Night Shifts Black (3 page)

I smile as if I
expected that response, even though I still can’t breathe. “I’m going to guess
blueberry.”

“Orange marmalade,
actually.”

“Really? Ok, wow. So
first you ordered eggs with your toast today, then you chose orange marmalade.
I may have misjudged you.”

“You assign a lot of value
to people’s breakfast choices.”

“We’re in a café. What
metric would you suggest?”

The smile returns,
genuine this time, and it has a strange effect with the redness still influencing
his eyes. It’s haunting, in a way. One of those images that I’m afraid will
affect me at a later moment, when I least expect it.

“You’re right. That’s
fair. Although I notice you went with pancakes, fruit, and no bacon again.”

I don’t know why I’m
surprised he remembers. It was only three days ago.

“I’m pretty
predictable.”

“I’d argue that.”

The comment warms me,
but I let it go. He isn’t trying to start a conversation; he’s trying to end
one.

We stop talking, using
our engagement with this cheap breakfast as a shield against another grenade
that could destroy everything we’ve just spent three days building. And to
think, this used to be my favorite place for tea. Now, it’s my favorite place
for pretending to eat pancakes.

I watch my plate
clear. Quickly at first, then slower as my stomach fills up. There’s something
sad about our pace. I know it will be time to leave soon. Time to go back to my
apartment and try to work on the part of my life that doesn’t include the magnetic
puzzle sitting across from me. Time for him to return to whatever it is he does
now that he doesn’t have music.

The server returns,
almost stunned we’ve not only accepted our meal, but consumed it.

“Can I get you
anything else? We have several fresh baked goods. Coffee?”

Luke shakes his head
and gives his polite smile. Not the real one. I wonder if he even knows how
many he has.

“Thanks, but I’m full.
This was great.”

The server nods and
turns to me. I offer an apologetic look. “No, thank you.”

“Ok. I’ll get your
check.”

“Thanks,” Luke
replies. “You sure you don’t want anything else? My treat this time since you
paid for the last one.”

I give him a similar
response, but decide not to argue about the bill. He’s right. I did cover the
last breakfast. And then some.

It’s time.

My legs feel heavy as
I force a casual front and push up from the table. I reach for my jacket and
find myself struggling with the zipper. I don’t think it’s on purpose, but
maybe it is. I don’t want to say goodbye yet. I don’t want him to know that.

“Thanks for
breakfast,” I say.

“You’re welcome. Thanks
for breakfast on Tuesday,” he responds.

We exchange a smile.
More than a smile.

I begin counting the
minutes until tomorrow.

∞∞∞

Luke doesn’t show the next day. I order my tea
to save face, but I’m beyond disappointed. I entertain all kinds of irrational
thoughts. Silly things that only an over-analytical writer could invent. He’d
think I’d lost my mind if he were here and I actually shared any of them with
him. I wouldn’t blame him.

But he’s not here. He
never promised he would be.

I sip my tea, staring
out the window. I can’t stare for long until my gaze crosses paths with the
chair. It’s still vacant. In fact, I realize I haven’t seen anyone in it since
I’d been an unknowing trespasser. I think it will be strange watching someone
sit in it. Irreverent somehow. It won’t be his or her fault. The intruder won’t
know the blasphemy they’re committing. I imagine what would happen to Luke’s
face if he were here eating his toast with orange marmalade and all of the
sudden someone sat in the chair. I can almost see the darkness settle over his
features, the internal battle that rages every time his present clashes with
that part of his past. My instinct wants to call it “his chair” but I don’t
think it is. There’s a ghost there, in that chair.

The hair rises on my
arm as I study it, only five feet away. I could probably touch it and even make
it look like an accident if I wanted to. I don’t know why I’d want to. It’s
Luke’s chair, not mine. I don’t touch it. I don’t have that right.

Day
Four.

It’s hard to admit I’m relieved to see the
distinctive leather jacket when I enter, but there’s a flood of something
rushing through me, so I have to acknowledge it. He’s switched sides at our
table. I only see the back of his head because he wasn’t watching for me like I
watched for him yesterday and the day before.

I approach slowly,
still not entirely confident he will welcome my presence. If I go in casual, it
will be easier to fake a retreat when he recoils.

“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.