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Anyone else might actually be happy for their best friend finding romance, on a train of all places.
It’s the kind of thing you’d see in a movie or read about in a book.
Natasha’s happy to order for us both, with my only input being the quantity of food needed once the waiter arrives.
I didn’t eat much last night at dinner, and I need to refuel the tank big time.
I’m getting a little attitude from our waiter too, and then I remember he’s the same guy I snapped at for interrupting Natasha and me yesterday.
Today, I couldn’t care less. And I leave him, and Suzanna to their respective misery in my mind.
Happiness is where you find it. What you make of it.
Moping around hating on anyone else just because they’re happy is plain stupid in my book.
“That is a lot of food,” Natasha exclaims when our breakfast arrives.
We haven’t said a lot, just lots of smiles and a few giggles as we both sit, reflecting on the night we shared. Still giddy from it all really.
And me? I’m the happiest man alive right now. Having met and claimed Natasha in less than a full day, I can’t help but feel elated.
Natasha’s happy too, but her face does cloud over every now and then, and I can tell who and what she’s thinking about without having to ask.
I’ll make it up to her once we get home. Show her that she can have a life outside of her friend and her mom.
“And where is home for you?” Natasha wonders aloud suddenly, picking up on my thoughts.
“You’re always so vague about what it is you do, where you live,” she notes with a mock accusing air, heaping a pile of scrambled egg onto some toast and popping it in her mouth.
Yesterday she was too shy to even sit across from me, and today we’re sitting in almost the same spot, talking and eating like we’ve been together for years.
I love it.
I love her.
But she has a point.
Where is home?
“I don’t have a permanent place in California,” I explain between my mouthfuls of food.
Not yet anyway.
Actually tasting it now. Enjoying it so much more now that I’m seeing Natasha eat as well.
“You like the city?” I ask her, changing the subject but only slightly. Changing it back to more about her.
She makes a face, looking down at her food. “We had a good street, last I remember,” she recounts.
“But since I’ve been away, it’s not so great,” she tells me.
Hearing the name of her neighborhood tells me a lot.
I’ve sold a few places in the city, but only know the ‘better’ parts of town from experience.
Natasha’s neighborhood isn’t even close.
“I’m actually looking for a place,” I offer, wanting to gauge her reaction, but she only seems remotely interested.
Maybe the West Coast isn’t what she really wants.
I only picked the location because it was the furthest way to go from where I was, in Seattle.
I remember my doc’s offer to use his beach house, figuring I have a good reason now, but I don’t tell Natasha who it actually belongs to.
“I’m staying at a beach house,” I tell her, noting her impressed look before I wince inside.
“I didn’t mean it to sound like that,” I chuckle. “It’s just a place to stay while the owner decides what to do with it,” I explain.
“I prefer the snow, I think,” Natasha says, looking out the window before pushing her plate an inch forward, done eating.
The morning outside is already looking warm. Hot almost, which is unusual for this time of year.
“I’ve always preferred the North,” I admit, glad I can finally share that with someone and not have them call me crazy for liking wide open spaces and having to wear a jacket most of the year.
“Better for snuggling,” Natasha says quietly, blushing once she realizes I heard her.
“Not too cold for kids though?” I counter, more interested in her reaction to the question than anything else.
We could have a place anywhere she wants, but I don’t want to start acting like I have our whole life planned out already.
Even though I kinda already do, I need her input more than anything. To make sure it’s all gonna be just how she wants it.
Us.
The word is so new to me, it’s on a permanent loop in my mind next to her name.
She watches me finish my meal, and I can only shrug when she comments on how much I can eat and still look so good.
Eyeing her plate, which is still a third full, I almost feel like asking her to eat some more, but think better of it.
She clearly has other things on her mind.
Another thing, I should say.
And it starts with an ‘S’.
Suzanna.
“We’ve got a few hours before we arrive,” I say, checking my watch and pre-empting her from going to talk with her best friend.
