Page 7 of Save the Game

Hi. It’s Max.

Who gave you this number?

I hear a bark of surprised laughter from the dining room, and my smile grows wider. This night is really looking up.

2

Max

I can’t concentrate on my book at all, with Luke flitting around and sending me flirty looks every time he walks by. I am horribly aware of the fact that I haven’t brushed my hair in three days, and that my clothes are two sizes too big. I’m still not convinced that he’s not fucking with me—nobody in their right mind would ask me out right now. I’ve stopped putting any effort into my appearance and it shows.

I notice he left the pie for me to finish; I wish he hadn’t. My appetite has been garbage this past year, and the task of finishing this is daunting. By the time 2 a.m. rolls around, I’ve only eaten half of it. Luke strolls back over with a pot of coffee, leaning a hip against the opposite booth and grinning at me. I honestly can’t tell if it’s meant to be a flirty smile or if that’s just the way he does it, naturally; only half of his mouth pulls upward, and the other side ticks downward. With his brown eyes dancing in the fluorescent light, it’s a remarkably devilish look. I wonder if he practices it in the mirror.

“Refill?” He asks, gesturing toward my mug with the pot.

“Uhm, sure. Thank you.” I nudge the mug over the table toward him so that he doesn’t have to lean too far. He does anyway; I get a whiff of sunscreen and grass.

“How’s the book?”

“Oh, it’s…honestly, I haven’t read much. Too distracted.”

“By what?” He smirks. I roll my eyes and the smile kicks up a notch. “Distracted by my fiendishly good looks?”

“Distracted by that hideous shirt, more like.” I aim a pointed look at his shirt. He arches a brow at me and gestures at his torso.

“What? I look fantastic in yellow.”

“You look like an omelet.”

He laughs, lurching forward in a way that makes the coffee slosh dangerously in the carafe. Jokes aside, he really is unfairly attractive: sun darkened skin and expressive brown eyes. His dark brown hair is longer than mine and tousled up in a way that makes one wonder who was running their hands through it to get it so ruffled. He looks like he could have come from a Calvin Klein shoot, while I look like I came straight from bed.

“But a handsome omelet,” I allow, and try to ignore the way my stomach swoops at my own daring. Relax. You’re just flirting, it doesn’t mean anything.

He winks at me as he turns toward the door when the bell sounds. I try not to feel too disappointed when he greets the newcomers with the same flirty attention with which he spoke to me. I shouldn’t be surprised—being nice to people is his job, and he’s obviously good at it. Apparently, I’ve become so starved for affection that I become attached to virtual strangers. Ironic, really, seeing as I’ve spent the last year doing my level best to become invisible and not get hit on.

Annoyed with myself, I mark my place in the book and drink the last of my coffee. I leave enough money on the table to cover the pie as well as a tip for Luke, and head toward the door. He meets my eye across the room, where he’s taking the orders of the newcomers; he makes a hand gesture that probably signals a request to wait. I pretend I didn’t see it and push through the door.

It’s dark outside, and blessedly quiet. Though I could do without the insomnia, I have to admit that there is something peaceful about being one of the only people awake. I start walking in the direction of Marcos’ and my apartment.

“Hey! Max, wait!” Luke’s voice calls from behind me. Surprised, I turn to see him jogging down the sidewalk for me, yellow shirt shining in the light of the street lamps. He comes to a halt in front of me and smiles, head cocked slightly to the side. “You left without getting your change.”

I look down at his hand, fist clenched around dollar bills. “Uhm. That’s your tip.”

“You left me an $18 tip for a single cup of coffee?”

“And pie.”

“The pie was on me.” He holds out his hand. When I raise my cupped palm, he presses the money into my hand instead of just dropping it, like I’d expected. I jolt at the contact; it’s the first time someone’s touched me in a year.

“Okay,” I say, trying to cover up my obvious flinch, “well, thanks.”

“Sure thing.” He starts walking backward, eyes on me. “Text me when you get home. Send me a picture of you in bed.”

“Oh my god,” I laugh, shaking my head. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

He turns and starts to jog back toward the diner, laughing somewhat maniacally. I wait until he’s out of sight before I turn and continue making my way home. I feel lighter, somehow. Luke’s ridiculous flirting and goofy disposition make me feel like I’ve spent the last few hours sitting in the sun, skin still tingling with the warmth of the rays.

I let myself into the apartment silently, grateful for the light Marcos left on for me. He hates my penchant for nighttime wanderings, but understands the necessity. When I can’t sleep, I can’t sit still. And so, I wander. I’m glad that tonight my wandering brought me to Luke and gave me the opportunity to bask in his glow for a bit. As though my thinking of him brings him to fruition, my phone dings with a text message. I wait until I get into my bedroom and close the door before I check it, not wanting to disturb the hopefully sleeping Marcos.

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