by M. Leighton
She is why I’m here.
I’m disappointed when the slim legs and comfortable white shoes that tickle my peripheral vision turn out to belong to Tilly rather than Poppy. They’re carrying the wrong woman to my booth.
This one is attractive in an easy, overly made-up way. Her hair is a teased blonde puff around a face that’s dominated by heavily lined blue eyes. In them is a feline kind of interest. I can almost hear a throaty purr when I look at her. And the way she moves inside her snug uniform reminds me of a cat rubbing its body along its owner’s leg. Only it’s abundantly clear that I am what she really wants to be rubbing up against. She’s made that perfectly clear on more than one occasion.
I’m probably crazy for turning her down. Practically any warm-blooded American male would jump at the chance to let her rub anything of hers up against him.
But I’m not them.
“Here you go, handsome.” Tilly hums the last, her ruby lips curved enticingly. “Anything else I can get you? You hungry? You look hungry .”
I smile tolerantly. It’s not my intention to hurt her feelings, but I may eventually have to do that. She just doesn’t seem to be willing to take no, in all the forms I’ve given it to her, as an answer.
“Not right now. I’ll sip on this for a little longer and figure out what I want. I’ll just tell Poppy when she comes back by.”
I don’t know how I can be any more obvious that it’s Poppy I want to see, to talk to, to listen to . I come in when she works, I sit in her section. Hell, I’ve even asked for her by name a few times. What more can I do?
Tilly’s visibly deflated. I doubt it’ll last long, though. She’ll be back next time, ready to climb me like a tree with her long legs and sharp claws.
“Okay. I’ll tell her to check on you in a few. But if you change your mind…” She gives me a sassy wink, her words trailing off suggestively.
As I suspected, she’s nowhere near ready to give up.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I smile again to reassure her of my words, but we both know I’m lying. The only one on my mind, the only one I want on my mind, is Poppy.
Poppy.
I slump down in the booth and lean my head back against the red vinyl cushion, closing my eyes, silently dismissing Tilly. I turn all my attention to my ears.
I’ve learned that, if I concentrate hard enough, if I filter out all the ambient noise, I can hear her. If I listen closely, I can pick her out of the crowd.
Eyes still closed, I reach out with that singular sense. I make my way through the room, sifting through the laughter and the chatter, discarding the masculine and the child-like. I’m searching for one voice. One voice in particular.
“Noah?”
I don’t startle when I hear it, even though it’s closer than I expected. I relax. Instantly. It’s like an icy beer on a hot day. Or a warm fire on a cold one.
She’s close. Very close. Probably at the edge of my table, looking down at me, wondering if I’m asleep. That’s what her tone says—careful, you might wake him .
I don’t open my eyes. I don’t respond. I just wait. Wait for her to say it again.
Just one more time.
“Noah?” she repeats, as if she can read my thoughts.
Unintentionally, I groan. I don’t mean to do it, to let out that wounded sound. It just slips out. She has no idea what the sound of my name on her lips does to me, and I have no intention of telling her.
Yeah, you sound just like my wife, and closing my eyes and listening to you helps me forget the sight of her bloody, naked body.
That would scare her off for sure. That would scare off anyone for sure.
If I could just keep my eyes closed, though…keep picturing her with blonde hair instead of brown, green eyes instead of gold… And if she’d just keep talking…
But I can’t keep my eyes closed, I can’t pretend forever. I have to open them, and when I do, I have to watch my Carly disappear.
Because this woman isn’t Carly. She’s Poppy.
Reluctantly, I crack my lids. If I don’t, she’ll leave me in peace. That’s just the type of woman she is—kind, considerate. Sweet even. I should stay away from her. It would be better for her. Men like me attract the attention of bad people. Dangerous people. But I can’t. Her voice… I can’t stay away. That’s why I just come into the diner, like any other customer, but I keep my distance otherwise.
I open my eyes a little wider and meet hers. She smiles. I see that happy sparkle in the gold of her gaze. She’s beautiful. Beautiful and sexy. But she’s just not Carly. As much as she sounds like her, she’s just…not.
I grit my teeth.
Jesus, there it is again—agony.
I resist the urge to grab my chest, right over my heart. For a few seconds, the sadness is crippling. A physical blow. A punch to the gut. Air sticks in my lungs and burns there, like napalm. And while I burn, I wonder the same thing that I wonder each and every time I see Poppy.
Why the hell do I do this to myself?
The pain is at the very least equal to the pleasure, sometimes greater than. That voice reminds me of all I’ve lost. What sane person would do this?
I exhale slowly, through my nose. In a measured hiss, I let out the oxygen trapped inside my chest and I answer my own question. Just like the question is the same, the answer is always the same, too.
Why the hell do I do this to myself?
Because I can’t let go.
I can’t.
I’m holding on to the past because I have to. Because I have no other choice. Revenge isn’t enough to sustain me.
“Tired?” she asks, genuine concern evident in her Carly-like voice. I can remember my wife asking me that dozens and dozens of times during our nine years of marriage.
I never realized how much I’d miss that.
Something so small, so simple.
Then again, I never expected to lose my wife either. That I’d have to miss it.
“Noah?” She prompts me because I fell back in time. When I’m not making an effort to stay in the present, I go backward. Back to happier times. Back to my life before. Before loss and pain and suffering and agony.
All the agony.
“Sorry. Uh, yeah. A little.”
“How about some coffee then?” She nods to my water.
I take an obligatory sip. It’s as colorless and tasteless as my life seems to be now. “Nah. I’m fine with water. I’ll have a cheeseburger and fries, though.”
She raises her brows. “Trying something new. I’m impressed.” Her comment is light, carefree. Like she seems to be.
Thus far, I’ve ordered the same thing every time I come in here, which is often. Too often for my own good, probably. Too often for her good, definitely, but…
Maybe tonight I just feel like I need something else. Something different.
Something…more.
4
Poppy
J ust when I think he’s going to drift back off into that zone he visits so frequently when he’s here, Noah surprises me by leaning forward, bracing his elbows on the table and pinning me with his blue, blue eyes.
“Yeah. Like maybe something not from here. Wanna go get dinner with me?”
My heart thunders and I’m strangely elated.
This man, this beautiful, sad man is finally, finally showing some signs of life. I don’t know why it seems like such a milestone, or why it’s so important to me, but it does and it is. I want to see something other than lost in those eyes. I want to see something other than polite on those lips. I want to see something other than sadness on his striking face.
“Well, I’m working now and I-I don’t get off until eight,” I offer lamely, suddenly nervous for some reason.
The edges of Noah’s mouth curl up into a wry grin. “Yeah, I know you’re working.”
I laugh self-consciously. “Duh, right?”
He chuckles, sort of, a sound that slides across my face and neck like soft, sensuous velvet.
“When you get off, I mean.”
Before I can even take a moment to really think about his offer, I find myself accepting. “I’d love to,” I manage to eke out around the ridiculous smile I can’t seem to contain.
“Great. I’ll just wait for you here then.”
“Okay,” I reply vaguely.
He holds me close with those fathomless, troubled eyes of his, and I stand rooted to the spot. After several embarrassingly long seconds, I remember that I’m at work. And that I’m dressed for work. “Oh, but I’ll need to change clothes. This thing isn’t exactly something nice enough to wear out.” I pluck at the Pepto Bismol pink polyester uniform. It’s so cliché. It’s exactly the type of one-piece, zippered dress that is used to portray diner waitresses in pretty much every movie with a diner waitress in it.
A blush stings my cheeks.
I’m a walking stereotype—poor, emotionally wounded woman with no education and few options, in search of fresh start, waiting tables at greasy spoon to make ends meet. I bet Noah is used to a whole different class of woman. A better class of woman. I’m nothing special. I’m a girl from nowhere, going nowhere and Noah is…is…more. I can feel it, just like I can feel the dull scratch of the rough, pink material grate over my skin as I move. It’s an abrasively tangible reminder of my circumstance.
“That’s fine. I’ll still wait for you.” His offer is as soft as the look in his eye.
Instantly, that odd feeling of elation comes back. I don’t know why, but his words strike a cord somewhere deep within me. I’ll still wait for you. He isn’t chasing, as most men who look like him do; he’s waiting. For me. Like I’m something worth waiting for.
The sentiment resonates in some long-hidden, meticulously buried chamber of my soul, echoing all the way through me. It stirs something I haven’t allowed myself to feel in a long, long time.
Hope.
Optimism.
Something about this man just feels different. Better. Right.
I’ll still wait for you.
Maybe Noah keeps coming to this place because he’s as drawn to me as I am to him. Maybe he craves healing and acceptance as much as I do. And maybe, just maybe we can be that for each other.
Impulsively, I add, “Or-or you could come with me. I won’t be long. And I don’t live far.”
After the words are out, I clamp my lips shut, but it’s too late. The sentiment is out, the offer is out. I should’ve at least hesitated before inviting a perfect stranger to follow me home. This is Chicago, for Pete’s sake, not Podunk, USA. It’s dangerous here. People are dangerous here. I should be careful.
But…it’s Noah, the other side of my brain argues. Noah. Like that makes all the difference.
And it does. That solitary fact seems to outweigh all common sense, as though there’s safety in him, even in his name . Because it feels like there is.
“If you’re comfortable with that, yeah. That’d be good.”
“All right then,” I conclude with relief. “Okay, so yeah. I’ll just… I guess I… I’ll just go put this in and then stop back by after my shift.”
I nod once and turn on my heel, aware that I need to get away from him and go collect my wits before I make a bigger fool of myself. Before I start stuttering or drooling or something. But before I can escape, I hear that raspy voice of his and it stops me dead in my tracks.
“Poppy?”
Every muscle in my stomach tightens. He says my name like a plea, like he’s broken and I’m the only person in the world who can fix him.
Heart in my throat, I glance back at him. “Yes?”
“Don’t put in my order for the cheeseburger.”
At first, I’m a little confused, so I simply stare at this handsome, disconcerting man.
Finally, after I look down at the ticket I’m holding, I realize why he’s telling me not to put in his order.
We are going out later.
Together.
To eat.
Noah and I.
Yet, I was going to put in his order anyway. Because I wasn’t thinking.
For that, I blame Noah.
One hundred percent.
“I guess that would be pretty pointless, huh?”
I laugh lightly, crumple the paper in my hand, and stick it in my pocket, hurrying away from the table as quickly as I can. It’s hard to tell what other idiotic things I could do. It seems I’m hardly capable of rational thought while under the influence of that man.
As I walk away, I get the feeling he’s watching me go. My pulse races. I hope he is. I want him to be. I don’t know why, but I do.
Curious, I sneak a peek back at him. Sure enough, those intense eyes are trained on me. For a few seconds, as we stare at each other across the room, I can’t breathe.
I turn before he can scramble my brain so much that I can’t walk away.
Noah.
Maybe he’ll bring something good into my life.
And maybe I can bring something good into his.
* * *
I glance at the clock again. Only two minutes have passed, yet it feels like two hours. Customers are pouring in, orders are being taken, food is being eaten, tips are being given. Hours worth of work are being completed, yet only two minutes have passed.
I glare at the round white face on the wall. What the hell, clock?
I almost ask the woman at table six what time it is, just to make sure the damn thing is still working. But then, when I look back at Noah in his booth, when I see him still seated there, watching me from the shadows, I know it’s just me. It’s my excitement and my nervousness that’s making everything feel so…frantic. Frantic yet slow.
I don’t realize I’m staring until one corner of Noah’s mouth twitches. Not a smile, just a twitch, but enough to jar me back to reality. I can’t believe I’m doing this. Any of this. Going out with Noah. Inviting a perfect stranger to follow me home. Jumping in head first with a guy who looks like all the things I try to avoid.
But I am.
I’m not normally this capricious, but something about him speaks to me. Profoundly. That pain… I can relate to it. But it could also be dangerous for my heart. He’s nursing some pretty serious wounds, I’d say, and they could spell trouble for me. But, strangely, they’re the very reason I’m willing to take the risk. My brokenness is drawn to his.
My best friend, Simone, would be proud that I’m even considering taking a chance like this.
She and I have been inseparable since grade school. There’s a good reason our friendship works so well together, too. We are opposites in nearly every way. She’s the risk-taker in life. The doer. I’m more the dreamer and the thinker. Simone doesn’t contemplate anything; she just jumps. But me, I’m more likely to sit on the sidelines fantasizing about playing while worrying about the injuries I could sustain. That’s been the story of my life—my feet are firmly on the ground while everyone else is flying. Living. Especially Simone.
I’ve always admired her for that. And for her personal credo, something I’ve heard her say a million times if I’ve heard it once.
When we jump, we risk falling. But we also risk flying.
Not only does she believe that, but she practices it as well. I’ve always wanted to, but…that’s just not me. I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that I’m just not as brave and ballsy as Simone is. I’ve had too many bad experiences with the falling part.
But maybe it’s time I take the leap, take the big risk. Risk another fall just in case I learn to fly.
She’s always reminding me that there’s beauty and ecstasy in the journey , that if we all lived life afraid to take a risk, ruled by the fear of getting hurt, no one would ever do anything, that the world would be full of dull, miserable people.
She believes the ride is worth the pain.
And I’ve never found that to be true. Real pain is never worth it.
Or at least that hasn’t been my experience.
But maybe now…<
br />
Maybe this time…
Maybe Noah...
He makes me think she could be right. I hardly even know him, but something in my gut, something deep down, tells me he’s worth the risk.
And the butterflies in my stomach only fan the flames of that suspicion.
It’s ten minutes to eight and I’m quickly losing the battle to remain calm. I’m a twisted knot of excitement, trepidation and enthusiasm. It’s as intoxicating as it is unsettling.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Tilly asks after I have a near miss with a pitcher of sweet tea and a lady wearing a white blouse.
“I almost dumped this whole pitcher on her. Did you see that?” I’m still laughing, even though I’m not sure why. Not only would that not have been funny; it would’ve been a disaster.
“I did see that. I also see this weird blush you’ve got going on and you’re frazzled as hell. What did I miss?”
I smile broadly. I can’t help it. “Nothing. I’m just…working.”
“This,” Tilly responds, flicking a finger to indicate me from head to toe, “is not you ‘working.’ This is you—” She stops abruptly. Red lips go slack and big blue eyes get bigger. “You dirty little slut bag! You snagged Noah!”
I feign innocence. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You do know what I mean!”
I try for nonchalance, something I’m certainly not feeling. “No, I don’t. Besides, how does one ‘snag’ Noah?”
She slaps my arm good-naturedly. “Damned if I know. Obviously. But you do! I can see it! You got the white whale! The big cahuna! The unicorn ! What did you promise him? Anal? Because I considered that, but—”
“God , Tilly, no! What is wrong with you?”
“Hell if I know, but there must be something, because I’ve all but spread it out on the table for him and he’s just not having any of it.”
“Did you ever think maybe that is the problem?”