies, that one word coming out a question.
“I just mean you’re TD, not Thomas or Tom. It’s a cool name and fits you,” Brody vows with a decisive head nod.
I find myself with my elbow on the table, leaning my head against my hand as I watch their exchange. It quickly goes from discussing TD’s birth name to football and the first day of school. My son hangs on TD’s every word, listening quietly and absorbing any and all information our friend shares.
I’ve always noticed that about these two. Brody just soaks it all in with curious eyes and his big soft heart. There aren’t many times I get sucked into a pity party where Brody’s father—or the sperm donor—is concerned, but there are plenty of moments I’m grateful for the men established in his life.
Like now.
I remain somewhat silent as we eat our food, enjoying the relaxing atmosphere and comfortable conversation between the other two at the table. The fuller my stomach gets, the more exhausted I start to feel, and my shoulders and feet really begin to ache. I need a hot shower and to put my feet up, pronto.
Maybe a bowl of cherry chip ice cream, if there’s any left.
“What’s wrong?”
I glance over and find TD’s dark gaze locked on me. It’s the first time I realize Brody’s gone. “Where’d he go?”
“To the restroom. What’s the matter with you?” His eyes are full of concern.
