We nearly have to shoo Judith from the restaurant in order to close on time. Raquel, Graham, and I finish our duties and lock up before we’re free for the afternoon’s festivities.
I send Beth a quick text to check in on her and let her know that everything went well at the diner.
After a quick change of clothes, Graham and I walk toward the center of town. Raquel disappeared right after we closed, but said she would meet up with us later.
He wasn’t kidding when he said the entire town shuts down for this. We arrive in the town square slightly sweaty from our walk in the blistering sun. Everywhere I look has been transformed into something out of a Hallmark movie. There’s a section blocked off for vendors; it’s full of local artists and their beautiful creations. It’s heartwarming to see Driftbay come together to celebrate its citizens.
Graham leads the way as we walk through the crowd that’s slowly forming. He’s heading in the direction of the food trucks and Ifollow after him. I play with my necklace as we walk. It’s comforting to be able to wear it again now that I have a new chain for it; a gift from Ireland. I keep waiting for him to hold my hand, but he doesn’t. He seems too nervous.
He slows to a stop as we approach a line for a neon green food truck, The Picklenator, and I look up at the sign. It advertises dill pickle pizza, among other pickle pleasantries, and Graham laughs as he sees my face.
“Do you trust me?” he asks, nodding his head in the direction of the sign.
I pause for a moment before I say, “Yes.”
We wait in line for about fifteen minutes before we reach the front. The sun has reached its peak, and the heat beats down on us ruthlessly. I know I’ll have a sunburn tomorrow. I take a deep breath in, catching whiffs of an assortment of fragrances. The twang of the dill pickles, the pizza crusts baking, as well as the faint sweetness of kettle corn and cotton candy fill my nostrils.
Graham steps up to the window to order and I listen as he orders for us — two slices of dill pickle pizza and two lemon shake ups. We wait for our food for only a few minutes before it’s served.
He leads me over to the row of picnic tables across the town square and sits down at one. I join him, sitting down across from him.
“I have waited all year for this,” he says as he picks up the piece of pizza. “It was my favorite last year.”
I resist taking my first bite so that I can watch him take his. His teeth close around the gooey, cheesy, greasy slice and he closes his eyes.
“Just as good as I remember,” he says after he finishes another bite. He grabs a napkin from the dispenser on the table and wipes at his mouth. I’m not a huge fan of pickles, but his excitement is infectious.
I pick up my piece and take a bite. To my surprise, the combination of flavors work well together and it’s actually quite good.
“I like it,” I say, as Graham beams and hands me a napkin.
“See? Told you to trust me,” he says, shoving another bite into his mouth.
We eat in silence for the next couple of moments, the sound of whirling rides and children laughing ringing in our ears.
“I asked Judith if she wanted to join us this afternoon,”I say, tearing off a piece of my crust and popping it into my mouth.
“Oh?” Graham asks.
I nod as I shuffle on the bench. “She mentioned how she used to bring her son when he was younger and I thought it would be nice.”
He nods. “Is she coming?”
I shake my head. “No, said she didn’t want to intrude.”
“She probably thought this was a date.” He takes another bite of his pizza.
“Well,” I say, “it kind of is, isn’t it?” I ask, feeling brave. I reach for my lemon shake up and take a sip.
“Do you want it to be a date?”
“Do you?”
“I asked you first,” he retorts.
“Maybe.” I smile.
“Well, then.” Graham leans across the table. “How about this? When I ask you on a date, you’ll know.”
