As I drove I became hyperconscious of the cuff on my wrist. I didn’t know if I was responsible for what had happened during the night, and part of me worried a horse might suddenly appear out of nowhere, maybe galloping alongside the Jeep or sitting in the backseat or whatever. But neither happened, thankfully.
We stopped at a breakfast place called Duckies in a tiny beach town. I made sure to broadcast my make-peace-not-war message as soon as we stepped inside. With the number of truckers and bikers in there it could’ve turned ugly otherwise. Then I asked our server for the booth by the windows near the emergency exit, some part of me registering that I was thinking in terms of tactical advantages and escape plans. I didn’t know what was happening and I wanted to be ready for anything.
Daryn and I gave the waitress our orders right away and had a bonding moment over the fact that neither of us liked coffee. It was a quick moment. Then she pulled a beat-up journal out of her backpack and started writing in it. I channeled my energy into making a multilevel structure out of sugar packets and creamer pods.
When our food came, she plowed through a stack of blueberry pancakes and I put away a plate of eggs, bacon, and hash browns, knowing it would give me heartburn, but I was hungry and needed the fuel. We still weren’t talking but I had plenty of time to observe her. She ate like she was storing up for the winter. Fast. A little messy. Drowning every bit of pancake in a waterfall of maple syrup like she had reverse diabetes. Her foot wiggled under the table as she ate, which was weird because usually she seemed really calm. She’d tied her hair up in a knot on top of her head and …
I don’t know. She looked good.
Shame she was such a head case. Probably a criminal on the run. Bummer she thought I was one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse.
When she glanced up and caught me watching her, she gave me a look, like what? So I shrugged, like nothing, and we carried on eating and not saying a word.
It was the strangest breakfast I’d ever had.
I didn’t know what to make of it.
So far every second with this girl felt like coming around a blind corner.
We were waiting for the bill when she said, “Your hand looks better.” She wiped her lips with a napkin. “Does it hurt?”
“Oh, this? Barely. Almost not at all. It did last night but now it’s better. Weird, because it was really busted up, but now it’s, like…”
“Better?”
“Exactly. Way better than my stomach’s going to feel after this food.” Stop, Blake. Just slow down.
“Oh, no. Do you have a stomachache?”
“No. My stomach’s prime.” What the hell was coming out of my mouth?
“Prime? So … it’s okay?”
“Totally. All good.”
After that I think I blacked out for a few seconds. When I came back around, Daryn had linked her hands over her head and was stretching in a way that made it an extreme test of self-control to maintain eye contact. The two guys in the booth next to ours looked over. It wasn’t the first time.
“What do you think,” Daryn said, tipping her head toward the window. “One-horse town?”
Okay. Here we go. “I guess you could say that.”
She rested her elbows on the table and leaned in. “You’ve seen him, haven’t you?” she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Your horse?”
I nodded.
“And? Was it amazing?”
“You could say that, too.”
“Will you show me?”
The bikers in the next booth looked over again. They were starting to piss me off and I already had a hot trigger from a terrible night of sleep. And from being told I was War. I could feel the anger kindling inside me and imagined it filling the space around me, a fight breaking out. I knew it was seconds away from happening.
Daryn followed my gaze. “Morning, guys,” she said, all chipper. “Try the blueberry pancakes. They’re prime.”
Just like that, it was big grins and thanks and have-a-great-days for Daryn. With that handled, she settled back.
“Prime,” I said.
Her eyes had a shine, like the sun on the sea.
She gave a little satisfied shrug. “Totally. All good.” She patted the table. “Pay up. Let’s get out of here.”
*
Ten minutes later, we were driving south on Highway 1. Daryn’s boots were up on the dash and she’d sunk into my Giants sweatshirt like a turtle in a shell. As eager to talk as she’d been at the diner; now she looked like she just wanted to be left alone.
“How’s it going over there?” I didn’t know what else to say. And I was done with silence.
She glanced at me. “Sorry. I’m just trying to figure out how to approach this. I won’t be able to answer everything. Okay?”
“Okay.” I couldn’t understand why she seemed nervous. Now. Talking to me. How was this the same girl who winked at bikers? “How about this,” I said. “I’ll ask questions, you answer them. What’s your last name?”
She let out a slow breath, like she was dreading this. “Martin.”
“How old are you, Daryn Martin?”
“Seventeen.”
“What’s your favorite breakfast food? Blueberry pancakes, right? Because if they’re not, I’m going to be crazy impressed by what you did back there.”