Page 78 of Can't Get Enough

“What’s ‘all the way’?” I ask.

“You get ’em with hickory-smoked ham, melted cheese, and jalapeño peppers,” Ms. Pearl says. “And some grilled mushrooms and diced tomatoes.”

I frown. “Oh, that sounds—”

“Sausage gravy,” she continues, “grilled onions, and then top it with chili.”

“And have a paramedic on standby,” Hendrix jokes. “I think we should ease him in. Give us a sec.”

Pearl shuffles back to the kitchen, yelling at the cook and leaving a trail of obscenities in her wake.

“So what do you recommend?” I ask, scouring the menu for some item my chef wouldn’t judge me for. No such luck.

“Well, you do have to have the hash browns,” Hendrix says, her expression absolutely serious. “I think a good initiation for you is the All-Star. You can’t go wrong with that.”

“What’s the All-Star?”

“You get eggs and toast, a side of grits. You can choose between hash browns and a tomato, which… duh. You getting the hashbrowns. I suggest scattered. It comes with a waffle. Try pecan.”

“Is that what you’re having?”

“No, I’m getting a waffle sandwich. You take your eggs and bacon and smush them between two waffles. I’ve had just about everything on this menu at least once. Been coming here since college. We used to hit it after the club all the time. Absorb some of the alcohol,” she says with a wink.

A sound at the front of the store distracts me from the menu. Someone turns on music. A group of teenagers or maybe they’re in theirearly twenties. Two of the girls stand up in the booth and start dancing. Their friends stay seated, but sing along with a Tyler, The Creator song.

The dingy dining room is like something out of a movie. Every area of the restaurant seems to have its own tableau. The dancing music corner. A fight breaking out behind the counter between two employees. A spades tournament spread across three tables, plates of food interspersed with stacks of cards. It’s colorful and animated and electric.

“It’s like this all the time?” I ask.

“The later, the better. ’Bout two a.m. is the best.” She rests her elbows on the battered tabletop. “You know Atlanta has the highest concentration of Waffle Houses in the country. Can’t throw a stick without hitting a Waffle House around here. Their headquarters are in Norcross. This one is my fave. We’d drive past three to get to this one.”

“College Park?” I ask, remembering a sign on the way in.

“It’s Collipark,” she says, her grin mischievous. “If you’re really ATL.”

“You weren’t even born here,” I tease.

“Most people aren’t, but this feels as much like home as anywhere in the world.” Her smile melts away. “It’s hard to imagine living back in my small town in North Carolina, but I will while my aunt recovers. I’d move my mom here if she’d let me.”

Ms. Pearl returns to the table to take our orders, and I note Hendrix gets an extra All-Star meal. I guess she is hungry, but I know better than to comment on the food a woman orders. None of my business.

“Thank you for taking time from your self-care night to come out with me,” I say.

“What was I supposed to do? Let you end up in some bougie restaurant with perfectly prepared steaks and a Michelin star when all this”—she sweeps an arm to encompass the grease-splattered chaos of the Waffle House—“could be yours?”

“You saved me.”

She dips her head graciously. “You’re welcome. What would you do without me?”

I actually hadn’t planned to accept the invitation from Ezra Stern for tonight’s fundraiser, but then I saw the Black Business post yesterday, capturing Zere on what is, as far as I know, her first date since our breakup. Bolt sent me a link to the post. No comment, of course. A man of few words except when I want his ass to be quiet. Then he’s always got shit to say.

Seeing Zere dating freed something up inside me. It further settled that I’m ready to move on with the woman seated across from me. I don’t care that I’m probably the last man she should date if she wants to work with Zere. I don’t care that it might require us both to sacrifice and make compromises. If she’s willing, so am I. And I won’t know if she’s willing if I don’t try.

“What’re you thinking about so hard?” Hendrix asks, slanting a look at me from under long lashes.

“How pretty you look without makeup,” I say. Her face turns as close to bashful as a women this bold can be. “I mean, you look pretty with it, too, of course, but you have such a natural glow.”

“It’s melanin,” she laughs, lowering her head and running a finger along the raggedy edge of the aged booth table. “And my glass-skin care routine. That doesn’t hurt.”

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