Page 22 of Until We Come Home

"I am so obsessed with this town," she says, bouncing in her seat. "Look at it out there! The misty pines, the dark sky, the water looking all moody. It feels like we're standing right in the middle of a supernatural TV show. Like season one of The X-Files!"

I look out toward the bay. Yesterday's clear skies are gone, replaced by a low wall of gray clouds hanging over the water, heavy fog blanketing the dark pine ridge. A summer rainstorm is rolling in. After weeks of dry heat, I'm not complaining, since a solid downpour will help drop the local fire danger.

"Looks like Bigfoot could step right out of those woods, doesn't it?" she asks as she scans the shoreline. "Honestly, I wouldn't even mind."

"You wouldn't mind Bigfoot?"

"Big, hairy, mysterious, keeps to himself. I've dated worse."

I laugh. "So we're back to loving the rustic charm instead of being terrified of the dark? You recover fast."

"Well, not being surrounded by pitch-black woods and screaming foxes definitely helps my outlook," she says, tossing her wavy hair back over her shoulder. "Daylight does wonders for my mood. That, and a solid plate of pancakes."

"The serial killer theories are officially on pause?" I lean back against the vinyl booth, lifting my coffee to hide a smile.

"Totally," she says. "Today I'm channeling my inner badass federal agent. You can address me as Agent Scully."

I busy myself with my mug just as Tammy steps up with her pad to take the order. Mia orders a short stack piled high with berries and whipped cream, and a pair of poached eggs on the side. I go with my usual—eggs over easy, extra crispy hash browns, and a side of bacon.

I double the bacon order, knowing Mia will steal half of it the second it hits the table. She never orders her own, but she's never once passed up mine.

“You doing okay over there?” Mia tilts her head, studying me across the table. "You look a little tired."

"Well, somebody dragged me awake at two in the morning over a fox, then proceeded to steal all the blankets and knee me in the ribs," I say, leveling a look at her.

She gasps, outraged. “That is a complete lie! I do not hog the blankets, and I don’t snore. Derek would’ve mentioned that years ago. And I highly doubt I kneed you in the ribs.”

“You definitely snore, and I have the bruise to prove it. You also kept muttering something about fouettés,” I say, lifting my coffee. “And I had no idea you take up the whole mattress. You were sprawled out like you were trying to make a snow angel.”

"Well I must be getting deep, restorative REM sleep, Mateo,” she says with an eye roll. “You should really try it sometime."

"I'll keep that under advisement," I say.

The plates hit the laminate table a few minutes later. Mia’s pancakes are absolute monsters, three thick cakes smothered in whipped cream with fresh raspberries spilling off the edges. My eggs are runny, the hash browns crisped up golden, and I grab the hot sauce off the caddy and pour it over everything while Mia watches me with exaggerated disgust.

"Listen, I love hot sauce as much as the next girl," she says. "But you drown it. That's not seasoning. You're making egg soup."

"It's called proper flavor," I say, shaking a few extra drops over the hash browns just to get a rise out of her.

“Sacrilege.” She cuts into her stack, takes a huge bite, and closes her eyes in pure bliss. “Oh my God. Okay. I’m moving here. Bigfoot was already a pull, but these pancakes sealed it.”

She eyes my plate, reaches right across the table, and steals a strip of bacon. I smile and slide the plate an inch closer to her side.

“So,” I say, turning back to my hash browns, “you heading back to LA for a few days before coming back up for the summer?”

“Uh-huh,” she says, chewing. “I fly back in a few days, get my life together, pack a bigger bag now that it’s months instead of a week. And then I’m an official Seattle girl. I’m going to become a coffee snob and say things like, ‘Oh, I don’t need an umbrella.’”

I laugh. “You’ll fit right in.”

“We need a full itinerary,” she says, waving her fork around. “Best bars, best hikes, best everything. Wait, where are you actually going to be? Do you just live at the firehouse?”

“On shift, yeah. Twenty-four hours there, then forty-eight off,” I tell her. “And when the strike team gets sent east we’re out at fire camp for two weeks at a time anyway, sleeping wherever they put us. But I still need a spot in the city for the off days.”

“So you found one?”

“I texted one of the guys on my crew last night, and he sorted it out this morning. His cousin’s a travel nurse doing a stint in Denver for the summer, and she needed someone to sublet her place for a few months, so I snatched it up. Capitol Hill, up by Volunteer Park.”

“Capitol Hill?” she says, fork pausing midair. “That’s me too! I’m down at the other end, a couple blocks from the studio.”