Page 39 of A Night to Remember

“Congrats, son,” Mark says. “Let’s go to the café to celebrate. My treat.”

Shit. The café. Will she freak out if I surprise her at work? But if I don’t go, Mark will think I’m being rude. And Nancy may suspect that I’m trying to keep them away from my “girlfriend”. Maybe if I go, it will throw them both off the scent. Besides, itseems unlikely that Kayla would give anything away if she didn’t want to.

So ignoring the same kind of doubt that, according to the internet, ought to have nagged at George Lucas when creating Jar Jar, I cross the square with my colleagues. Nancy was right: the café definitely looks better than it used to. It was unambiguously a diner when I was growing up—the kind of place where you could belly up after a night of drinking and eat enormous plates of greasy food at 1950s prices. Now, though, the exterior has been painted a tasteful dark blue, and the red stenciling on the picture window somehow manages to look both nostalgic and modern at the same time. There’s space for seating outdoors, and I’m sure that flowers bloom charmingly in the window boxes in the summer. A tiny bell announces our presence as we walk inside. A handsomely lettered chalkboard dominates the wall behind the counter and framed historical photos line the walls. (I surreptitiously check them for any sign of the famous family steam mill.) The dining area is packed with a surprising cross section of the town. I recognize my former school bus driver, a bartender at Mickey’s, and several representatives of the Kentwood fifteen. I nod at the people I know as Mark steers us to a table in the middle of the room. When I see the menu, I’m even more surprised that the café has drawn such a diverse crowd. It’s comfort food, sure, but it’sfancycomfort food. I can order a salad withquinoa. At the old diner, I’d’ve sounded like a city slicker if I’d so much as asked for wheat toast.

I spot Kayla serving another table as I’m taking in the decor. It’s the first time I’ve seen her since we slept together, and I am struck, for about the millionth time in my life, by her effortless beauty. Her thick hair is in a sensible ponytail, and as I admire her figure in her fitted white blouse and slim-legged trousers, I remember that I was the guy who got to worship that body justa few days ago. I was the guy who got to wrap my hands around that hair. Winter light filters through the picture window and glances off her cheekbones and the curve of her lips. But to me, it looks like she’s emitting that light herself. I can’t understand why every head in the place doesn’t turn naturally towards her.

Her bearing is professional, yet warm as she attends to the other guests. She chats amiably with an older couple and accepts (but, wisely, does not eat) a mushed-up french fry from a tow-headed baby. As she moves from table to table, she radiates a kind of open-hearted kindness that is both admirable and endearing. My own heart starts to beat a little faster as she gets nearer to us. I can’t help but hope that she will shine a little of her light on me.

As if reading my thoughts, she glances in our direction. She allows herself a subtle eyebrow raise, but as she steps over to wait on us, I’m relieved to see that she looks pleased, rather than annoyed, to see me.

“Can I get you folks something to drink?” Kayla asks. Mark orders a coffee and Nancy asks for an iced tea. Kayla turns to me expectantly, her expression pleasant, though not familiar. Nothing in her demeanor betrays the fact that I woke up in her bed Sunday morning. I suddenly feel nervous, like she’s expecting an impromptu presentation on intellectual property law instead of my drink order.

“I… uh… you don’t have yerba mate, do you?” God, why did I have to choose something so pretentious?

Her eyes twinkle as she seems to resist the urge to smile more broadly.

“We do, though I think you’re the first person to ever order it.”

“Oh, well, if it’s too much trouble?—”

“It’s not,” she says. “I make it all the time. For myself,” she adds, almost as an afterthought.

“Gabe, what on earthisthat?” Nancy cuts in.

“Oh, it’s just a kind of herbal tea—” I begin.

“It’s caffeinated—” Kayla adds.

“But it doesn’t give you the jitters—” I continue.

“—like coffee,” Kayla finishes my sentence. Nancy’s eyes shift from Kayla to me then back to Kayla again.

“Well, to each his own,” she says, with a satisfied little smile on her face. Damn it. How is that we already sound like a couple? The entire town will probably know about our fling by dinnertime. Kayla notices Nancy’s smile too and flushes slightly.

“I’ll be right back with those drinks, then,” she says, retreating behind the counter.

Though Nancy wears her smug expression for the rest of our meal and watches Kayla and me like a hawk, lunch passes uneventfully. The food is delicious, and I enjoy talking to Mark about a possibly contentious proposal to rezone a lot on Main Street. It turns out the lot initially belonged to a certain Mr. Turner, who left it to his daughter in his will on the condition that she never marry a certain Mr. Shibley, who was the son of his chief rival on the school board, but of course shedidmarry Mr. Shibley, who was reportedly quite the ladies’ man, and the question is, was that provision in Turner’s will even legal? And so on.

My boss insists on paying for lunch for all three of us, despite my objections. As we’re leaving, I catch Kayla’s eye as she walks to the kitchen with two armloads of dirty plates.

“I’m going to stop by the restroom before we go,” I lie shamelessly to my colleagues. “I’ll meet you back at the office.”

As soon as they’re out the door, I rush around the corner where Kayla has just disappeared. She turns as she hears me approach. I put my hands on her hips and pull her in for a kiss before she can say a word. She seems surprised at first, but lets herself sink into me.

“Goaway,” she says, smiling against my lips. “You’re not supposed to be back here.”

“I just couldn’t resist,” I reply, a little breathlessly, pressing my hands against the small of her back. “I can’t stop thinking about you.” I lean in to kiss her again, but this time she steps out of my reach.

“You’re going to get me in trouble,” she says with an adorably mischievous smile. I’m about to pursue her again when a scruffy-looking guy bursts out of the kitchen.

“Kayla, don’t tell me this dude is backagain.Look, bro, the lady doesn’t want anything to do—” he starts to rant, striding furiously towards me. I wonder, briefly, if I’m going to have to defend myself against this stranger. I instinctively put my body between him and Kayla, bracing for a fight. Fortunately, though, he stops short when he sees my face. The explosive energy drains from his body and he breaks into an apologetic grin. “Oh, sorry, man, my mistake. Carry on.” He winks at Kayla, then retreats to the kitchen like nothing happened.

Heart pounding, I turn to Kayla. “What was that about?” I ask once he’s gone.

“Nothing,” she says hastily, not meeting my eyes. I study her. She looks nervous, shifty. Something doesn’t smell right here, and it’s not the cook’s BO or the uneaten bits of food congealing on the plates she’s holding.

“Who did he think I was?” I probe.

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