Page 58 of Seeing Grayscale

I’m just full of contradictions this morning.

The hour-and-a-half drive was worth it.

Nestled in the back of the quaint country-style restaurant called Old Barrel, the sweet waitress who looks like someone’s grandma slides ourmassiveplates over the plaid tablecloth. My mouth waters as the pungent smell of corn beef hash hits my nose, the edges of the mash perfectly crisped and sitting next to a pile of scrambled eggs.

Hunter got his eggs poached, which I still don’t know what the fuck that means.

They look…moist.

“Thanks, Annie,” Hunter says because apparently they know each other.

“Anytime, handsome.” She winks at me before walking off.

My eyes ping-pong between the plate and Hunter’s amused face as he carefully unrolls the napkin from the silverware. He flattens it over the table and rearranges the butter knife on the left side. I arch an eyebrow at him, prompting a soft chuckle.

“Habit.”

“You didn’t do that before.”

Hunter blushes, nibbling the corner of his lip, eyes on his plate. It’s more obvious now that his beard is trimmed so short. “I wasn’t allowed to talk whenever my family went out to eat. And I never liked how many different forks and spoons were on the table. So I’d always put the biggest one on the left. It soothed me, I guess. Made me feel like I had a job to do other than sit there while my dad talked.”

“And now?” Because there are only three on the table. A butter knife, fork, and spoon. Plus, I think he knows I’d never tell him not to talk.

“And now,” he sighs, finally looking at me, “well, I guess I’m a bit nervous.”

“Why?”

“Other than on business, I’ve never done this before. Gone out to eat with…a friend.”

A loudthumpslams against my ribs. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” He winces like that’s embarrassing. It’s not.

“That’s…well, that’s fucking sad, Hunter,” I blurt. When his hand lifts to tear through his thick, silky hair, I scramble to calm his nerves. “I—I’m happy it’s me, then. I’ll be your first.”

His head whips up. Intense is one way to describe the look in his eyes. Especially when they travel all over my face, seeking something out. I swallow hard and grab the ketchup, giving the bottle a firm shake. “Thank you,” he whispers.

After an obnoxious squirt, the red condiment covering my eggs until no yellow remains, I finally find my voice. “You’re welcome.”

Our meal is shared in easy silence. People come and go: families, senior couples, and a few younger ones. It’s like a different world, so stark compared to the diner Dan hangs out at.

I know you can’t judge a person based on appearance, but these people radiate goodness, maybe even happiness. Like they’ve got it all figured out—this map to a good life.

I want that—want that sparkle in my eye and light pep in my step.

Hunter pays for our food, not that I could anyway, but a fire burns low in my stomach. The urge to be able to return the favor one day is something fierce inside me.

Friends are supposed to do that stuff. Give and take.

When we get to the car, Hunter grabs two cigarettes. I’ve been keeping tabs on his smoking habit. I only picked it up because the nicotine curbs hunger and can ease constipation. But Hunter seems almost sporadic with his smoking. He’s not every hour on the hour or an after-meal smoker.

It’s mostly tied to nerves, I realize.

I take one from him, wanting to ask if he’s still nervous. Instead, the words catch in my throat as he steps into my personal bubble. “May I?”

Nodding like an idiot, I pop the cigarette between my lips, and he lights it for me. I inhale, waiting for him to break the tension hovering around us, but he doesn’t. His fingers reach out almost hesitantly. “You…you’ve got something—” I simply stare at him, cigarette forgotten as he seems to think ‘fuck it’ and swipes his thumb over the corner of my mouth.

“What was it?” I wheeze, flustered and unsure what the hell is happening.

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