Page 36 of Triple Play

Her eyebrows scrunch adorably. “I had waffles maybe a month ago?”

“But at Waffle House?”

More scrunch. The upside of me driving instead of her is that I don’t fear for my life or Lilac’s steering. The downside is it makes it harder to kiss her when I want. “It was at my friend’s house?” she says.

“Is Waffle House not in Massachusetts?” I swallow against that possibility. Something I didn’t even think to check before I signed my contract. “What do you do for breakfast?”

“We have Dunks,” Shira says.

“Right, well, if we’re here, let’s go.” Fortunately, we’re relatively near an exit. I turn off and navigate my way toward the big yellow sign, pull into the parking lot, and open the driver’s side door. Instantly, the air smells like grease, cigarettes, and slightly burnt syrup. Perfect, in other words.

Shira and Felix are looking at each other in silent conversation. Stop that. Even if I am objectively acting a little weird.

“The food’s good,” I prompt.

“Sure, babe.” Shira says it as if she doesn’t believe me. But she slides out of her seat.

After a second, Felix crawls out of the back, then unfurls himself to his full height, squinting at the midday sun and taking in the ambiance of the parking lot. “Smells like it could be all right.”

They’re both indulging me, I realize. I understand why Shira might do that. Felix…less so. “C’mon,” I say, “I’m buying.”

Inside, it only takes a minute for us to get seated in a red pleather booth, Shira and me on one side and Felix on the other. A patina of syrup covers everything. The bench seats are sticky; the table is sticky; the menus are sticky.

Felix plucks the syrup bottle from its place of honor on the table, unclips the metal tab covering the bottle’s dispenser, and gives its contents a sniff. “This isn’t maple.” His tone is aggrieved enough that Shira actually giggles.

He’s looking at the bottle, face drawn in an exaggerated pout. It’s…cute. Which is the wrong word for someone who’s as big as he is and who has a flannel aura. But it’s cute.

“It’s my revenge,” I say.

Felix’s eyes snap up to meet mine as if I’m being serious. As if this is some kind of power play between us and not just me mildly ribbing him about being a syrup snob from New England.

“For all that stuff about mac and cheese last night,” I clarify.

“Right.” He puts the syrup bottle back where he got it from. “What’s good here?”

“The waffles.”

“That probably figures.”

A waitress comes over. I brace myself to be recognized—the closer we get to Atlanta, the more likely it is to happen.

“Morning,” she says. “What’re y’all eating today?”

I wave to Shira, since politeness says to let her order first. She waves right back at me.

“Really, you go ahead,” I say.

“I’m following your lead.” And she turns to me intently as if seeking guidance. After a second, Felix does the same thing, watching with a slight smile playing at his lips.

The server taps her pen against her pad, then narrows her eyes. “Aren’t you…” she begins, and I draw myself up, ready to be Blake Forsyth—to pull a marker from my pocket, to apologize for leaving Atlanta even if I’m not that sorry—when she continues, “…gonna order?”

Felix and Shira both laugh, Shira giggling behind the curtain of her hand, Felix’s laugh filling the half-empty dining room.

Maybe I should be embarrassed: my face heats involuntarily, but it’s matched by an equal warmth in my belly that comes from being gently made fun of by people who like you. Or in Felix’s case, might not hate me. So I laugh along with them and say “Yes, ma’am” to the server. “I’ll take an All-Star.”

“Of course,” Felix mutters.

“That’s what it’s called.”

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