Page 88 of Gap Control

We slid into the cracked vinyl booth across from each other. The server—fifty-something with tired eyes and a name tag that read "Dolores"—shuffled over with an aging coffee pot.

"Coffee, hon?"

"Please." I flipped my mug right-side up, and Dolores filled it with liquid that looked strong enough to lube a car engine.

Peggy waited until we'd ordered—grilled cheese and tomato soup for her, the "Trucker's Special" for me because I was apparently still sixteen and thought ordering the biggest thing on the menu was impressive—before giving me her practiced older-sister once-over.

She stirred sugar into her coffee with deliberate precision. "So, you look different."

"Different how? More handsome? Finally aging into my bone structure?"

"Different, like you're hiding something good instead of something terrible."

I nearly choked on my coffee. "I'm that transparent now?"

"I've known you for twenty-seven years, TJ. I can read your face like a weather map." She leaned back. "Usually, when you're secretive, it's because you broke something or forgot someone's birthday. This time, you look like you're trying not to smile."

Folded carefully in my jacket pocket, the sketch burned against my ribs like contraband. I didn't bring it on purpose.I hadn't stopped at home yet to add it to the collection in my nightstand.

"Maybe it's only a good mood."

"That's garbage. You're never only in a good mood. You're either catastrophically anxious or performing happiness for an audience. This is different."

Our food arrived before I could deflect again. Dolores set down plates that could've fed small armies.

I took a bite of hash browns that were somehow both crispy and soggy, buying myself time to think. Peggy didn't push. She bit into her grilled cheese with the patience of someone who'd learned that silence was often more effective than interrogation.

Finally, I pulled the sketch from my pocket.

"Someone drew this." I unfolded it carefully on the table between our plates.

Peggy set down her sandwich and lowered her head, inspecting the charcoal lines. Her expression shifted from curious to something softer and more serious.

"TJ, this is beautiful."

"It's unfinished."

"No, it's not." She touched the edge of the paper with one fingertip. "It's complete—exactly what it needs to be."

I waited for her to ask who drew it, but she didn't. Instead, she cradled her coffee mug in both hands and looked at me with those knowing eyes that had always been my kryptonite.

"That's not a drawing. That's someone falling in love."

My cheeks blushed fiery red. "You sure? Looks more like a guy having a heart attack to me."

That was gibberish. I tried to deflect on autopilot, and it didn't work.

Peggy didn't laugh. Instead, she gave me the kind of look she'd perfected in high school when I tried to convince her that the dent in Mom's car had been there all along.

"He sees you as something worth capturing. Don't turn that into a punchline."

The image reduced my usual armor of humor, making me feel like I was trying to hide behind a screen door instead of a wall.

I sighed. "How do you expect me to do this?"

"Do what?"

"Be seen like this, without performing."

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