9. Chapter Nine

I'm usually fine with Monday mornings. I always open at the diner, and since it's slow, it's always just me and Mel. And we tag-team it all, her cooking and me doing everything else.

But today, as I park my truck and let myself in through the back door, still rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I can understand why Monday mornings get such a bad rap.

They fucking suck.

I mean, maybe that's because I was up most of the night, my mind replaying ten-year-old memories that really didn't need to be replayed. At least my house is now spotless. Cleaning is a wonderful distraction.

Thanks, Josh.

Mel is doing prep work—chopping and baking and things—and I hurry to hang my coat up, grab myself a cup of coffee, and then get to work helping her. By the time we open at six, I'm still not really awake, but I manage to get through the next two hours of my shift without pissing anyone off or breaking any plates.

Two tables are occupied at eight thirty. Predictable, like nearly every Monday morning since I started working here. Old Joe McClellan and his wife, Tammy, sit together on one side of a booth, sharing Mel's French toast special, and Angie's at her booth near the front door, seated cross-legged with her back up against the wall as she reads a book and sips her third cup of coffee. She waves me over on my way back out of the kitchen.

"Coop, have you read this one?! Seriously! It's—" She starts laughing, although she tries to muffle the sound into her book.

I just shake my head and top off her coffee. "Ang, I should probably be bringing you decaf, huh?"

"No, no, you don't understand, see, there's this guy, and he wakes up one morning and just BOOM! outta nowhere, he's got all these crazy superpowers! Flying and super strength and..."

Behind me, the door opens, and I fucking swear I feel him enter the room. Like some sort of scene from a movie or some shit. Like he's got some force pulling me toward him. Magnetism, maybe. Yeah, that's it. He's fucking magnetic, and I feel it and I just want to turn around and let myself be drawn in his direction.

Angie's still going on and on about the book she's reading or something, oblivious that I'm not even hearing her, but it's like my body is suddenly on high alert. Fucking traitorous body that's suddenly much too warm. We want nothing to do with him, remember? We... Oh god, I can smell his aftershave, even from here, and it's sexy as hell. Shit.

I paste a fake smile on my face, because other people are around, and I nod at whatever Angie says, even though I didn't hear it. "Yeah, sure, Ang."

She lights up, her green eyes dancing. "Ah-ha! Finally! Mel! He's finally going to do it!"

Shit. What did I just agree to? "Ang, what the f—"

Mel pops her head out from the kitchen and glances at me and then toward where I can still feel Josh standing just inside the diner. She scowls and tips her head—her way of telling me to get the fuck back to work.

Angie giggles, almost like she's happy that Mel had to give me the silent scolding. Yeah, real cool, Ang, thanks. Then she grins at me again.

"You gonna help that poor guy, or just let him stand there, staring at the ground?" she says with another grin.

Poor guy. Yeah. Poor fucking Josh.

Angie winks and then picks her coffee cup back up. "Thanks, Coop."

"You're welcome, Ang."

I smile, because customer service is important here at Mel's Diner. And I turn around stiffly, resisting that fucking magnetism or whatever the hell it is. My smile only lasts until he looks up at me with those gorgeous blue eyes of his that are just so full of some mix of regret and discomfort. Then I'm scowling again.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

Okay, no, that's not really what I say. Because customer service. I want to, though.

Instead, I take a step back, still resisting that pull. God, I'm warm all over, and those fucking gorgeous eyes are almost too much. I force myself to take a breath.

"Hey, uh, are you here to eat, or...?" Fucking stupid question, I know. But what the hell am I supposed to say? My brain already vetoed "What the fuck are you doing here?" And I'm sort of out of other options.

"Um, yeah, actually. Can I just sit . . . ?"

He motions toward the counter, his eyes pleading with me now, like his voice did the other day in the parking lot at Amy's. Something inside me kinda breaks, and it hurts all over again.

I screw my eyes shut, but I can't unsee the pain in his expression, just as I can't unhear the grief in his voice from yesterday, when he'd been begging me to let him apologize. Fuck.

"Yeah, you can sit wherever you want. I'll grab you a menu."

I turn around and start back toward the kitchen. I'm still holding a pot of coffee in one hand, and if I keep lingering any longer, it's gonna start to get cold. At least that's the excuse I use to convince my feet to get moving. And the farther away from him I get, the more it hurts. That seems backwards to me, but whatever.

Just through the doors into the kitchen, I set the coffee pot back down on its warming plate and then lean against the wall for half a second, letting my eyes close again. My hands are shaking, and my heart's racing, and I feel sick. And cold.

"Don't fuckin' tell me you're gonna be sick again, Coop. I can't deal with that shit today."

I groan and open my eyes. Mel's stopped what she's doing—making a pie or something, I'm not entirely sure—and she's watching me. I shake my head as I push myself away from the wall.

"I'm fine," I say. But because I'm really not, I quickly add, "I mean, I'm not gonna be sick, Mel. I just... needed a minute."

She's curious, maybe? It's hard to tell with her sometimes. But thankfully, she doesn't ask. She just gives me a quick nod.

"That guy's the same one who left his wallet the other day," she says.

"Y-yeah." My voice cracks on the single word, and that gets me another look.

"He gonna eat?"

"I think so."

She nods again, shifts over a few feet to turn the griddle back on, and then gets back to work on her pie.

And I take another deep breath and head back out into the dining room, prepared this time. Mostly. Kinda.

He's sitting there at the counter, on the stool closest to me. He's taken his coat off, and he's wearing this black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows, showing off his forearms, and god, nope, I was not prepared for that.

Fuck. He's . . . really gorgeous.

I mean, of course I've seen good-looking men before, so maybe it's more to do with the fact that he was the first guy I was ever attracted to. Maybe that's why I just can't tear my eyes away as he looks up from where his hands are folded together, resting on the counter just in front of him. Or maybe it's because of this fucking fluttery thing my heart wants to do. Or it's that fucking weirdo magnetism shit.

Then he smiles. And god, now it's ten times better. Or worse. I mean worse. Very, very worse. I almost stumble, grabbing onto the wall just before I'd have made a total ass of myself and face-planted for all to see.

Fuck again. Menu. He needs a menu. The faster I get him a menu, the faster he can order and then eat and then get the fuck out of here so I can go back to—

Is that what I really want?

All the air leaves my lungs, and I spin around and grab a menu from the stack sitting near the cash register. Menu. He needs a menu. Customer service. I'm a professional.

I paste another smile on my face, though I'm sure it looks as strained as it feels, really, and I turn around.

"Here you go. You want some coffee?" My voice does not crack this time. Or squeak. Or sound an octave lower than it should.

"Yeah, sure. Thanks," he says quietly as he takes the menu. He blinks several times and lowers his eyes. "Sorry to just show up like this."

I'm not entirely sure what to say to that. So I just go to grab the coffee pot again from the kitchen, and when I return, he's staring at the menu, his jaw tight. My heart does that funny something in my chest, something fluttery and warm, and I resist the huge urge to reach out, run my fingers along his jawline, feel the smoothness of his clean-shaven skin. God.

I stop in front of him, flip over the coffee mug that's there, and fill it up. My hand is totally not shaking. Really.

"What's, uh..." He trails off and glances up at me from the menu.

God, there's absolutely no way he came here for the food. I can see it in his eyes.

"Uh, well, Mel makes a really great omelet," I say. I think I'm answering the question he'd been about to ask. "Like, uh, back home. Like they made at Sunrise. Remember? You'd order the Denver omelet and have them add the hash browns inside the omelet itself?"

There's a twitch in his lips, and then he's smiling up at me again. I manage some sort of smile back this time, but it hurts. A lot. Because I can fucking feel the warmth in his gaze. I can feel it, and I miss it. I miss that. I miss him. My best friend. Shit.

"I do remember," he says, his voice soft. He coughs to clear his throat and lowers his eyes back to the menu. "That's, uh..."

"This one here." I step a little closer and reach out to point to the omelet on the menu. "The Loaded Western Omelet. It's also got avocado and bacon. It's, uh"—I pull my hand back and straighten up—"it's really good like that, but you can get it however you want it made."

"Sounds perfect, actually. Thanks. I'll, uh, have that."

I nod, and he hands me back the menu.

"Sourdough?"

"Yeah. Please. Thanks." There's his smile again. I'm suddenly really warm.

"Yeah, no problem."

And before I lose my shit completely, I spin around and head back into the kitchen.

***

I'm crazy busy for the next hour or so as Monday morning decides to show me just how fucking awesome it can be. Shortly after I get Josh's order in, Gerry arrives to pick up a bunch of pies from Mel, and then two other parties come in—the first a group of eight older ladies who are regulars on Tuesdays, and the second a young couple I don't recognize.

The older ladies are easy enough. They sit at their normal booth (the only one we have that's large enough to accommodate that many people) and order their normal breakfasts. But it's not fucking Tuesday, ladies, so what the hell?

Just kidding. Sort of. At least I know they always tip well.

The younger couple, though, they're obviously not happy, and I can tell the moment they walk in that nothing's going to please them. I do my best anyway.

Mel's all sorts of extra today too, and I'm glad the kitchen isn't open to the dining room so no one hears her muttering curses every time I bring in a new order or request. At one point, I have to step in and help her finish prepping the pies for Gerry. When I come back out into the dining room with the box she's packaged them in, another three customers—all older men who also are usually here on Tuesdays (fuck, is it actually Tuesday or something?)—have seated themselves at the counter just a couple of seats down from Josh.

So I'm running around the diner, downing my fourth cup of coffee, smiling and nodding and laughing. Generally being super-nice-server-guy. Hell, I might even be impressing that unhappy couple a bit. At least they enjoyed the food. Mel's a wonderful cook.

All the while, every time I'm out in the dining room, I feel him. His eyes follow me around the room—his gorgeous blue eyes that are just begging me to stop and sit down and let him talk. Because nope, he definitely didn't come in here to eat.

He finishes well before my other tables clear out, and it's nearly ten by the time I'm gathering up the used dishes and wiping all the tables clean. Even Angie has finished up and headed out for the day. Now, it's just him and me in the otherwise-empty diner. And he just sits there, nursing his fourth cup of coffee, staring at his hands and tapping on the side of the mug with his index finger.

He looks incredibly sad, and even though I remind myself again that I'm supposed to be angry with him, my heart aches all the same.

I poke my head briefly into the back, intending to just let Mel know that our odd Monday-morning rush seems to be over. She looks up from where she's sticking a huge pot roast—tonight's dinner special—in the slow cooker.

"What now?" she asks, clearly annoyed, and she shifts her attention back to what she's doing.

"Uh, I—"

She shakes her head and then does something so completely out of character that I'm actually not entirely sure what to say in response—she apologizes.

"Fuck, I'm sorry, Coop. Just ignore me today, alright? I got some shit going on, and well, it's been a morning." She clears her throat and glances back up at me while securing the lid on the slow cooker. "We got more customers or something?"

"Uh, no." I step all the way into the kitchen. "No, just the one dude at the counter who won't leave. But he's just—Mel, are you okay?"

She's stopped working and is leaning back against the wall with her eyes closed. She nods in response to my question, but it's not really convincing.

"I need a ten-minute break. Can you handle things? Clara should be in soon."

Clara's the other cook. She's usually only in on the weekends. Fuck, something big must be going on with Mel for her to call Clara in.

"Yeah, of course," I say. "Mel, are—"

"Everything's fine, Coop. I swear. Just some personal stuff. Family shit, you know how that goes. Get back out there and make sure everyone's happy. I just need ten minutes."

She waves me off, motioning in the general direction of the dining room, and then turns and heads back toward her office. I'm torn between wanting to really make sure she's okay and knowing that if I push her anymore, I'll likely get my head taken off.

In the end, I decide on self-preservation, knowing she'll tell me what's going on if and when she's ready, and I head back out into the dining room.

Josh is still sitting there, staring at his coffee, and when I come out of the kitchen, he looks up. All the smile is gone from his eyes. He glances around the diner really quickly, like he wants to be sure we're alone, and then when his gaze meets mine again, I just... can't not see it.

He's sad and hurting and—fuck, I am too, though.

Fuck this morning.

"Do you, uh, need more coffee?"

He shakes his head and then laughs lightly, but it's a strained, stunted laugh. "No, I've had way too much already. Uh, thanks though. I just... Are you guys always that busy on Mondays? I'd sort of expected it to be, um, a little slower, I guess..."

Now it's my turn to laugh, and I shake my head as I lean back against the wall. "No, no, that was definitely not normal. We usually only have two or three people in here at a time until about noon."

He nods and looks away, and his finger starts its nervous tapping on the side of his cup again. I can see it—that he's got something he wants to say. Just like yesterday. But unlike yesterday, I can't just run away.

And I don't think I want to, either. At least, right now I don't.

His eyes close, and he grips the mug tighter. "C-can I, um... I want to—to say something. But it's hard for me, and I really, really screwed up yesterday, but—" He lets out a sharp breath and then looks up at me.

From the way his eyes flit to my lips and then back up, I know what he's thinking. That memory I've been fucking reliving since I first saw him in the diner on Friday night—that's what he's thinking. And he probably doesn't mean to do it, but his tongue darts out of his mouth to wet his lips, and there's this tingling in my chest.

It's fucking hot in here again. Dammit.

"Uh, yeah, you can say whatever it is you want to say. I won't..." Take off. Run away. Get chased out of the diner by a scary man yelling curses at me while waving around a fucking baseball bat. "Shit, Josh, what the fuck, man?"

His eyes widen, and I realize I'd said that last part louder than I'd intended. God, now's not the time. Here, while I'm at work. But, fuck, I really need to know.

I reach up and rub my eyes with my hand, shaking my head. When I look at him again, he's staring at his coffee, biting at his lower lip.

"I'll listen. I won't take off this time. But if you want to say something, say it," I tell him, trying to keep my voice low. We're still the only ones here, but I don't need Mel hearing all of this either, especially since she's got her own shit going on.

He nods, and then he sniffles as he lifts a shaky hand to swipe at his cheek. Fuck it all. Now he's crying. And my stomach twists itself all up. God, why does this hurt even more—to see him so upset? And why do I feel this fucking strong urge to move closer so I can comfort him?

"I'm sorry, Coop," he says after another moment. His voice trembles, like his hands, and he drops his chin to his chest with a long breath. "I'm so sorry. I screwed up, man. I screwed up big time, and I-I mean..."

It's not much. And not specific. And really not enough. But I shiver as some deep emotion ripples through me. I can't even say what it is. I close my eyes and cross my arms over my chest.

"It fuckin' hurt, man. You... you were my best friend."

If it didn't still hurt so much, it would seem silly. Like fucking high-school drama. We're adults now. And kids do stupid shit. So I should just forgive him and let the past be the past. Right?

God, I fucking wish it was just that easy.

"Coop!" The door to the kitchen pushes open, and Mel scowls as she glances from me to Josh and then back. "Jack's here with the food delivery. Come help?"

"Of course," I say quickly. And when I turn back to Josh, he's wiping another tear from his eye and staring at his coffee again. "Sorry, I gotta get back to work." Fuck, my voice is all soft and shit. I clear my throat. "We should hang out again, though. Sometime, I mean."

"Yeah, I'd like that. A lot." He gives me a half-smile, and god, his eyes just pull me in again. Gorgeous and blue and sparkling. There's this look to them now, and it's just so much like what I remember from when we were kids. This time, it's my eyes that dart to his lips.

Fucking peaches and honey.

Dammit, I have to get back to work. Somehow, I manage some sort of smile and nod back, and then I turn and jog toward the kitchen.