Page 55 of Until Then

The young, bouncy server appears, her ponytail swishing as she slides her notepad out of her pocket.

“Hi, guys. What can I get you? Your usual, Derrick?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“You got it.” She continues holding her pen aloft rather than write it down. “And for you?”

“What’s your usual?” I ask Derrick.

“Burger with fries and a Coke.”

I purse my lips and blink once.

With a sigh, he looks up at the waitress. “A side salad instead of the fries, please.”

Lip curling, she eyes him with skepticism. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “This one is attempting to fix my diet.” He points an accusing finger at me.

I shrug, unbothered. “Guilty.”

“And what will you have?” she asks, her attention darting between us, her expression full of curiosity.

“The Caesar salad with a side of fries, please. And a water.”

When she’s gone, Derrick grins. “Fries, huh?”

“Fries go perfectly with Caesar salad. Besides, you got a burger with your salad. I’m not wholly against any foods in particular. It’s all great. But if you only eat fried stuff that clogs your arteries, you’re asking for trouble.” I eye him with pursed lips. “You have to have the good with the good.”

“The good with the good?”

Hands splayed on the table, I nod. “I personally don’t like to think of any food asbad.”

“I never thought about it that way,” he says as the waitress sets our drinks in front of us. He takes a slow sip of Coke, then sets it down again. “I just figured that LA made you a total health nut or something.”

“Maybe a little,” I admit, looking away.

For the most part, I’ve worked past the issues I developed during the year and a half where I ate very little, and even less food with any real sustenance. I had surrounded myself with toxic people that convinced me that in order to “make it” I had to fit a certain mold.

But what is “making it” anyway? Shouldn’t each person’s definition be unique and based on their own goals?

In an effort to distract myself from wandering thoughts that will do me no good, I pull my notebook out and slap it on the table.

“Where’s my pen?” I mutter to myself as I dive into my tote.

Derrick clears his throat, and when I look up, I find him holding one out to me.

I pluck it from his fingers and press the button on top with aclick. “Thanks.”

“I’m surprised you can find anything in that bag of yours. It’s stuffed to the brim with?—”

“My whole life?”

He lets out an amused huff. “Seems like it.”

“I never know what I might need. This way, when I do know, there’s a good chance I have it with me.”

With an amused smile, he shakes his head.

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