The streets are bustling. The local supermarket parking lots are full to the brim with pre-Thanksgiving shoppers. Tourists are showing up in droves too, most of them making a stop here to shop or eat before they continue on their way to Yosemite National Park.
I go to Pete’s Place because I’m craving chicken strips and fries, but when I spot the extra-long drive-thru line, I park instead, hoping it’s not too busy inside. The parking lot is mostly empty, and when I walk in, I see most of the tables are empty save one. There’s no one at the counter and I stop at it, staring up at the menu on the wall above the counter, though I already know what I’m going to order.
There’s a guy standing behind the counter with his back to me, talking to one of the cooks through the window, and I frown. He looks very familiar…
He turns around and I realize it’s Diego.
“Hey.” He sounds as surprised as I feel. “Jos. What are you doing here?”
I hate that he calls me by my nickname. I hate even more that I feel no anger upon seeing him. I’m actually glad to see his stupid handsome face.
“I’ve come to order a late lunch,” I tell him, leaning against the counter, suddenly anxious to tell him what happened earlier. How I think I felt the baby move. I even part my lips, ready to confess, but something tells me at the last second I shouldn’t.
So I don’t.
And maybe I didn’t feel the baby. I looked it up, and it’s kind of early for me to feel that. Maybe it was just gas.
I don’t know.
“Oh. I just—I heard you were going to Oregon.” His cheeks flush and I’m dying to know who told him that.
But I don’t ask.
“I stayed home. I didn’t want to go.” I wrinkle my nose.
“Your parents didn’t make you go?” He knows what sticklers they are.
I slowly shake my head. “They didn’t. Can you believe it?”
I don’t tell him the real reason my father is glad I didn’t go. Because he’s embarrassed by me and my “situation.”
“You’re here all alone?” He’s scowling. “For how long?”
“My family will be back Saturday night,” I answer.
“You’re spending Thanksgiving alone then?” He lifts his brows.
“Yeah. Well, I might go to Marley’s.” She offered, but I don’t know. I feel like all my friends’ parents don’t like having me around them anymore. Like what I have might be catching. “It’s okay. I’ve been sleeping in. Taking naps.”
God, I sound so boring. This is what my life has become.
His voice lowers. “Still tired?”
I nod. “It’s only been a few days since we last talked so…yeah.”
“Yeah.” He glances over his shoulder real quick before he returns his attention to me. “You ready to order?”
“Yes, I’ll have the—”
“Chicken strips and fries, with a cherry Pepsi,” he finishes, tapping on the keys of the cash register.
Of course, he knows my order. We used to come here a lot when we were together. “No cherry Pepsi. I’ve cut back on the caffeine. I’ll have a pink lemonade.”
“Got it,” he says as he totals up the order.
Once I’ve paid, I ask, “How long have you worked here?”
“A month. Once the dock closed, I needed to find another job. So here I am.” He shrugs, looking sheepish as he grabs a Styrofoam cup and fills it with ice. “It kind of sucks.”
I start to laugh. “You’re used to being outside and having freedom when you work.”
Last summer, he worked the boat docks at a local resort while I was a cashier in the restaurant. It’s not an easy job. We were constantly busy and I was always on my feet, but I made great money in tips. So did Diego, though he enjoyed his time on the clock mostly by hanging out on the water and working on his tan.
“I’ve got way more respect for you girls in the fountain now, though,” he says, his voice sincere. I wonder if that’s actually true. He always made cracks about us girls working at the fountain, as if we were always at his beck and call. It was pretty sexist, but I tried to play it off by telling everyone he was just kidding.
Maybe he wasn’t. I still really don’t know.
Diego fills my cup with pink lemonade before handing it over to me. “Your food will be ready in a few minutes.”
“Thanks.” I take the cup from him, our fingers grazing, and a little shiver moves through me.
I ignore the shiver. Instead, I concentrate on the fact that we can have a decent conversation and how—grown up it feels. I’m proud of myself. I’m proud of Diego too. Look at us, being responsible adults.
Next step is for us to talk about the future. And the baby. We haven’t yet, but we need to. I need to know. What is he going to do? What sort of role does he want to play in our child’s future? Does he want to provide financial support? Does he want custody?
My mother says I shouldn’t allow him any custody, but that’s messed up. He’s the baby’s father. He deserves to be a part in our child’s life, just as much as I do.
I go sit at a table not too far from the front counter and pretend to scroll through my phone, but I’m secretly watching Diego. The way he concentrates so hard on the register as he rings up another customer. How fast he is, which shouldn’t surprise me, considering how fast he is on a football field. He smiles and chats up the customers, a younger couple with kids, and even though he’s smiling, I can feel the tension he radiates. Something’s bothering him. Something’s always bothering him, it seems.
Right now, it’s probably me.
It’s when I’m actually looking at my phone that he surprises me with his approach, setting a tray with my meal and my drink onto the table I’m sitting at.
“Here you go,” he says. “Need anything else?”
I glance up at him, wondering if I’m getting special treatment. I immediately tell myself I’m not. “No thank you. I’m good.”
“Enjoy.” He doesn’t move. Doesn’t smile either and I frown, wondering if he has something else to say.
He does.
“Listen, you want to meet up tonight? Maybe?” I part my lips, ready to say no, but he cuts me off. “Don’t say no. We need—don’t you think we should talk? About everything?”
I swallow hard, my appetite leaving me, replaced by nerves. He’s right. We should talk. Wasn’t I just thinking that exact same thing? But thinking it versus actually doing it is difficult.
“I don’t know…” My voice drifts and I grab a fry, popping it into my mouth. It’s hot and salty and has the perfect amount of crunch, and I close my eyes for the briefest moment, enjoying the taste.
When I open my eyes, I find Diego staring at me like he swallowed his tongue. Like he enjoyed watching me eat that fry. “Come on, Jos,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I work until five. We can meet after that.”
“Where?” Oh, I hate that I asked that. Now I sound like I actually want to do this.
Deep down, despite my anger toward him and the way he utterly, publicly humiliated me with his deceit, I still want to talk to him.