Page 8 of Between Here and There

“You should really stop calling me ‘stranger’, I’m–” he starts.

“No, don’t.” I put my hand up in a panicked attempt to stop him. “Giving you a name would mean that this is real. And I’m sort of on a cloud today. Bad breakup, terrible jobs, and all that. And for tonight, I just want to be… somewhere else for a bit.” I say, downing another bite.

“I get that. And I respect that,” he says between mouthfuls. “If that’s the case, I assume you don’t want to talk about anything remotely connected to reality?”

“Yes. Exactly,” I nod, impressed that he did not think I was weird and just simply went along with it.

“Okay, no reality checks tonight,” he says. “Cheers to the fake us.” Instead of clinking our drinks, he hoists his giant burger. I can’t help but laugh as I raise mine to match.

His presence is surprisingly… good. He doesn’t give off the ‘creepy stalker’ vibes I’ve conditioned myself to expect from strange men in questionable situations. Still, I keep a mental note to stay in public where witnesses abound, just in case. A healthy dose of paranoia never hurt anyone.

But even when I let my mind wander into every worst-case scenario—abduction, fraud, or, I don’t know, some elaborate con involving identity theft—I’m oddly at ease. There’s something eerily familiar about him. It’s disarming, but not in a bad way.

He puts two straws in my giant ass milkshake and motions for me to drink. “Go on, Buttercup.”

“Buttercup?” I laugh, but I take a sip of the thick strawberry milkshake.

He shrugs. “Do you prefer Tantrum?” He shoots me a wink that warms my insides before taking a sip from the other straw.

I’m about to retort when I realize we’re sharing one milkshake, and our faces suddenly close—too close. I instinctively pull back, straw still in my mouth, and splatter some milkshake on his face. He bursts out laughing, and despite myself, I can’t help but smile.

I grab a napkin and, without thinking, start wiping his nose, only to realize a moment too late how intimate the gesture is. I quickly withdraw my hand and retreat again.

“Is something wrong, or are you always this jumpy?” he teases, grabbing the napkin from my hand. He gently wipes my cheek before finishing off the milkshake on his nose.

“I…” I start, but the words catch in my throat. I don’t know how to explain the nerves swirling inside me.

I don’t want him to think that I’m being too comfortable around him. Or that I’m flirting back. I don’t know what I feel about this guy, but it’s too soon for me to even consider any feeling at all. If I show gestures that are too friendly—like wiping the tip of his nose—I might give off the wrong impression.

He studies me for a moment, the teasing look in his eyes softening into something more thoughtful. “You don’t have to say anything. We can just be...whatever this is,” he says, waving his hand between us.

I nod, grateful for the out. “Yeah, whatever this is.”

We sit in silence for a moment, the buzz of the diner around us, and I focus on my burger, taking a deliberate bite to fill the space.

When I glance up, he’s watching me again, but this time there’s something different in his expression—something mischievous. His eyes twinkle, and a slow smirk stretches across his face, the kind that suggests he’s just come up with a brilliant, possibly ridiculous idea.

“What?” I ask warily, setting down my burger.

He leans back in his chair, tapping his fingers on the edge of the table like he’s preparing to unveil a master plan. “How about a game?” he says. And I look at him with raised eyebrows. “Two truths and a lie. You don’t have to tell me which one’s the lie if you don’t want to.”

I briefly consider, then say. “Okay, sounds good. It’s fine, though, I can still tell you.” I smile and take another sip of the milkshake. “You go.”

“Alright,” he says. He thinks for a while, then continues, “Um… I’ve climbed Mount Everest, I can speak Japanese, and I rescued a stray puppy from a burning building.” He holds up one finger for each statement.

He reaches for a handful of potato wedges, pushing the basket toward me. I take one, dip it in ketchup, and study him.

“Puppy is the lie,” I say, confident in my guess.

He shakes his head with a smirk. “Nope. Japanese is the lie. The puppy story was real—quite the adventure, actually.”

I stare at him, surprised. “Seriously? You actually ran into a burning building for a puppy?”

He laughs, leaning back with an easy confidence. He hooks his arm on the seat behind him and casually crosses his legs. So effortlessly cool. “What, I don’t look like the puppy-saving type?”

“Honestly, no,” I admit, shaking my head. He chuckles, and in the low restaurant lighting and his jacket off, I catch a glimpse of his tattoos. There’s an intricate design on his forearm that I can’t quite make out, just faint lines and patterns. And suddenly, I’m imagining him—this rugged, tough-looking guy—cradling a tiny puppy in his arms as flames flicker around him. It’s a mental image that somehow makes him more intriguing, but then I realize something.

I lean in, propping my elbows on the table and narrowing my eyes at him. “Alright, be honest. Is that puppy story just your secret weapon to make women go all soft and find you irresistibly charming?”

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