Page 37 of Glitter

“The usual booth would be great, Ma,” Dusti replied.

Grabbing a pair of laminated menus, she led us toward a booth that was along the wall, beneath a window, about halfway toward the back of the diner. As we followed her, I jostled Dusti’s arm to get his attention, mouthing the word ‘Ma?’ at him to ask him why he was calling this older woman that.

He made me wait, until we were seated in the booth and she’d left us alone with our menus, for an answer. “Yeah, ‘Ma.’ I’m not sure what her actual name is, but everyone who eats here calls her Ma.”

Assuming it was probably a small-town thing, I let the subject go with only an “Oh. Okay.” There was a more pressing issue I wanted to bring up with him, anyway. “So…if you and your parents have been coming here for a long time, and you guys come here pretty regularly…how likely is it that your parents are going to show up and crash our brunch?”

Dusti laughed away my concern, then leaned in over the table, like he was going to share a secret with me. “Not at all likely,” he said. “At least, not today. My parents left for a weeklong dentists' convention and won’t be back in town until the end of the week.”

I tried not to let my relief show too much at this news; I mean, they were his parents. But it was nice to know that there was no chance of my time with Dusti getting encroached on by another unexpected appearance by his parents.

Our conversation flowed easily, between bites of delicious food that had been well worth the drive. We both shared some more about our respective jobs, swapping amusing anecdotes about some of the odd interactions we’ve had with the people we were helping.

Toward the end of the meal, Dusti commented, “Working for my parents was so not what I planned on doing with my life.” His plate held a shallow pond of syrup and he scooped up a spoonful, slurping it into his mouth. “Growing up, the only thing I ever dreamed of becoming was a sparkly unicorn, and I achieved that goal by the time I was fourteen. After that…one job was just as good as any other.”

I was fascinated, and a bit queasy, as I watched him spoon up more syrup off his plate and slide it into his mouth. When he pulled it out, a thin, golden strand of syrup dangled from the spoon, stretching longer and longer until it dribbled onto his shirt.

Dusti had already used up all of his napkins, so I passed him one of mine, pointing out the small, sticky mess on his shirt.

“When I was little,” I told him, “I wanted to build things. Houses, boats, decks…whatever. If it involved a hammer and some nails, I was happy as a clam. When I got older, I thought…maybe construction, or even architecture.”

“So what happened?” Dusti asked. He didn’t sound judgmental, only curious. “Couldn’t find the right classes? Not enough money to pay for college?”

“Not enough ability,” I replied bluntly. “Turns out, hammers and I don’t get along. I can’t draw a straight line to save my soul, even with a ruler. And learning the sort of math needed for either of those fields made me want to take a nap.”

Having reached his apparent daily quota for syrup, Dusti finally rested his spoon on his plate and nudged the dish away.

He rested his hand on top of mine, commenting, “But at least your job still deals with building things—you help other people build things. If you discount some of the stickers and toys we give to the kids, my job has nothing to do with unicorns.”

The arrival of the check ended our conversation, as a brief tussle broke out when we both reached for it. Utilizing the classic technique of loudly saying “Hey, what’s that?” while peering intently over his shoulder, I was able to distract Dusti long enough that I managed to snatch the bill from his slackened hold.

He pouted adorably, which had no effect on me. At least, not the sort of effect that would prompt me to relinquish the bill to him.

“Nope, my treat,” I said. “Better luck next time.”

The thought of a next time stuck with me as I paid the bill, as we exited the diner, and as we walked across the parking lot. Actually, it wasn’t only the thought of another outing similar to this one, but also the warm glow of contentment from all the things Dust and I had done together yesterday and today that weren’t sex, that had me speaking up as we reached his car.

“This was fun. I’m glad you suggested it,” I said.

“Yeah, it was. You’re—”

“We should do it again,” I blurted out, cutting him off mid-sentence.

“Okay…” he drawled slowly, blinking his blue eyes as he looked at me over the hood of his car.

“I don’t mean eating breakfast or brunch together after sex. Or rather…not only that. That’s not… A date. I mean a date,” I exclaimed loudly. “I want to go on a date. With you. A date with you.”

I expected more confusion. Or amusement at my disjointed and frantic rambling. Or even happiness—over the top or sweet and bashful.

Yes, happiness at my asking him out would’ve been nice.

But what I got… What I saw on his face—his jaw tightly clenched, his lips pressed into a thin line, and his narrowed eyes shooting blue fire—was anger. Pure, hot, indisputable anger.

Chapter 17

“You asshole,” he hissed, sharply smacking his hand on the roof of his car. “You absolute, goddamned, fucking asshole. You’ve ruined it. How dare you fucking ruin it?”

He shoved away from his car, the soles of his canvas shoes swishing on the pavement as he furiously paced, back and forth and back and forth, marking out a path that was just a touch longer than the length of his car.

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