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“Mia,” I whisper, pushing her long red hair off her face.
“Mmm?” she hums, not opening her eyes.
“Mia, baby, you’ve got to get up.”
Baby. I’ve never ever called a woman baby before, and while the word feels foreign on my lips it feels right for her.
“Duntwunttu,” she slurs, sounding drunk on sleep.
“Mia,” I say firmer. “Your dad is going to be here any minute. We have to go.”
Those words snap her awake. She sits straight up, her eyes threatening to pop out.
“Shit,” she curses, and looks like she’s about to cry from panic.
She climbs off the couch and I follow suit. We scurry around, hurrying to dress in our discarded clothes.
She spies the trashcan in the corner and hisses to me. “The condom.”
“What about it?” I ask stupidly.
She glares at me. “What do you think my dad is going to think if he sees a condom in the fucking trashcan?” She looks like she’s about to crawl out of her skin.
“Jesus Christ,” I hiss, because she’s right. “I’ll deal with it—you make sure everything is in order.” It should be, but I can tell from the way she’s panicking giving her something to do will ease her mind a bit.
She hurries out of the room, her vibrant hair swishing over her slender shoulders.
I take care of the condom and meet her at the front. She locks up behind us and I follow her to her car. She doesn’t fight me as I climb in the passenger seat.
She looks over at me and I brace myself for the regret I know will be splashed across her face. I’m pleasantly surprised to not see ‘we shouldn’t have done this’, just worry over our current predicament.
Luckily, we make it out of the lot and away from the street before her father arrives.
“I’m starving,” I say.
After last night I feel like I could eat ten breakfasts and still not be full.
“Me too,” she admits, nibbling on her bottom lip.
“Let’s get breakfast then,” I suggest. Selfishly, I want to spend more time with her—I need to see she’s not going to suddenly panic on me and lose her mind over what we did.
“Waffle House?” she asks.
“I fucking love Waffle House,” I admit. “It’s my favorite of all the favorites.”
She laughs, it’s not a loose free sound like it should be. It’s still tight with worry and stress, but at least she’s laughing.
In this town there’s practically a Waffle House on every block so it doesn’t take us long to pull into the parking lot of one. Undoing my seatbelt I say to Mia, “I could live here forever. Want to know how I know that?”
“How?” she asks, the tightness around her eyes and mouth lessening a bit.
“Waffle House is everywhere. I could have it every day if I wanted.”
She cracks a small smile.
We head inside and to an empty booth for two by the windows. There are a few other patrons, but it’s mostly empty at this hour.
We haven’t been seated long when a waitress arrives for our drink order—both of us asking for orange juice.
