Page 37 of Late Bloomer
“H-hi,” she says, eyebrows furrowing as she looks at me like she can’t quite place me. “What are you doing up?”
“I’m a bad sleeper,” I respond, waving away the concern in her voice. “How are you feeling?” I scooch off the couch and stand in front of her.
“A lot better.” Pepper’s smile is sheepish, like she’s been avoiding work and lazing around on a beach for months instead of taking a single day to battle a migraine. She looks away from me, that frown fixing back on her lovely face as she stares at the ground. She clears her throat a few times.
“Diksha texted me and told me all you got done today and I, uh, I wanted to say thank you for, um, you know…” She swats at the air in front of her like she’s impatient for the right words to appear. After a deep breath, she lifts her chin, fixing me with those gingerbread eyes. “For taking care of me. And the flowers. Particularly the flowers. It means… it means a lot. And I appreciate it.”
I tilt my head as I look at Pepper, wishing more than anything I could understand this woman, see the tangle of thoughts that constantly sits at the tip of her tongue. She talks like she’s not used to help. I wonder what someone would have to do to earn her trust.
“Don’t mention it,” I say at last, breaking the heavy tensionthat’s settled around the room. “It was honestly really fun. My back is going to hate me for the next week for all the stooping I did, but I had a great time. I’m just glad you’re feeling better.”
“Do you want to get food with me?” Pepper blurts out, voice loud and vibrant in the quiet stillness of the night. She clutches a hand to the base of her throat like she can’t believe the sound came from her.
I blink a few times. “Right now?”
Pepper nods, the movement jerky. “If you want. I’m starving and haven’t been to the grocery store in a hot minute. But I know it’s late and you’re probably tired and we’d have to go somewhere crappy because, again, time and all that late-hour stuff, but if you want I’m sure we could find somewhere but absolutely no pressure, in fact, I don’t need to eat, I think I’ll just shove some of Alfie’s pastries in my mouth and go lie down and—”
“I’d love to,” I say, leaning toward her. “Let’s go.”
We pull into the Waffle House parking lot, a guy in a chef smock and backward baseball cap sitting on a wheel stop smoking a cigarette out front. Pepper maneuvers into a spot and cuts the engine, eliciting a bored look from the guy.
After a moment, he closes his eyes, takes a final (impressively long) drag, then flicks the butt away and pushes to stand, slinking back into the restaurant and behind the counter.
“See that,” I say, tapping on the dash as we watch through the windows as he slips on an apron and plants his hands onthe counter, head hanging low like he’d rather be anywhere in the world than this Waffle House at one a.m. “That’s how you know it’s going to be good. If your chef isn’t smoking in the parking lot five minutes before ordering, you might as well take your business elsewhere.”
Pepper snorts. “You aren’t supposed to verbalize the reality. It ruins the magic.”
We make our way inside and grab a booth near the counter, the pleather seats cracked with tufts of stuffing poking out. We get about thirty seconds to settle ourselves and pick up a menu before our server appears.
“What’ll it be, dolls?” an older woman asks in a scratchy voice as she plunks herself in front of our table, her chipped name tag showingMAUDEin big, messy letters. Her hair is tangled like a bird’s nest on the top of her head, smears of mascara rimming her eyes while a not-so-subtle perfume of weed wraps around us. She’s giving zero fucks and I absolutely love her for it.
“Your nails are amazing,” I say, transfixed by the hot-pink manicure with rhinestones on each finger.
“Not on the menu, honey,” Maude says with a cheeky half smile before fixing her face back into a bored expression.
“Can I get the All-Star?” Pepper asks, eyes skimming over the menu. “With bacon, rye toast, and the hash browns smothered, covered, and capped?”
“To drink?” Maude asks, not bothering to write anything down.
“Hot tea, please.” Pepper gives Maude a small, brilliant smile as she tucks her menu behind the napkin dispenser, herchestnut hair slipping over her shoulder. She wraps her long fingers around the strands, playing with them for a moment before pushing her hair away.
There’s something so disarming about the simplicity of her smile—the crooked corners creating deep brackets in her cheeks, the tiny chip on the corner of her front tooth. She’s filled with a sort of steady softness—a certain confidence in each movement but awareness of every ripple it will create—that even watching her tuck a lock of hair behind her ear seems like witnessing art in motion.
“And you?” Maude’s voice cuts through my thoughts and pulls me out of my (not at all creepy, I’m sure) staring. The tone indicates she’s already asked me for my order more than once.
And, in classic restaurant-anxiety form, I panic and forget any meal I’ve ever enjoyed ever. “I’ll have…” My eyes scour over the menu, everything fuzzy as I fumble for an answer. Maude sighs and it does absolutely nothing to help my frazzled state.
“T-bone,” I blurt out, a picture of a grayish steak the first thing I can focus on. “And, uh, eggs. I guess.”
Maude and Pepper fix me with similar looks of disbelief.
“Do you actually want that?” Maude asks, slanting me a look.
No.“Yes, please.”
“How do you want it prepared?” she asks.
“As good as possible,” I mumble, pushing my menu to the side.
