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I shrug and take a bite of my sausage. Maybe I should wait for his meal to arrive, but I've seen the man eat. He'll catch up, I have no doubt. "Not really. I've had patients hit on me before. It's not a big deal usually, but this time..."
His fingers tap out a quick pattern on his cup. His nails are clipped short, so the tap tap is faint. "Is there something about this guy that sets off your spidey senses?"
"Not really. He's a guy. He carries himself a lot like you, actually. Big, I-can-handle-anything energy most of the time. But I don't actually know him. I don't like the idea that he knows things about me I didn't tell him myself. Does that make sense?"
"Yeah, it does. It was fucked up, what she did. You're right. But on the surface, it doesn't seem like a big deal. But it poked a wound, yeah?"
A big gaping wound. "I don't know him. I don't know who he is outside of the clinic. Julia doesn't either. She looked at a handsome face and decided he had to be good. She got fooled by the packaging."
"So did you, once," he says very softly.
"Yeah, I did. I don't want to make that mistake again."
He nods and puts down his cup. "I don't blame you. It's okay to expect your coworker to do better. Or your friend. Is this the little pocket size woman I met at Volleyball? The one that talks all the time."
I choke out a laugh at his description. "Yeah, that's about right." I sigh, and watch as the crowd of high school girls make their way out, giggling and teasing each other. Not a care at this moment, just happy to be together. "She wasn't trying to be mean, I know that. She wants to see me happy, and figured letting a hot guy know I'm single is helpful. I feel a little bad about how I reacted, honestly."
"Are you good now?" He stops to smile at the waitress as she puts a plate in front of him.
"I asked the cooks to rush it," she says with a wink.
Nick gives her a big smile and winks back. "Thank you, beautiful lady," he purrs. Smiling even bigger when her cheeks pinken. She pats her salt and pepper hair and heads off with a little bounce in her step.
I snicker as I carefully move my egg on top of my pancakes, then pierce the yolk. I spread the golden yolk around the pancake, then the white, making sure I have even coverage. Then add a small spiral of syrup on top. Conscious of his eyes on me, I cut a small, perfect bite, bringing it to my mouth.
"Oh my god," I mutter, mouth still full. "Best pancakes ever."
Nick's eyes are on me, his fork clutched tightly in his hand. He catches my gaze and clears his throat. "That's quite the concoction you have going there. Have you always done that?"
I cut another small bite and lift it carefully with my fork, bringing it to eye level. "Most of my life, yeah. My dad did it forever. Finally, I asked him to make my breakfast the same way. I've done it ever since. Cara does it too, most of the time. It's kind of like having a piece of him with us. It's silly I know, but..."
He makes an indistinct sound and shakes his head. "I can't eat tres leches cake," Nick says, idly moving a piece of bacon on his plate. "It was my favorite as a kid. My Abuelita made the best cake ever. I dreamed about that damned cake. And I can't touch it now."
"Brings back bad memories?"
"Bad. Sad. They're never as good as I remember hers being," he laughs dryly. "She always said the secret ingredient was love. Whatever her secret ingredient actually was, I have no idea. But every time I try that fucking cake, I think about her. And I miss her. And I feel bad."
"Why do you feel bad?"
"Cause I killed her," he says easily, pushing his untouched plate away from him.
He told me the story. He explained what happened and how he was involved. And so I say the only thing I can say at that moment. The only thing anyone in their right mind would say.
"That's the dumbest fucking thing I've ever heard in my life. Complete bullshit, and you're an idiot for even thinking it."
His eyes widen at my simple delivery. Good. What else was he expecting? Me to condemn a seven-year-old kid? I cut another bigger bite and shovel it in because seriously, how the hell have I never been here before? The pancakes are perfectly golden, fluffy but not crumbly, with a slight nutty taste that's addictive.
He's still staring at me while I chew, and I pointedly push his plate back toward him. "It's getting cold. Trust me, you don't want to miss out on these pancakes."
I keep nudging until he takes the edge of the plate and pulls it toward him. I watch as he spreads the butter, then carefully tries to move the eggs on top. He growls in frustration and uses his fingers to drag them up. Then he holds up his fork and carefully, methodically, pokes holes all over the yolks. It's actually a pretty respectable technique.
He smears it around, then grabs the syrup. I drop my fork and intercept him, wrapping my hands around his. "This part is important," I tell him quietly, remembering my dad saying the same words to me when I was little. "Some people make the mistake of overloading the pancake. They use too much syrup, and end up soaking it through. It throws the entire balance of the dish off. You'll miss out on the creaminess of the yolk, and the hint of salt from the eggs. The syrup is just to add a touch of sweetness, that's all."
Nick's big chest moves with his breath, then he nods. I let go, and watch him mimic my perfect swirl of syrup. I hold my breath as he cuts into his creation. Why do I care if he likes it or not? It doesn't really matter, does it?
Maybe in the grand scheme of things, it doesn't matter, but I like the idea of him knowing a piece of my dad. Of liking something I gave him.
Nick uses the side of his fork to cut out a giant bite, and shovels the whole thing into his mouth. It should be gross. It's a huge bite. But again, he makes it look easy and natural. He makes a sound of appreciation and takes another bite.
