We went to the local diner, The Grove Griddle, for lunch. The outside of the building was long and one level. I smiled at the familiar white clapboard siding and pine-green awnings over the windows. My brother Owen had worked here as a teen, so I’d spent many afternoons doing homework from a stool at the counter.
As we walked from the parking lot to the diner’s entrance, Cade gently rested his hand on the small on my back again. Itried to ignore the flutters that small action sent through my belly.
Maybe I was just hungry.
Cade held the door for me to walk through as a bell chimed announcing our entrance, a noise that added to the whole small-town quaint diner experience. My eyes roamed the room, taking in the familiar sights of cracked leather booths, wooden tables, and nostalgic knickknacks on the wall. A rustic sign declared REAL VERMONT MAPLE SYRUP SERVED HERE. The diner was bustling with patrons, and I caught sight of more than a few faces I recognized as we took our seats.
I inhaled the comforting, familiar aromas of warm bread and percolating coffee, and heard the tell-tale squeak of the well-worn leather as I slid into my side of the forest green booth. I anxiously traced a few ancient cracks in the material as I waited for us to be served. I glanced at Cade, who seemed completely at ease. That made one of us, I guess. The confidence that had started to bloom when I was picking my outfit was wearing thin again, and I braced myself for any potential awkwardness between us.
Those feelings never seemed to come with Cade, though, and I realized I never felt that “out of place” feeling in his presence. It was a calming—and yet confusing—realization. Cade knew me, and in his presence, I truly didn’t need to put on a show.
Our waitress was a teenage girl with striking gray eyes and a head of wild, curly, dark brown hair, currently pulled back into two low pigtails. She had a ring in her eyebrow, and hoops all along one ear, and I was slightly jealous of her perfectly-winged eyeliner. Even in her uniform and apron, she seemed way cooler (in that effortless kind of way) than I had ever been in high school. Her nametag said Skylar.
I wondered absently as she brought us waters if she was a student at Birch Hollow High. When Cade and I had been in high school, this was a common after-school job.
We ordered soup and sandwiches—clam chowder and roast beef for Cade, and mushroom bisque and the classic Vermonter (turkey, cheddar, and apple) for me. The sandwiches came on fresh focaccia bread, and for the second time that day, my stomach grumbled appreciatively as Skylar placed the plates and bowls on our table.
While we ate, Cade regaled me with stories of the firehouse guys’ antics. We saw a few familiar faces pass by us—including our high school art teacher, Mrs. Frasier—and we waved. Older members of Birch Hollow occasionally stopped by our booth to make pleasant chitchat, asking after our parents.
As Cade politely answered all the questions of our older townsfolk, I caught myself staring at the way his hair waved in different directions, my gaze zooming in on the bits that hung down on his forehead and over the tops of his ears. As the latest couple left our booth, I tore my glance away and excused myself to the restroom.
When I returned, I saw Cade had ordered us a to-go slice of the diner’s signature maple cream pie (God, I’d missed that taste). Don’t tell Bostonians, but Vermont maple cream pie was better than Boston cream pie—by amile.
I left the diner feeling warm from the home-cooked food and the sights and smells of home. This trip was exactly what I’d needed to get back on my feet.
That evening after dinner Cade lit the fireplace and pulled out a deck of cards.
“Rummy, or Crazy Eights?” he asked.
I smiled up at him. “Rummy.” I rubbed my hands together in challenge. “Get ready to lose, Adler.”
Cade began to shuffle the cards, and we took turns taking bites of pie as we played. As I savored the first taste of the silky, familiar sweetness of my favorite childhood dessert, I couldn’t help the groan that slipped from my lips.
Cade’s eyebrows jumped towards his forehead, and I chuckled softly.
“Sorry,” I mumbled through a mouthful of pie. “I just forgot howgoodthat is.”
We each won one game of cards, then Cade met my eye.
“Alright, Meadows,” he began, mock-serious. “Here’s the deal. We’re tied up. The winner of the next game gets to pick the flick for movie nightandgets to ask a question of his or her choosing.”
I chewed my lip for a moment, then stuck my hand out to shake. “Deal,” I confirmed.
It was a close game, but he won fair and square.
He met my eyes, and I mentally braced for a tough question about what had happened, why we were here, why was I such a mess.
As so often happened with Cade, though—his choice of question stunned me.
“How far along is Whit?” I met his gaze and realized he was lobbing me a softball, giving me a chance to talk about something other than myself.
“She’s due at the end of March.”
“That’ll be a good time of year. Not as good as being born in May or July, but...” He grinned, referencing our respective birth months. “You two sharing a place?” He looked down at the table and began clearing away the cards.
“I moved back in,” I told him vaguely.
He nodded once, then stood and walked to his parents’ large entertainment unit.
