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Palmer
Pete was a perfect gentleman. “Going to a diner” didn’t end up being code for his place—he actually pulled into a twenty-four-hour diner just off the main highway. It was called The Rancher’s Diner and was a beacon along the dark highway.
Every window in the place was lit up by the fluorescent lights and revealed the sparse sprinkling of people inside. A few people were at the counter, but every red vinyl booth was empty.
Pete got out and held up his finger as he rounded the front of his SUV. He opened Bea’s door, and she climbed out with a smile. She tried not to get too excited, but she couldn’t stop herself from liking him more and more.
The waitress said a halfhearted hello to them, refilling the coffee of the men scattered along the counter.
Pete put his hand out toward the booths. “Pick one.”
Bea went to the booth farthest away from everyone and slid into the bench on the side that sat against the wall. Pete took the bench across from her, picked up the menus hidden behind the condiments, and passed one to Bea. Just as she had admired his hands at the bar, she admired them again. She had no idea what her fascination was about, but his nails were trimmed neatly, and his fingers were long and thin, but not too thin.
She pushed the ridiculousness out of her head. They were hands, everyone had them. There wasn’t anything special about Pete’s.
“I’m starving.” He lifted the menu and took a cursory glance at it, then put it back down right away.
Now that they were in the quiet of the diner with the only noise really being the clanking of dishes and the grumbles of old men, she felt self-conscious using her voice. Especially with him. So instead of using her voice, she lifted her hands.
I assume you’re a regular?
He laughed, and at that point, she was thankful she’d decided to get cochlear implants just so she could hear that sound.
Instead of talking, he responded in sign language. No. I always get the same thing at any diner. But in all honesty, I was here late one night a few months ago.
He didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t ask the question she was pretty sure she didn’t want the answer to.
What is this dish you always get?
I love breakfast. I get eggs, hash browns, pancakes, bacon. He chuckled as if it was funny.
That was a lot of food, but Bea had grown up with brothers who played soccer every minute of their free time, which used tons of energy and burned calories, so she was used to big eaters.
Pancakes do sound good. Bea looked over the menu, unsure if she wanted breakfast or dinner. A club sandwich sounds good too.
You get the club, and I’ll split my pancakes with you for half of your club?
Sounds perfect.
The waitress came over and took out her pad of paper with a pen, looking as though the last thing she wanted to do was serve them. Pete ordered their food for them, and the waitress left without a word.
This place isn’t known for their customer service, but I swear the food makes up for it.
Bea laughed but stopped quickly when she heard her own laughter.
Pete’s shoulders sank, and the smile that had been a permanent fixture on his face fell. “Why do you do that?”
Do what? She knew what he was talking about but decided to play dumb.
We’re signing when you could be talking. There was a look of genuine concern on Pete’s face.
Instead of answering the question outright, Bea decided to ask a question of her own. Where did you learn to sign?
He sat back in the booth, a look of defeat in his eyes. My dad was deaf.
His admission made Bea relax.
He didn’t care for the cochlear implants by the time he got them. So, rarely did he ever use them.
