Page 18 of Boiling Point
Cal wobbled slightly as we crossed the tarmac toward the diner. But there was a shift in his posture, as if surviving the flight let him stand taller.
The airfield diner—really just a glorified snack bar with delusions of grandeur—buzzed with laid-back chatter and the clink of glasses. The air smelled of fried food and aviation fuel, a peculiar perfume I’d always found oddly comforting.
Cal stood close at the high-top counter, tugging at his sleeve, hair a little mussed. He looked like a man grateful to have both feet back on solid ground.
“I owe you a drink,” he said, running a hand through his hair as he eyed the menu board.
“This is my turf. Let me buy.” I smirked. “Besides, you’ll need your money for therapy after that flight.”
He shook his head, suppressing a smile. “You returned me to earth in one piece. It’s the least I can do.”
I shrugged and leaned against the counter as he ordered beers and a basket of fries. The cashier handed over two frosty mugs, amber liquid sloshing against the sides, condensation already fogging the glass.
We claimed a small table by the window where sunlight poured over the worn vinyl checkered tablecloth. I slid the basket of fries closer, the scent of salt and grease rising up. Cal settled across from me, taking a tentative sip of his beer.
“That’s actually not bad,” he conceded, surprise flickering over his face.
“See?” I teased. “You’re discovering all kinds of new things today.”
His laugh was low and genuine. “I suppose it’s good to challenge one’s comfort zone every decade or so.”
He relaxed with each sip, the tension from our flight slowly unspooling from his shoulders.
“So, you do this sort of thing often?” His tone was teasing, but I caught the thread of genuine curiosity beneath it.
I nodded, dipping a fry in ketchup. “Every chance I get. Though fuel prices have skyrocketed, so I have to watch my budget. But yes. Call it my version of therapy.” I took a sip of my beer, hoping to nudge the conversation somewhere lighter. “You were a very good sport.”
“Good sport,” he mused, leaning back in his chair and taking another drink. “Does that include the part where I nearly lost consciousness?”
I laughed, the sound mingling with the clatter of plates and the low rumble of a plane taking off outside. Voices rose and fell in an easy cadence around us, but our little table felt like its own quiet world.
Cal followed my gaze out the window to the runway beyond. “I can see why you love it,” he said, quieter now. “There’s a freedom to it.”
“It’s like nothing else.”
I watched him over the rim of my glass, and the sunlight caught in his hair—glints of gold and chestnut woven through the deep brown. There was something fragile about this—sittinghere together, letting go of everything but the present—and I wondered how long it could last before reality intervened.
“Do you have plans for the rest of the weekend?” Cal asked with an intentional offhandedness that made me smile.
“Studying, mostly,” I replied, trying not to sound sheepish. “Some homework for your class. And a psych paper due Friday.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Homework for my class? I intentionally don’t assign weekend work.”
I shrugged, looking down at my beer to hide the warmth creeping into my cheeks. Sunlight spilled through my mug, rippling gold across the tablecloth. “The assignment due Wednesday.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Which is based on Monday’s material.”
“Yes…” I hesitated, considering. “I struggle with the hybrid experiential setup of the course. I’m more of a top-down learner rather than bottom-up, so I compensate by working backward. I look at the homework, which assesses the overarching concept, get a feel for it, and then the integrated lecture and lab activities make more sense to me.”
He blinked, jaw slightly slack. “You are,” he said, voice dipped in admiration, “terribly overachieving. And remarkably well-versed in pedagogy.”
“Oh, that’s my Aunt Suzy. She’s a professor of education at the University of Houston. When I struggled in Dr. Watkins’s class last fall, that was her assessment. It took us halfway through the semester to figure out that I needed to work backward, but it solved my problem.”
A plane roared to life outside, the vibration thrumming through the window and into my bones. His eyes were on me, intent and searching, and that familiar twist tightened in my chest—a blend of thrill and fear, but not from the flight.
“I’m nothing short of impressed, Gabrielle.”
I took a long gulp of beer, trying to cool the heat in my cheeks. “Anyway,” I said, hoping to deflect his gaze with a quip. “What about you? Grading papers all weekend?”
