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Milo runs ahead, unlatching the gate to our yard and letting me in. To others, it might not look like much—just two strips of grass and a walkway to our porch—but it’s ours, and the rent isn’t bad. I suspect that’s because Mr. Benson felt bad for us though.
We quickly deposit the bags on the porch, and Milo takes off back to the gate, hopping from foot to foot. His eyes keep darting to the bedroom above, then the bathroom.
“He’s okay.” I reach for Milo’s hand, his fingers threading through mine. “The food truck is only minutes away.”
“How do you know Albert is okay?” he asks as he steps to the gate.
Shutting and latching it behind us, I lead us down the alley and back to the street. People mill about on the street, laughing and chattering. Many hold to-go containers for food and drinks, and some sit on storefront stoops, picking at their food, while others sit inside.
“Because cats are magical like that,” I answer him.
“Magic doesn’t exist,” he whispers to me, his voice quiet. “Magic only exists in storybooks, and I don’t like those. They aren’t real.”
The diner sits on the corner, and just beyond is food truck alley, yet my appetite left at Milo’s words. Magic may not exist, but I’ve always believed there is magic in little things.
That is the difference between us—Milo’s mind is realistic, logical, and analytical, while I believe in the mythical.
Like love.
I don’t know what to say to him, so instead, I lead him to the alley. The scent of grease and sugar drift over us, teasing my nose. “What do you say we get some dessert for the movie?”
“Lottie.” Milo tugs on my coat again. “Where did you get extra money?”
My heart falls. The fact that he’s too aware of our situation makes my eyes burn, but I won’t lie to him. I try to ease his worries and ensure he feels secure, but I never hid that we weren’t rich. However, I never said how poor we were, and I won’t begin now.
“I got great tips today.” Hoping he leaves it at that, I guide him to the corn dogs. Luckily, Milo focuses on his order and not on how I’m going to pay for it as he picks out what he wants to eat, which are two corndogs. One for now, and one for later.
“What do you want?” He looks back at me after I pay and wait for his food.
“Tacos.” The answer is always tacos.
“You are very predictable.”
“Says the boy who only ever eats three foods.”
“Two corn dogs.” Ralph, the food truck owner, leans out the window. “For my favorite kid.” He hands Milo his order and winks at me. Ralph is here every Sunday, and like most Sundays, he already has Milo’s order ready when we walk up. I should feel some way about that, but I secretly love that he knows us so well.
“Thank you, Ralph.” Milo grabs his order and holds it close. He’ll wait for it to cool before taking a single bite.
“Charlotte, you better hurry. I heard the tacos were almost out,” Ralph states, shooing me off.
“You good?” I ask Milo. It’s never just a simple question. It’s always loaded with hidden implications—one is decipherable, and the others are not.
“Yes, Lottie. I’m not going to lose you.” I can practically hear his eye roll as he interprets my hidden meaning. “Who’s that?”
I almost miss his question as I beeline for the taco stand. Memphis, the owner, sees me and nods, already knowing my order, and then he backs away into his little truck. Milo’s question registers when we stand to the side. “Huh?”
“That man, he’s watching you.” Milo grabs his corn dog and points to the other side of the alley, where multiple tables line up against the sidewalk. It’s also the back of the diner, and Desmond stands at the backdoor. He is staring right at me.
Clearing my throat, I turn away, unsure about two things—one, what to say to Milo, and two, why Desmond is still there. Hours have passed since I was at work. Was he there the entire time? Also, he stands out like a sore thumb wearing his three-piece suit and long black duster.
“Lottie,” Milo prompts, and I know he isn’t about to let it go. He’s far too observant for his own good. Also, we know almost everyone here, especially the diner patrons.
“Just a diner customer.” As I say the words, I’m not really sure they are true. Yeah, he’s always at the diner, but he only orders coffee. Now that I think about it, that’s really weird.
“Here ya go, Charlotte.” Memphis’ gravelly voice pulls me away from the mysterious Desmond. “I packaged up an extra two for you today.” He sets my takeout on the window ledge, his thick, tattooed arms propping on the ledge so he can peer at me. I asked him about those tattoos once, and he let it slip that he used to ride with Hell’s Angels. I’m still not sure I believe him, even though he looks the part.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say, grabbing the bag, knowing he won’t take no for an answer.
