Archie Rader swerved his truck, cussed and then slowed. There was very little traffic on the road at this hour and he was curious. Curious enough to back up his ancient pickup in the middle of the street.
‘What the hell?’ He stared at it for a moment before realising what he was contemplating wasn’t organic. It was, in fact, synthetic. It was a weave. A hair extension in an odd caramel colour. ‘And here you thought it was a beaver, dumb ass.’
He put the truck back in drive just as headlights came up on the crest of the hill behind him. He had no idea where he was going other than along the road he was on. That’s what the guy at the gas station had told him. Follow this road to the diner. Chicken, waffles, cheap pancakes and rashers of bacon as far as the eye could see is what he’d promised. He’d also promised the shittiest coffee Archie had ever had.
He could live with that.
‘So long, roadkill.’ He pressed the gas, ignored the little hitch the truck gave as it took off, and focused on finding some food. His head was too full of bullshit and worry to even think about it before coffee. Not after he’d been driving all night long.
And since he had nowhere to go, he’d be driving all day and all night again. And again. And then again until he somehow figured this big mess out. Being homeless and drifting had not been in his game plan for this year. Settling down, starting a family, being a grown-ass man…that had been his plan.
‘No use crying over spilled dreams,’ he whispered. Then he saw the larger-than-life yellow and red sign for the diner and his heart leaped just a little. He had about two hundred dollars to his name, not counting the stuff in the bank that would be harder to get. He aimed to spend some of what he had on breakfast.
‘Betsey, I ordered an English muffin.’ Earl waved a limp piece of toast at her.
Betsey did her best to not roll her eyes. ‘You ordered toast, Earl.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
Mrs Kline rolled her eyes at Betsey, breaking the eye-rolling rule. Betsey smiled. Earl had been having a problem remembering things lately. Luckily his daughter Janine thought it was due to a new medication and not the more dreaded senility or something more serious. ‘He ordered toast, I heard him,’ Mrs Kline whispered conspiratorially.
Betsey gave her a nod and a wink and then made her way over to Earl. She loved her job, believe it or not. What she hated was the ugly-ass brown-mustard-baby-poop-yellow diner uniform complete with Peter Pan collar and red neckerchief. Maybe one of these days The Double Star would decide to update its uniform.
She snatched the toast from Earl, dumped it in the trash, patted his hand and yelled, ‘An English muffin for Earl!’ through the order window at Tony. Tony, a gaunt man with about four grey hairs on his head, grunted once and turned to slide an English muffin into the toaster.
‘Thanks, Bets.’
‘No problem, Earl. I must have misheard you.’
As she passed Mrs Kline again on her way to wipe down the empty tables, the woman whispered, ‘You should have saved the toast. He’s liable to get the other and swear he ordered toast.’
Betsey chuckled. ‘Damn. Why didn’t I think of that?’
The pickup truck pulled up just as she was replacing the Mason jar full of fake daisies and sunflowers on the table. The truck was a 70s model if it was a day and a nice mustard-yellowish brown to match her uniform. But somehow the colour worked on steel way better than on a twenty-five-year-old woman.
‘Hello, stranger.’
She meant the truck, but when the man who drove it got out her interest perked.
No room for that kind of stuff, lady. Put your revving sex drive away.
‘– up!’
She turned and before she could catch herself barked, ‘What?’
‘Order up!’
‘Order?’
‘My English muffin!’ Earl said around a mouthful of food. Then: ‘Ah, never mind, doll, keep doing that.’ He stood up, walked behind the counter and grabbed his food from the pickup window. He’d only been eating at the Double Star for thirty or forty years. Betsey figured she could let that slide.
She was eager to study the newcomer some more when the little brass bell over the door jingled and he entered. At least six foot three, he had dark-dark-brown hair and pale-blue eyes. The lovely colour of a favourite pair of jeans worn almost to death. Speaking of jeans, he was wearing them and they were perfection, Betsey thought. Levi’s, same pale-blue as his eyes, and sitting right there on his lean hips. Right where the sweet spot was. Not too high so he looked like grandpa. Not too low so he looked like some young skater kid who needed to hitch up his pants every three seconds. They were also not too tight and not too loose.
Not to sound too much like Goldilocks, but Betsey thought the stranger’s jeans were just right. Beyond the jeans he wore work boots, a green Henley and a brown bomber jacket that appeared to actually have been bombed.
‘– seat before I perish?’
She blinked, sound swimming back to her ears as if she’d been in the vicinity of the bomb that had destroyed that jacket of his.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I said, can I just grab a seat before I perish?’ He grinned at her and her stomach seemed to vibrate. It was a disturbing but not unpleasant sensation.
‘You must be hungry,’ she said, grateful she didn’t sound as tongue-tied as she felt. ‘You can have this booth.’
He slid in and she handed him a menu from her ugly-ass red apron. ‘Everything is good. Before you ask.’
‘Great. Then what’s cheap?’
She laughed. ‘Restricted budget?’
‘The most restricted. As in dirt poor
