Page 5 of Hush Money
There is no chance she could still be working there.
Right?
“I’ll probably be waiting tables here till I’m sixty. You know social workers don’t make
shit,”she had told me once.
I sigh and swipe a hand down my face.
“Punch in Kim’s Diner, please,” I tell him. He nods.
And in nine minutes, we’re there.
It sits on the corner of an intersection in Midtown, and like just about everywhere else in
New York, there is no convenient parking.
“I’m not supposed to let ya go without me, boss,” Mac says. I look at him through the rearview and put a hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t call me that. And don’t worry. I’m the invisible Everett. I won’t be long.”
And before he can protest, I open the door and hop out. I open the door, the little bell
ringing, and look around. It’s past midnight, but there are still a few people eating. And then I see her, pouring a cup of coffee for a man sitting at the counter. Her dusty-pink diner shirt and matching apron look like the same one she wore fifteen years ago, and her long blonde locks are pulled back into a messy knot on the top of her head. She smiles as she talks to him, making conversation as easily as ever. She walks down the counter to another customer, clearing her plate and talking to her too. And then her eyes lift to me, and I freeze.
EVIE
The normal diner sounds—the bell chiming, the quiet mutters, the silverware clanking—all seem to cease the second my brain registers that it’s him.
Here. In Kim’s Diner.
After all these years.
I’ve thought about this moment so many times. What I would do, how I would react, what I’d say—if anything at all. But then he lays eyes on me, and I completely freeze. I can’t move a muscle. My body forgets how to operate, and my brain shuts off.
But then he smiles.
It’s faint, and it’s pained, but it’s beautiful nonetheless. And then the little clock that hangs on the wall strikes me back to reality with its ticking, and it’s like someone hits the unmute button. I put down the pot of coffee I’m holding and pull my apron off over my head. I walk around the counter and make a beeline for him, still standing just inside the doorway.
I can hear my heart pounding in my ears, and it’s not just butterflies in my stomach. It’s like a fucking kangaroo in there, bouncing off the goddamn walls. But I just follow my feet straight to him.
“Is it really you?” I ask him as I finally get within inches of him, and his smile widens. Before he answers, he reaches out and pulls me in for the longest, tightest, warmest hug I’ve had in a decade. It goes on longer than I should let it, but at one a.m., here in Kim’s Diner, I really don’t give a fuck. My best friend is back.
“Yeah, Eve,” he says, his voice leaving a trail of chills on my skin. “It’s me.” Finally, we come apart, and I just stare up at him for a moment, taking him in. He looks so much the same as he did all those years ago. A little more stubble on his face now, but it makes him look more sophisticated. His eyes are still that striking gray, and I still feel like they see right through me. I notice that he has filled out a little bit; thirty-four-year-old Keaton looks like a man compared to twenty-one-year-old Keaton. He was beautiful then, but he’s bigger, stronger now. He looks more…seasoned. But in the best way.
“What…what are you doing here? Are you…”
“Here for you? Yes,” he says, and I swallow. “I don’t typically make it a habit of hitting up diners at one o’clock in the morning unless it’s for good reason.” He smiles, and I feel my stomach flip. I clear my throat then pull him toward an open booth at the back of the room. I slip in and motion for him to sit across from me, and thank goodness, he does.
“Well, uh…what are you doing here, Keat? Is everything okay? How did you know I would be here?” I ask.
“I didn’t,” he admits, leaning back against the booth, the t-shirt he has on tightening over his broad chest. “I was just hoping.” My eyes are wide as I wait for him to elaborate. But he doesn’t, and I feel myself growing more anxious.
“You were just hoping I’d still be working at the same diner you left me at over a decade ago, huh?” I say with a nervous laugh. But he doesn’t smile. His eyes drop to the table as he slides his fingers over the fork that sits on the placemat.
“I didn’t leave you,” he says, just above a whisper. Then his big gray eyes lift to mine, and I want to punch myself for even letting the words leave my mouth.
You left him, you idiot.
