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The diner isin the middle of nowhere, Southern California. A truck stop more than anything. Pale blue painted bricks adorn the front, the Highway 66 driving sign painted in black and white to the left of the restaurant, with large potted flowers flanking the white double doors of the entrance. Bastian did not say a word the whole way here, the only exception was when he needed to give me directions, which were few and far between. Eventually, he put some music on to dull the awkwardness between us. Good thing, since I had no idea how that car system worked.
I walk into the diner first, Bastian following behind. Although, deep down I know he would have rather stayed in the car. The interior is painted pale yellow, with a wide choice of counter space, and a sign that saysHappiness is Homemadeadding extra charm to the already charming café. With a quick perusal, I choose a table near a large window.
“Hungry?” I ask as he settles into the chair facing me. He shrugs and turns his head to look for a waitress. Gradually, the excitement of having arrived at the first stop of my road trip settles and the realization that I am about to have lunch with Bastian overtakes my thoughts. I have not had a meal alone with a man since… well, since I was still married to Patrick and under the sharp claws of the cult. My husband died in the same fire that took our brother, on the day I escaped. Even then, without having anything to compare it to, I knew they were evil men masquerading as godly. I do not mourn them, never shed a single tear—nor do I have the desire to. Rather, I pretend they never existed.
It does not take long for a waitress to come and drop menus at our table and I unclench my fists from my lap and adopt a very forced casual pose while I try to decide what to eat.
I can barely concentrate.
“How’s everyone doing this afternoon?” Our server asks when she comes back with a grin.
Relieved to have a distraction, I return her smile. “Great, thank you.”
“Have any questions about the menu, or are you ready to order?” she continues, pen hovering over her notepad.
“I–uh.” My eyes land on Bastian. He gives me a quick jerk of the head as if to sayyou first. My gaze lands back on the lady waiting for my order and I smile politely before asking, “What is the most popular item on the menu?” Then before she responds, and without any prompting, I find myself adding, “This is actually our first stop on our road trip across Highway 66. This place was at the top of the list of attractions for the state of California.”
I hear Bastian scoff and mumble under his breath. An inexplicable impulse to kick him in the shins overcomes me, but I keep my gaze on the server instead, my casual smile steady.
She lets out a small pleased chuckle and nods. “The only reason why people still come through here,” she says and then points to my open menu. “The Brian burger with fries is your best bet, honey.”
“Lovely. I will have that and a chocolate shake, please,” I respond perkily.
Still smirking, she scribbles down my order. I hand her back my menu and all eyes fall to the brooding man sitting in front of me.
Barely looking up he says, “Bacon cheeseburger, mayo, no ketchup, and fries.”
“Anything to drink?”
“Water,” he mutters, crossing his arms and leaning into the back of the chair, effectively ending the conversation.
Grabbing his menu from the table, our waitress simply nods, tells us it will be right up, and leaves. With the only distraction now over, my attention is forced back onto Bastian as I gently place my clasped hands on the vinyl tabletop. His bleached, almost white, blond hair looks slightly disheveled, a few straight strands falling over his prominent dark brows. Somehow, it leaves me slightly uneasy. Like finding a marble statue in a state of disarray.
“Something on your mind?” he says.
I startle.
Get it together, Lucy.
“Nothing.” I force my gaze away and pretend to be interested in anything else but dissecting the enigma staring at me.
Is he staring?
I peek a glance.
He is.
I swallow hard, and force myself to look directly at him. Needing to keep my hands busy, I pull my baseball cap off my head and discard it beside me on the table. Bastian’s dark brown eyes slowly track my movements, following my hand and then back up again as I fluff my curls at the roots into something better than a flat triangle. He has not moved an inch while he unabashedly continues to study me from his seat, casually clinking his silver thumb ring against the table. With his pale white skin paired with his equally white t-shirt, he looks more like an apparition than human.
After approximately ten minutes of this, I am about to bolt to the bathroom just to escape his gaze when the server finally comes back with our order. I let loose a relieved sigh, eager for another interruption, however small it is. I dig in, humming delightfully after taking a bite of my burger. Before last year, I knew nothing about fast food. We grew all our own food in Sacro Nuntio. In the outside world, at first, everything tasted too salty or just toomuch, the flavors harsh on my palette. Now, I have become insatiable. Eager to try anything and everything.
I prop my food back on my plate and take a small sip of the milkshake. My eyes fall expectedly back on Bastian and the image in front of me is as startling as his disheveled hair. I cannot remember if I have ever seen him do such a normal thing as eating. His eyes are pinned to mine as he bites into his burger in a slow, deliberate manner, as if even this, chewing his food, is bothersome for him. His chiseled jaw flexes, silver nose ring glinting with the motion. My gaze slides to the side of his mouth when his tongue peeks out, licking an errant crumb, while he reaches for his water. From over his glass, he watches me. Holding up a napkin, my hand has stopped midway to my mouth and is now hovering in the air, the action abandoned for watching Bastian eat a burger.
“Have you ever dipped your fries in your milkshake?” he asks.
“Excuse me?” I croak, winding back to life, breaking eye contact, lifting the discarded napkin to my lips. I heard him, but the question just slipped out as a nervous reflex.
Instead of repeating himself, Bastian leans over and steals a fry off my plate, his own sitting uneaten in front of him. With his stare still cold and assessing, he dunks the fry in my chocolate shake with an unhurried flick of his wrist.
