Page 10 of Between Now and Forever
“Grandma made coconut cream pie,” Taylor says, taunting me with my favorite dessert. “I know you’re dying for a piece.”
Not even Betty Lou’s pie will satisfy my craving tonight, Taylor.
My mind takes the opportunity to replay the day’s events.More like the day’s highlight reel.
Smooth, freckled skin. Bright-green eyes. A dip at the small of her back that fits my hand perfectly.
Now,thatsounds delicious.
“I’m good,” I say. “That extra potato salad you brought filled me up.”
“But did it butter you up?”
Lark chuckles, watching the weekly volley between me and Taylor.
“No,” I say.
“Come on, Jay,”she says, the words a plea. “You’d love her. She’s so pretty and smart, and she teaches—”
“No, Taylor.”I laugh. “I’m not going to date your boyfriend’s mom.”
She huffs. “You’re letting all of that”—she sets the pitcher down and waves her hand up and down me like a game show hostess—“go to waste.”
“How do you know what I’m letting go to waste?”
“You can’t be doing anything too fantastic because you’re in here every damn night.”
“Touché.”
She rolls her eyes.
The food and company are both good. Why go anywhere else?
“We’ll take the check whenever you get a minute,” Lark says, smiling.
“Will do.” She swipes the pitcher back up and looks at me out of the corner of her eye. “But I’m charging you for double the potato salad.”
“It’s a small price to pay for avoiding a date.”
She loads our empty plates—and the mayonnaise bottle that Lark can’t eat without—onto her tray. “Do you dream of being alone for the rest of your life? Who hurt you?”
It’s a joke. I know Taylor. She’s a sweetheart. If she had any idea of how on point her question really was, she’d shit.
“He has mommy issues,” Lark says, winking at me.
“It’s more like the idea of not having anyone else’s problems to manage, or feelings to consider, or crap to move on the bathroom counter so I can brush my teeth in the mornings sounds like heaven,” I say.
Taylor makes a face at me, expressing her exasperation, and then scurries toward the kitchen.
The day’s final rays of sunlight filter through the windows, bathing the dining room in a warm, muted glow. Familiar scents and friendly voices fill the air, creating a relaxing, homelike ambiance that attracts as many patrons as the food. As much as I love the fish on Friday nights and the homemade soups for which Betty Lou is regionally famous, it’s the vibe that brings me back.
I yawn, stretching my legs out in front of me.
“How did the walk-through with Weatherspoon go today?” Lark asks, rolling his straw wrapper into a tiny ball. “Did he sign off on the house, or was he a dick?”
“Well, he’s always a dick ...”
Lark chuckles.
