Night Shifts Black

by Alyson Santos

  “Callie.”

  “Luke.”

  “You up for some pancakes?” he asks, and a huge weight lifts from my shoulders.

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll surprise you today.”

  He likes my challenge and pushes back my chair with his foot.

  “Try me.”

  “Did you order yet?” I ask.

  “Just coffee.”

  He was waiting for me. At least, I hope he was. I don’t think I’ll ever know for sure.

  “You want some tea?”

  I nod. I do love my tea. I love that he knows it. “Tea would be great.”

  Our server isn’t Darryn with a “y” today. It’s Shauna, the woman who filled me in about Luke’s chair obsession on that first day. I’m not surprised I remember that though. I seem to have every detail of Day One etched into my brain.

  “Hi, Shauna.”

  “Morning. Tea?” she asks. She knows me better than Darryn. I’m not sure why Darryn’s had so many of her shifts lately. Maybe she’s had other obligations. I realize that I don’t know enough about Shauna. I should know why she was off. She knows I like tea.

  “I’ve noticed Darryn’s been on a lot lately.”

  She sighs. “Yeah, I’ve been picking up the evening shifts instead. The sitter decided to take some classes, so now I have to work when my husband Jake’s at home, since I can’t have the sitter during the day.”

  “How many kids do you have?”

  “Two. Maddie’s four and Mark is two.”

  Maddie and Mark. That’s sweet.

  She leans close. “Hey, sorry to make you wait, but I have to go check on Stan’s omelet before he calls the FBI.”

  I chuckle. “No problem. Tea would be great. We’ll give you our orders after you take care of Stan.”

  She delivers a grateful smile, and I don’t miss the look she casts at Luke. She wonders about him, too. Wonders about the chair. Wonders why he now stays and eats breakfast. Why I’m special. In other words, she wonders the same things I do.

  I feel Luke’s gaze after she leaves, but I’m not prepared to meet it. I don’t know if it will be admiring or curious or accusatory. I could make a strong case for all three. If I avoid it, it doesn’t matter. Except it does matter. I know it matters. Even more than I’m prepared to admit at this point. Eventually, I look up, but after all the debate, I can’t read his expression anyway.

  “Shauna seems nice.”

  “She is.”

  “You’ve obviously been coming here for a while. Well, for the few months you’ve lived in the city at least.”

  “A few times a week.”

  “Really.”

  He does the math, and I redden.

  “I come more often now.” I have nothing to lose.

  He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t run screaming either.

  “Where did you live before this?” he asks finally, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  “A small town. You’ve never heard of it.”

  “Try me.”

  “Shelteron, Pennsylvania.”

  “You’re right,” he replies.

  “Told you. We don’t even have a stoplight. Well, we do, but it only flashes yellow so I don’t think that counts.”

  “So what, you graduated high school and had to escape the small town to go make a name for yourself in the big city?”

  I bite my lip and look at my hands. “No. Nothing like that. I’m older than I look.”

  I have his interest now. He’s not the only one with secrets.

  “How old are you?” he asks.

  “Twenty-three. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  “You’re younger than I thought.”

  “How old did you think I was?”

  I panic when I realize I lied. I did think he was twenty-seven. Well, about that anyway. I don’t even know why I said what I did, and now I’m stuck.

  “Twenty-eight.”

  He smirks and leans back. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “I’m not disappointed. Twenty-seven is a fine age.”

  “So’s twenty-three.”

  It’s the years in between that are rotten. We both think it. I look at the chair. I can’t help it.

  He clears his throat. He doesn’t want to cry in front of me again. “Anyway, since you’re the expert, what’s good here besides the eggs, toast, pancakes, and tea?”

  I pick up the menu as if I’m actually going to have the presence of mind to read it. My head is still spinning.

  “Um…there are fresh baked goods,” I suggest, thanks to Darryn’s recitation at our last meeting. Unfortunately, he remembers that, too, and his lips spread into a grin.

  “You’ve never had anything other than the pancakes and tea,” he charges.

  “I have!”

  He crosses his arms. “Really. Like what?”

  “The fruit cup.”

  This time he laughs, and we invite some glances from a nearby table. They’re not annoyed, though. In fact, they are curious, intrigued even, and I notice them paying more attention to us now. Well, to Luke anyway. I’m startled by the sudden glimpse of what he was. What it would have been like to enter a room with him and leave with fifty new friends. His laugh does that. His eyes…

  I stare at my menu. I’m not ordering the pancakes today.

  “The omelets are good, too.”

  “According to whom? Stan?”

  I shrug. “He’s here every day. I’d say that’s pretty reliable testimony.”

  “Should we do it?”

  “Do what? Order omelets?”

  “Yeah. You get bacon and cheese. What should I get?” he asks.

  I like this game for some reason. “Western style.”

  “Ok, deal. Hash browns or fruit cup?”

  “Hash browns for me, fruit cup for you.”

  “Toast?”

  I shake my head. “Not for you, unless you get wheat and put strawberry jam on it.”

  “Fine, but you have to drink coffee instead of tea.”

  I wince. “Coffee?”

  He raises his eyebrows, and I sigh.

  “Ok, fine. Coffee. Cream, no sugar.”

  “Deal.”

  He holds out his hand. I take it.

  I do an admirable job of pretending the handshake is exactly what he intended it to be, and when Shauna returns, we place our orders. She is confused why I don’t touch the tea she just brought and order coffee instead. She also doesn’t understand why, when I instinctively order a fruit cup, Luke jumps in and changes it to hash browns. She’s especially confused when I apologize to him for messing up my own order, but she’s a good sport and promises to be right back with my coffee.

  “Living on the edge today. I don’t know if I can handle all this excitement,” I say after she leaves.

  “Wow. So Sheltertown really was a small town, wasn’t it,” he teases.

  “Shelteron,” I correct. “And yes, it was.”

  “They didn’t have coffee there, I presume?”

  “They only have orange marmalade in England?”

  He grins. “You think I’m English.”

  I blush. I do. Well, I did.

  “I guess that means you’re not.”

  He shakes his head. “No. South African.” I also think he might regret embarrassing me. “Don’t worry about it. I get that all the time, believe me. Especially here.”

  “Yeah, I know. Ignorant Americans.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You were thinking it.”

  “Really? You know me well enough to know what I’m thinking?”

  No. I know him well enough to know I have no idea what he’s thinking.

  “So you weren’t thinking it?”

  He smiles and shakes his head. “No. I really wasn’t. I’ve lived here since I was fourteen. My accent isn’t a true South African accent either. I can’t blame anyone for not being able to place it.”

  “What brought your
parents to the United States?”

  His eyes shift. Uh-oh.

  “As fate would have it, nothing, actually.”

  I go into triage mode. “Well, then. At least I understand your love of oranges.”

  He laughs again, but I sense it’s more from relief that I let the parent comment slide. “Oranges? You know nothing about South Africa, do you.”

  “Sure, I do.”

  “What? Name one thing.”

  I tap my fingers as I think. “Um…it’s in the southern part of Africa.”

  He grins. “It’s true.”

  “Don’t ask me for something else, though.”

  “After that response, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  I give him a look and his return smile plunges deep inside of me.

  “Fine, smarty-pants. Then name one thing about Shelteron.”

  “Anything?”

  “Anything.”

  “Ok. Well, it only has one traffic light. I should say, a light that flashes yellow, anyway.”

  I scrunch my nose. I want to laugh. I don’t know why I don’t. Maybe I’m afraid I won’t stop.

  “Am I wrong?”

  I smile instead. “No.”

  I notice his hand resting on the table. It’s further on my side than seems natural, his sleeve a little long and covering his wrist all the way to the middle of his palm. I want to touch it. To feel the warmth of his fingers. Or maybe they’d be cold. My fingers are always cold. That would be awkward, my cold hand stunning his. I abandon the idea of reaching for my glass and causing an accidental collision. My eyes rest on the ring, and I freeze. He caught me.

  The warmth disintegrates as he draws his hand away and tucks it in his lap. I wonder if he’ll explain. I want him to tell me the truth almost as much as I don’t. I don’t want to be reminded that he’s someone else to someone else. I don’t dare to speak. There are no words for this.

  “I was married.”

  Was. Divorced? Widowed? I don’t know how to ask. He’s not going to offer. But he’s no longer someone else’s someone else. That much is obvious.

  He shakes his head. “Anyway, let’s not do personal stuff, ok?”

  I nod. “Sure,” I say, as if there’s any other response I could give. I’m not here to marry him. I’m here…the chair. My heart starts beating faster. Is she the ghost? I want to look at it as if there would suddenly be new clues after this revelation. I have to look, but I can’t. He doesn’t either. I watch his eyes instead, waiting to see where they go. They’re staring at his hand. I can’t see it anymore, but I’m sure he’s looking at the ring.

  He still wears it.

  My heart shatters.

  He’s widowed.

  I try to catch my breath. I want him to know that I know, but I don’t know how to tell him without words. Useless, volatile words that I can command at will on paper but seem to hold me hostage in conversation.

  He’s too young to be widowed. Way too young to be widowed for long. He needs to know that. I clench my fists. Of course he knows that. It killed his music.

  Shauna brings our meals, and I thank her for both of us. I know Luke won’t. In fact, I’m surprised he’s still here. I study his face in silence, watching him consider his omelet. I imagine him wishing he’d ordered toast like usual, but then I realize how silly it would be to think about toast when you have a dead wife. I don’t know how to talk about dead soul-mates to twenty-seven-year-olds.

  “Luke…” I have to try.

  “I said no personal stuff.”

  “I know.”

  It’s my turn to study the omelet. I need hot sauce. At the very least, ketchup. I signal Shauna. Like everything I could request at Jemma’s Café, hot sauce is no problem, and she’ll bring it right back.

  Luke still hasn’t moved. He’s lost in his head now. I’m not sure he even remembers that I’m here. He definitely doesn’t care.

  And then, it happens.

  Before Shauna can return with the hot sauce, the hostess seats an older couple beside us. I watch Luke tense as the man takes his seat. No, not his seat, the ghost’s seat. The hostess even casts a quick glance at Luke, and I can’t tell if she’s concerned or gloating about her decision. She certainly understands enough to acknowledge what she’s done.

  I suck in my breath, waiting, fearing, watching Luke, anticipating something, but I have no way of knowing what. His blue-green eyes absorb every square inch of the table beside us. I can even see his muscles constricting through his shirt, contracting as he clenches his fist, already punishing the couple for a sin they can’t possibly be liable for. But they are, and I understand that, even though I want to rescue both sides from an unjust war that can’t occur.

  “You want to go?” I ask. I’m sure the concern in my heart is all over my face, but he’s not looking at me. He’s looking at them. “Luke, we should just go.”

  “What am I doing? What have I done?” he rasps, shoving back from the table.

  I’m stunned. Hurt, but also afraid, as he charges from the restaurant. I don’t know what he has to run to apart from me and his chair, but I’m terrified it’s only going to make things worse for him.

  I can’t follow him, I know that. I have no right to offer comfort. I’m only part of his life when he’s here, at this table. He hasn’t invited me into the rest, but Shauna comes rushing over and prevents such a mistake anyway.

  “Are you ok?” she asks, staring at the door just as Luke disappears through it.

  “Fine,” I say. “It wasn’t about me.” I glance over at the table beside us and notice the couple whispering to each other. They’re watching the door as well, and suddenly I’m angry at their gossip. They don’t know. I don’t even know. They’re not allowed to judge him. I hate them for judging him. Shauna follows my gaze, and I’m pretty sure she understands my message.

  “I told Ailee to leave that table open while he’s here,” she mutters. “I’m sorry.”

  I want to tell her that it’s ok. That it’s not a big deal, but it is. There are plenty of other empty tables in the café. It’s not packed. It’s not ok.

  “His name is Luke,” I say, drawing Shauna back to the conversation.

  “Luke.”

  She says it like that information answers a lot of questions for her.

  “He’s a musician. Or was.”

  She nods. “I can believe that. He’s pretty cute, actually.”

  He is, but it seems silly to talk about stuff like that right now. I try to smile. “I hope he comes back.”

  “I was surprised when he started talking to you. He didn’t talk to anyone until you.”

  “Did anyone ever try to talk to him?”

  No. That’s obvious. She just looks away and shrugs. It’s not her job to talk to customers if they aren’t customers. I know that. I can forgive her. It still hurts.

  “Are you going to finish your meal?”

  I should. The only thing stopping me is the fact that I’m no longer hungry. “Can I get it to go?”

  She smiles. Again, she seems to understand. I wonder why she didn’t try to talk to Luke. Maybe it wouldn’t have come to this. Maybe he wouldn’t have needed me and would be getting to know Shauna instead. I go cold at the thought. I can be a very selfish person.

  “I’ll get a box. You want his, too?”

  I look at his untouched plate. I do, but not because I want to eat it. I just can’t stomach the thought of leaving it to be discarded by a heartless busboy.

  “Sure. I’ll pay for both, don’t worry.”

  “I’m not worried, Callie.”

  Surprised, I somehow manage to thank her. I’m not sure how she knows my name. Maybe she knew his, too, and just pretended not to. It has to be hard to spend your days around people pretending not to know them.

  I glance over at the invading couple. They’ve now relaxed and are scanning the menu. I think of Luke. His ring. His eyes. The anger slipping into his face.

  He hadn’t run that day he encoun
tered me in his chair. I wonder what changed.

  ∞∞∞

  I’m not surprised when Luke doesn’t show up the next day. I don’t intend to stay long either. I stop by the table, check in with Shauna, then move on to the next phase of my schedule.

  The second day I can forgive as well. I never lost a spouse. I have no idea how long the grieving period is or what it takes to recover from something like that. I figure it’s probably more than two days. I still check back in at Jemma’s, just in case, this time taking my place at the table for a cup of tea. I hope the recovery period is shorter than I imagine, and my gaze shoots to the door every time it opens, but it’s never Luke. I see Stan, even Darryn showing up for a shift, but not Luke.

  By day three I’m starting to get concerned. I don’t really know him, but that fact brings no comfort, only leaves me feeling incomplete. We have work to do, conversations to explore, memories to share. I don’t know Luke well enough to need him, but I know I need to finish whatever we’ve started, even if we’re only two strangers who decide to remain that way. I just need it to end with a choice.

  I quiz Shauna on day four, but she hasn’t seen him. Even the hostess shrugs, making it clear that my problem is not her problem. Luke is a sidebar, an anecdote for her friends over a beer on the Friday nights she isn’t working. He’s the weird guy who comes in and disturbs the peace by staring at a chair like a freak. That is, until he started eating breakfast with me. Now, he’s the freak who runs away when other people sit in a chair. She isn’t going to help me.

  Oddly enough, my only clue comes from Stan. Luke had taken a call after he fled that day. Stan heard every detail as the younger man hovered in the windbreak, pleading with someone to cancel something and sell the rights to something else. Since Stan knows nothing about him, the conversation makes no sense to him. Since I do, I know I have to keep waiting for him.

  So, I do. Day five, day six, and day seven. An entire week I wait.

  It isn’t until the following week when I can finally breathe again.

  Day Five.

  “Callie.”

  I want to hug him. I actually start to rise from my chair to begin the embrace and catch myself.