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And they don’t need to see what a mess I’ve become since. It feels like my life was completely derailed from the track it was on. I had purpose and direction before. Now I have nothing.
“But what about Mom?” he asks, and I wince.
My mother is a subject that literally pains me every time she crosses my mind. She’s called me every week, but I keep the details light and put on my best fake optimism.
To be honest, I never want my mother to know what my father is really up to.
“I’ll call her and apologize. It’s not like you and Caleb haven’t missed a few dinners from time to time.”
“Yeah, but you’re not me and Caleb,” he replies, and I understand what he’s trying to say. “And this is three in a row.”
As I reach the restaurant, I pause, lingering outside with Lucas on the call.
“Listen, Luke. I gotta go. I’ll call Mom later, okay?”
“Okay.” He’s hesitating, and I know he can sense that there’s more to the story, but I don’t elaborate.
In fact, I haven’t been in the mood to do much at all lately. I spent the last three weeks pretending I would get some writing done. That I would bounce back. But there has been no fucking bouncing. I feel as if I’ve landed like a lead balloon. I didn’t just lose my job. I lost everything I’ve strived to achieve. I’ll never step into his shoes now, and I’m not so sure I want to.
But I hate the idea of moving on.
Hence why I’m here at Sal’s on a Saturday morning like clockwork. Old habits die hard, they say.
As I pull open the door to the diner, the first thing I see is bright pink.
Peaches.
My heart starts pounding in my chest and my cheeks burn with shame.
But it’s too late to turn and run.
Pausing two steps into the lobby, my gaze connects with hers, and we stare at each other for a few long, tense moments.
Immediately seeing her brings back a flood of memories from that night at her apartment. And with those memories, a torrent of disgrace as I remember what came over me in that moment. Perverted, vile, depraved. I desperately wanted to lock up that incident and pretend it never happened.
And yet, I think about it as often as I try not to think about it.
“Morning, Mr. Goode,” the hostess says in a cordial greeting. “Your spot at the bar is open today.” With a smile, the girl takes a menu from the stand and starts toward the bar when I stop her.
I have no good reason for what I do next.
“Table for two, actually,” I say with my eyes on Sage.
She stares at me, her lips parted and her eyes full of curiosity.
“Oh, okay,” the hostess responds, grabbing a second menu and leading me back toward a small two-person booth near the back of the diner.
When Sage stands to follow the hostess with me, I feel a sense of victory course through my veins.
What am I doing?
We follow behind silently until we reach our seats and sit across from each other.
“I was wondering if I’d see you here again,” I say.
She smiles shyly. “Well, I don’t pull any more night shifts, and I don’t normally get up this early, so you lucked out today.”
“I guess I did.” I find myself staring at the ring in her lip and the way she sometimes bites it when she’s nervous like she is right now.
