Page 32 of Make Mine Sweet
“I don’t know,” I tell her.
She nods, pats my arm, and walks away to talk to customers.
Like she heard her cue, Jodi comes out from the back. Her dark curly hair streaked with gray is pinned up into a bun like mine, her fry cook apron pristine. Her easy grin puts me on edge as much as Amy’s piercing gaze does.
Her perpetual good mood just highlights how dark my own is.
“It’s good to see you, honey.” She talks like she was born in the south—everyone is honey or sugar or sweetheart to her.
“Good to see you.”
“You coming to dinner at our place sometime soon?”
It’s harder to say no to Jodi than it is with Amy. Jodi’s not pressuring me to break out of my shell, she’d just genuinely like to see me at their place again. She likes my company, such as it is. Which is a pressure all of its own.
“Probably not.”
“That’s okay.” She smiles wider. She worked at the post office here before she took over fry cook duties at the diner with Amy. I’m not sure it’s possible to dampen her friendliness. “You’re here now.”
“Mmm.” Doesn’t seem like much of a consolation prize.
“Have you thought about joining us for the Fourth Fest in a few weeks? I heard the fireworks are going to be something else. We’ve got a new gal running the whole show. The parade’s supposed to be even bigger, too.”
“I don’t know yet.” I do know—I’m not going. But I’m not jerk enough to say that to Jodi’s face when she’s only trying to draw me out.
She rests a hand on my forearm and gently squeezes. “I have to get back to it, but I wanted to tell you I’m glad you’re here.”
Because coming into a diner is such a big deal. For me, lately, it has been.
“Thanks, Jodi.”
She nods, her gaze almost too soft as she lets me go. I think she might say something more, but she must see the futility of it, and returns to the back kitchen.
I get about three minutes with my thoughts—which are a mess, FYI—before a man sits down next to me. And I meanrightnext to me, even though there are plenty of empty barstools farther down the line. I don’t look directly at him, but I don’t have to. I can tell already what this guy is.
A fan.
Before the accident, my brothers and I had some popularity around Durango, and I ate up the attention I got. People could stop me in a restaurant, at my mailbox, on the street, I didn’t care. The fact that I had anything remotely close to fame as a mountain guide blew me away.
To be fair, it wasn’t all about climbing. Interest in me exploded after Vance Vickers hired me to guide him through one of Colorado’s wilderness areas. The blockbuster actor used the two-week trek as research for someMan vs. NatureOscar-contender film he had in the works. I’d seen it as a nice-paying guiding gig at the time, but it brought more recognition than I’d ever anticipated.
Ironic that I fell asleep when I tried to watch the movie. Dying alone in the snow would have been more entertaining than enduring that flick.
Even so, he’d talked me up in every interview he did for that movie. When he thanked me in his speeches for all the awards he won that year, I was suddenly on every famous actor’s contact list when they wanted a vacation of roughing it in the mountains. Magazines, newspapers, and podcasts came calling. Me being me, I always answered.
But after the accident? The attention took on a different bent. Would I be willing to do an interview about disabled athletes? Could I participate in a panel on near-death experiences? Did I have any interest in being a spokesman for speed limit reforms? No thank you all around.
And fans…let’s just say they have all the subtlety of the motorcycle accident that landed me here in the first place.
The man next to me clears his throat, but I don’t acknowledge him. He’ll either take the hint and shuffle off, or…I’ll have to send him on his way.
“Ian Vaughn?” he says.
“Nope,” I say before taking a big bite of my burger.
The man chuckles. “I’ll leave you alone if you want?—”
“Good.”
