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“Hey, y’all.” Aja didn’t know her, but the woman spoke with an air of familiarity. She had a name tag attached to her polyester uniform that identified her as “Louise.”
“Hey there, girlie.” Ms. May grinned. “Since when do you work evenings?”
“I’m just fillin’ in for Donna.” Louise tapped her pen against her wrist. “I’m tryin’ to save up for a vacation to LA.”
Ms. May perked up even more. “Have you ever been?”
Aja kept one ear on their conversation, trying to stay alert but barely listening as she turned her attention to Walker.
His expression had turned sour. It may have been subtle to most people, but it was glaringly obvious to her. His mouth was tight, lips pressed together and turned down slightly. Those dark eyes were softly narrowed as they focused on Louise. He looked like he was trying to either hold himself back from saying something unpleasant or from getting up and walking out of the restaurant completely. Aja had never seen him look like this before. So uncomfortable, angry. It had happened so fast too. Seemingly out of nowhere. Had their waitress done something offensive?
Her anxiety tended to make her hypervigilant, especially when it came to other people’s actions. It was rare that she missed the little tics or micro expressions they tried to hide. Misinterpreted them? Yes, often. But she rarely ever missed them. She was sure that if Louise had done or said something shady, she would have caught it. But she hadn’t. So why the hell did Walker look so disgusted about being in her presence?
“Are you OK?” She moved her face closer to his so she could keep her voice down low.
“Huh?” He startled. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
His words were as tight as his jaw, and she looked down to see his fist clenched against his thigh.
“You look”—Aja tried to be delicate in her wording—“upset.”
The muscles in his face flexed as his jaw ground even harder. “I’m all right.”
It was clear he wasn’t, but it was also obvious he wasn’t interested in talking about it. That, she understood. So she let it go, but the overwhelming need to comfort him still sat on her heart. There was very little she could do with so many people around, in such a tight space, with the limitations they already had thanks to the nature of their relationship. Had things been different, she might have kissed him or stroked her hand softly along his jaw to show him that she was there for him. Two things that were wholly inappropriate in their current reality. She did the only thing she could think to do. She put her hand on his, right over the fist he had balled up on his leg.
She ran her thumb over his knuckles, feeling the skin stretched tightly over the bones. She folded her fingers around his hand for a few seconds. Then, when her fingers unflexed, his started to as well. The movements were slow, but piece by piece his fist fell away until his hand was palm down on his leg with hers on top.
He caught her gaze; his eyes were still dark and clouded, but his appreciation was as clear as a summer sky. When his shoulders loosened, she smiled. There was an awkward moment where she realized that she didn’t know how long it would be appropriate to keep her hand on his. Now that he seemed less troubled, should she move it? She liked the feeling of his skin on hers, but she didn’t want to make him uncomfortable or for him to think she was trying to take advantage of his compromised state in some way.
The second she went to pull her hand away Walker turned his over. His palm was warm and dry as it met hers, and she barely had time to register the action before he was linking their fingers together. Her heart sputtered in her chest. She felt like she was floating in the middle of the ocean, her body weightless and lazy, being carried along by something more powerful than herself.
It was then that she became sure Walker Abbott was going to kill her.
It would be accidental, but she was positive that her heart would give out completely if he kept making it thump and soar like it was. She didn’t think he was doing it on purpose, which made him even more deadly.
She didn’t get a chance to say anything to him—not that she knew what to say—before Louise and Ms. May finished their conversation and the waitress left with their orders.
Dinner was relatively quiet. No one else in the restaurant made an effort to keep their conversations hushed, but their table was content with stilted pleasantries and small talk as they enjoyed their respective meals. Underneath the table, Walker’s hand stayed clasped in hers. This made it difficult to eat and drink, but she pulled through, as unwilling to lose the comfort of his touch as he seemed to be of hers.
Every time Louise came by to check in, Walker spoke very little and kept his gaze turned towards Aja. When the check came and questions about dessert were asked, he requested three pieces of peach cobbler to go. Louise informed him that there would be a fifteen-minute wait, since the latest batch was still in the oven. Ms. May, finally noticing her grandson’s discomfort, insisted that she would stay and wait while he went outside and got some air. Aja could barely blink before Walker was throwing his credit card on the table and pulling her out of the booth along with him.
The second the door to the diner swung shut behind him, he let out a long, shaky breath. He clutched her hand a little tighter, remaining silent as he led them through the parking lot towards where their cars were parked. When he finally let go, she had to wipe her clammy palm on her jeans. Once her hand was dry again, she was overcome with missing the weight of his.
Walker pulled the tailgate of his truck down and motioned her over. His hands stretched out near her lower body, then paused.
“Can I help you up?” he asked, his voice rough. “I don’t want to just put my hands all over you without—”
“Yes,” she interrupted him. “Go ahead.”
His hands were only on her waist for a few seconds, but she was sure she’d never get over how delicious his grip was. She pressed her thighs together as she sat, watching him hoist himself up on the truck. Heat rushed to her center. No matter how the rest of the night turned out, she knew exactly how her next fantasy of him was going to go.
“I fucking hate her.” His voice in the quiet night shocked her out of her lust.
“Who?” He couldn’t possibly have been talking about his grandmother, could he?
“Louise fuckin’ Smith,” he growled. “And I fuckin’ hate that Gram talks to her like that. Like she’s not an awful fuckin’ person.”
“What did she do?” Her heart started thudding, this time for all the worst reasons. “Did she hurt you?”
He didn’t answer. He just clenched his jaw so tightly that she was sure she could hear his teeth grinding into a chalky powder. He crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his face up towards the sky. She knew exactly what he was doing: closing himself off, refusing, for whatever reason, to give her the information she was seeking.
A pang of hurt ran through her. She had no real right to feel it though. She and Walker hadn’t known each other long. What had she done to make him feel comfortable enough to share things that were obviously painful for him?
Whatever it was, it had him mad enough to spit. He kept his eyes clenched shut and the expression on his face was more thunderous than any summer storm she’d ever experienced. It didn’t matter how badly Aja wanted to know exactly what was bothering him and why. He wasn’t interested in sharing. Her mind reeled with possibilities, each situation more awful than the last. Every single one made her ache for him, and the pain written across his face made her want to wrap him up in her arms and give him what little comfort she could provide.
She didn’t know if he’d be open to that though, and there was no way in hell she was about to ask. Not when she could practically feel the sparks flying off his skin. So she pushed down her need to know and reminded herself that she and Walker weren’t as different as she liked to think. If you replaced his anger with anxiety, their reactions to situations like this were strikingly similar. She tended to close off too, retreating into a place where it felt like no one could see or touch or hurt her. She knew full well that she wouldn’t be open to baring her shit to a near stranger either. So she gave him the same grace she hoped he would have given her and kept quiet.
She stayed sitting beside him, not touching him, not speaking to him. Just there, waiting for the moment he finally wanted to talk or leave.
The latter happened when Ms. May appeared in the doorway of Minnie’s, to-go boxes in a plastic bag hanging off one of her casts and a grim look on her face. The former never came.
