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Tall and lanky, in a three-piece navy suit, he pushes his black-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. Though easily in his late seventies, the man has a full head of thick, white hair.
We both stand silent, and before I can respond, his twinkling eyes match his smile. “It sure beats going out in this, don’t you think?”
His gaze swings to the wall of windows and the monsoon raging outside.
“That’s very nice of you. We’d really appreciate it. Thank you.” I step forward and take Leighton by her hand as we follow the man to his table.
He introduces himself as Franklin Conroy and then gestures to a petite woman as his wife, Iris.
“Why, hello there.” His wife grins from ear to ear and waves us into the other side of the booth. “This is just so exciting. Who would’ve thought on a horrible night like this, we’d meet new friends.”
Iris clasps her hands together and looks on eagerly, waiting for us to introduce ourselves.
Surprisingly, the woman beside me, thigh pressing into mine, is first to speak.
“I’m Leighton and this is Tom. Thank you for inviting us to eat with you.”
Our server drops off menus and Iris leans forward, pointing a bony finger at an item on the laminated page. “They have the best French fries.”
It takes everything in me not to laugh. Leighton sighs and briefly closes her eyes.
I lean toward Iris conspiratorially. “You don’t say. Leighton loves fries. We’ll have to get some.”
The older lady beams with delight. “Wonderful. You won’t regret it. Franklin and I always share a plate. In fact, that’s how I knew he was the one.”
Her husband chortles while holding a hand to his chest as if he’s barely able to contain himself. “That’s how I knew you were the one too, Iris darling.” Almost reluctantly, he tears his gaze from his wife to glance over at us. “We had our first date here over fifty years ago, and we come back once a month. This is where we sat then and any time since.”
“Well, not in this booth.” His wife pats the leather cushion. “There were tables and chairs back then but in this exact spot.”
The way they look at each other causes a strange tug at my heart. It's plain to see they’re deeply in love and enjoy every second together.
Through our meal, the Conroys regale us with tales of buying a house, making a family, and the brood of grandkids they have today.
“Leighton, honey, you haven’t had any fries.” Iris’s frail hand pats hers.
“I’m full and more tired than anything else.” She smiles at the couple across from us, and if I didn’t know better, I’d believe her.
“They are delicious,” I chime in and hold a fry to her mouth.
She rolls her eyes at me and keeps her mouth closed tightly. Not even for this couple will she budge.
Once dinner is done, Leighton snags our server and pays the bill before the Conroys can protest, quickly dismissing their thank yous. At this simple gesture, warmth curls through me.
She’s a complex woman, and while she can be harsh and cold at times, deep down, she is a good person. I’ve seen it when she talks about the Raven Mission and what she hopes to do. And every once in a while, she slips and lets me and others see the real her. The vulnerable, just wants to be seen and loved Leighton Price.
Her quick to snap comments, haughty air, and everything else that comes with them are designed to keep people at a distance. Like she said, when she lets people in, they desert her and worse, they don’t care to understand her.
Most of all she doesn’t want to be abandoned or hurt. Who does? Yes, underneath it all, Leighton is a good person. This I believe.
With the Conroys ready to leave, I walk them to their car. The rain hasn’t let up and I offer to drive them, but they turn me down, insisting their drive home is only a couple of blocks.
When I slip back into the diner, somewhat wet and slightly chilly, my steps falter and I drag in a sharp breath at what unfolds in front of me.
Still in our booth, her profile to me, Leighton hesitates before popping a small fry into her mouth. Although they’re only room temperature, her lashes flutter closed and she licks at her lips, satisfied.
As I watch her chew on what I know firsthand is savory goodness—Iris didn’t exaggerate; the fries are crispy, salty perfection—my heartbeat races and all I desire is to kiss her.
She takes another fry and another still. In this private moment of hers, I can’t help but delight in how she has finally shed the expectation of others. Something I figure isn’t easy for her to do. I see it in the way she reacts with shock and awe when I ask her whatshewants, whatshethinks—as if those things never occur to her.
