“We couldn’t have dug the car out,” I say before taking a bite of my own burger.
What is with him staring at me? “You copied my order,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “I ordered first.”
“From yesterday. You copied my order. Burger, medium rare, no pickles or onions, add bacon. I get it everywhere.”
“Get over yourself. Mine has mustard.”
“You’re embarrassing yourself,” he says, taking another bite.
I choke on a laugh. And a bite of burger, which is as delicious as yesterday’s. What have I been doing ordering other meals all this time? “Who’s watching me right now? Who in this diner is embarrassed that I took your order … and improved it?”
Something in his eyes sparks. “Improved it? You ruined it. Mustard sucks.”
“You suck,” I say, fully laughing now.
“Are you five?”
“No, but your face is.”
He snorts. “Eat your burger, Elf,” he says.
I take another bite. “I am,” I say, my mouth full.
“Classy.”
We keep eating and eying each other across the booth, like we’re both waiting for what the other person’s going to say.Every time I reach for a fry, I’m aware of how close his hands are. When he shifts his weight, the table moves, taking me with it. If I didn’t know better, I’d think we were flirting.
When I finish my burger, I’m too full to eat the rest of the fries, so I push them to the middle of the table, and Oliver takes them, eating off my plate casually, like it’s our thing (which it kind of is).
“How was it?” he asks.
“Delicious.”
“I thought you were all about adventure. Trying new things on menus.”
I lean back in the booth, rolling my ankle. I’m glad I remembered compression socks for the flight yesterday, because they’re doing their job, as is the extra strength ibuprofen I bought while Oliver filled the car with gas. When I peeked at my ankle in the bathroom, the swelling was under control, and the bruising wasn’t too bad. It hurts, but I’ve sprained an ankle before. This is manageable.
“I guess I’m not feeling that adventurous today,” I say.
Oliver cocks his head. “Or maybe you realized it’s okay to get something you actually like instead of what someone else wants you to get.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He fixes me with a tired stare. “Come on.”
“No, I mean it.” I hate that I’m starting to feel defensive when we just got through an entire meal without arguing. “You think I only do what other people want me to do?”
He shrugs, and his energy shifts, like he’s sweeping floors and closing blinds—all the steps to close up shop for the night. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Okay,” I say, annoyed, but I’m not going to press. I’m not going to make him uncomfortable.
“Fine,” he grumbles.
“Fine,” I echo.
And with that, we head to the car, me limping behind him.
