Page 15 of When We Meet Again

The ride home is a little more mellow compared to the drive over. Mostly because I haven't been obnoxiously singing at the top of my lungs. Instead, I wanted to use the time to think.

The past few hours were more amazing than I thought they’d be. When Roman first suggested we check items off my bucket list, I freaked. Not once while Patrick and I were living together did he make any effort to help me complete it. Or even acknowledge there was a list. It wasn’t like it was hard to miss. I'd written it with green marker on white paper, with pink blotter dots, and hung it on a bare, stainless-steel fridge, with the magnet I got from Pittsburgh.Really hard to miss…

I look at Roman and he must sense my whirring mind because he smiles.

“What’s up, Kensi?”

I pause a moment, hesitant about revealing the whole spiral. “I don’t think the popcorn is going to hold me over until lunch,” I land on, seconds before my stomach growls.

He looks at me, back at the road, and back at me. “Was that your stomach?”

“No…” I over-exaggerate my eye roll before continuing, “It was a tiny bear I picked up at the park. Now hurry up and get us both home before the two of us have to eat you.”

He laughs. “Relax, Dahmer. We have twenty more minutes until civilization.

“That sign said there was a gas station a mile up the road. We could just stop there and eat a breakfast burrito from those spinny things they have.” My stomach growls again at the thought.

“Yeah. No. I’d rather us eat roadkill. It would be just as deadly.”

I huff and cross my arms across my chest. Yes, I’m being dramatic, and no, I don’t give a rat’s ass. I’m hungry.

“Oh, shit, Kensi…are you…hangry?” He gives me a devilish grin.

I’m not in the mood. I’ve done a one-eighty. “Feed me or ‘go to the mattresses.’”

“SolidGodfatherreference.” He holds out his fist for me to pound it.

I ball my fist and hit it with a little too much force. “I’m not sure why people in their twenties are into pounding fists. What happened to high fives?”

Leaning my head against the window, I see his hand laying in front of me out of my peripheral. I slap him a low five and the corners of my mouth tilt, fighting a smile.

We eventually find a diner right past the gas station he refused to stop at. I’m not sure this place will be any better, but I guess we’ll see.

I lead us to a table close to a window since it’s ‘seat yourself’ because I’m starving. I plonk myself down and briefly take in the scene: Side ponytails and leg warmers over leggings are the uniform of these poor geriatric waitresses.

Roman wears his feelings on his face. His eyes are wide, and his brows furrowed. A solid mix of scared and confused. "What era is this supposed to be?"

I grab a menu from the holder and open it, hiding my face. I always forget about our age difference. I was born in 1985. He was born in 2000. Putting a year on it really puts all of this in perspective.

“It’s the eighties. The music wasn’t as good as the nineties, but they had a solid string of John Hughes’s movies”

“Who?”

Before I can answer, a bright blob appears in the corner of my eye. “Hi there! Name’s Rose. Can I get y'all somethin’ to eat?” I turn to look at the deep, raspy lady voice and see little old Rose with her short, white hair held back by plastic, bow-shaped barrettes.Poor Rose.

A laugh flies out of Roman’s mouth, and he covers it up with a cough. I smile knowing exactly what he’s thinking—“What the fuck?”

“You go first, Miss Hangry Pants.”

I scoff at the name. “I’ll have the pumpkin pancakes and a side of fruit.” I go to close my menu but pause, “You know what? Skip the fruit, but add bacon, egg, and cheese on an English muffin.”

Roman’s eyes widen. But just when I think he’s going to put me down for ordering so much, he makes me feel nothing but accepted, “That sounds good. I’ll have what she’s having.”

Rose isn’t writing any of this down. Every time I visit a restaurant, and the server ‘memorizes’ my order, it’s like a twisted game of breakfast Russian roulette.

“Anything to drink?” she rasps out. Definitely a lifetime smoker.

Roman looks at me knowingly. “Two coffees. Two waters.”

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