Maybe Patrice was just having a bad day. Doubtful. But I’ve worked with know-it-all assholes before. It won’t be the first time and certainly not the last. Maybe if I show up with coffee the first day, I can score some brownie points.
I settle into my seat and try not to worry too hard over what’s going to be waiting for me at the new clinic in a state I’ve never been to. That’s tomorrow’s problem. Today’s is dinner.
In the distance, I spot buildings nestled in a narrow valley. They aren’t the high-rises of a big city that I’m used to, but they’re signs of life and that feels like an achievement. The buildings are small, cutesy, one-and two-story structures with steeply pitched roofs. I don’t see any indicators of familiar fast-food chains, but I can make do with a grocery store. A good PB&J sounds downright gourmet at this point.
Sporadic houses begin to fly by as I draw closer to the town and, before I know it, I slow down to safely cross into what looks to be the main part of Howling Rapids. There’s a large park in the middle with all kinds of colorful, cheery shops bordering its edges. Some of the roofs even sport charming carved eaves. The small town has a very Stars Hollow vibe, including a large gazebo that sits dead center in a beautifully landscaped park.
People mill about, walking from shop to shop or enjoying the last of the sun’s warmth before it threatens to dip behind the gargantuan snowy peaks.
I watch a young girl playing fetch with a massive dog in the middle of the grass. I can’t identify the breed in the dying light, but he’s huge. The little girl makes a sloppy uncatchable throw that reminds me of my own pitching skills. But her dog is determined and chases after it, jumping and twisting until he pulls off the nearly impossible catch. Her giggles carry right through my window, bringing a smile to my face. Aw, this place is adorable.
To my left, a large neon sign flashes the word Diner.
Hell yes!
I’m drawn to it like a moth to flame. I park in the first empty curbside spot I find and sling my bag over my shoulder as I climb out of my car. A chill immediately kisses my arms, but my hunger demands that I abandon any plans to forage for a jacket in the back seat. Instead, I rub my arms and speed walk toward the diner.
The name Droolies is hand-painted on the glass panel at the top of the door. Beneath it is a metal sign attached that reads No Skin, No Service.
My brow furrows at the odd statement, but just then the delectable smells from inside reach out and take me by the throat. Roast beef, mashed potatoes, cornbread…any scent that could be associated with a grandmother’s kitchen wafts over me. I bite back a groan as I’m lured in.
“Grab a menu and sit wherever,” a smiling woman wearing an apron calls out to me as she pushes through a pair of double doors and disappears into the back.
I pull a folded plastic menu from a stack sitting on a podium by the front door and scan for a seat. There’s a rustic motif going on, wood tables and chairs, and even a polished wooden bar top. The lighting is soft, with hanging lamps surrounded by white paper shades giving off a moonlit glow. All in all, the effect is calming and the temperature just right—my goose bumps recede—and I lick my lips in anticipation of feeling the same food coma that I can see on a few patrons’ faces as they stare bemusedly at one another.
That most definitely needs to be me.
I drop down into a booth near a window and am greeted almost immediately by a waitress close to my age with gorgeous pale ginger hair and bright, friendly blue eyes.
“Well, there’s a face I haven’t seen before. You must be new in town. I’m Zara,” she tells me, her smile wide as she takes me in. She’s got the kind of grin that’s as refreshing as lemonade on a hot summer day, sweet with just a little bit of kick. I immediately like her.
“Noah,” I offer. My answering smile is a touch dimmer than Zara’s, but hers grows even brighter as she takes me in. She just seems so…nice.
“Great to meet you. Are you here for the Hunt tonight? I mean, of course you are. That’s why everyone’s here. We’ve had a huge rush, so I hope you weren’t craving mashed potatoes, because we literally just ran out. You didn’t want those, right?”
I’m taken aback by the whirlwind of words that just tornadoed out of her. She grimaces a little and I don’t know if it’s because she’s worried I want mashed potatoes or she knows she just word-vomited all over me.
“No, I’ll survive without mashed potatoes,” I assure, and the worry disappears from her face.
“Oh, thank goodness,” Zara exclaims. She steps closer, the glint in her eyes now apologetic as she presses a hand to her chest and sort of sighs.
“I’m sorry, I know I’m rambling. I always do that when I’m anxious. This is my first time and I’m just so excited and nervous.”
I relax a little and my smile grows softer in understanding. She must be new to waitressing. I remember how I felt on my first day at my first job. Waiting tables is not for the faint of heart, especially if today’s been as busy as she says.
“You’re doing awesome,” I reassure her, tucking a strand of my dark brown hair behind my ear. Instead of scanning my menu, I set it down. “What do you recommend?” I ask, hoping it will make things easier on her. I’m sure she’s dealt with plenty of hard tables today, and I want to make sure that I’m not one of them.
“Oooh, our burgers and pot roast are probably the biggest sellers, but turkey pot pie is the special this week, and Micah just pulled a fresh apple crumble from the oven. It’s to die for.”
Every word out of her mouth is better than the last. “I’ll take a burger, medium rare, and the pot pie. I definitely want in on that apple crumble, but after I’m done stuffing my face on everything else,” I tell her, and she beams at me.
“I like your style, Noah. I’ll go get everything ordered and bring you a water. You want anything else to drink?” I shake my head while handing her the menu, and then Zara hurries off, red hair glinting each time she crosses underneath a light fixture. She leaves me with aching cheeks from smiling too hard and a warm feeling in my chest.
I wonder if Ashwood Springs, Arizona, will be anything like this place?
I’ve never lived in a small town before. Putting up with Patrice’s potential drill sergeant attitude at the clinic might not be so bad if everyone over in that little town is as nice as people here seem to be.
I look around, taking in the diner once more, and catch the eye of a man who’s brazenly staring at me. He’s got dark curly hair, a jaw that looks as strong as a Nutcracker, and a disposition that seems just as stiff. He might be handsome but the bags under his muddy green eyes show he’s also exhausted.
I can relate. Road tripping across the country was exciting in theory, but now that I’m three-fourths of the way through it, I’m ready to be done.
I offer the man a small, unassuming smile because that’s what you do when you accidentally make eye contact with a stranger. It seems this guy was never taught that polite social skill, however, because all he does is continue to stare.