Chapter Thirteen
Cassidy
Nerves bubble in my stomach as I wait for Luke’s answer.
He turns his head my way, putting our faces close enough that I can count the freckles on his cheek. All two of them. “You aren’t obligated to stick with me or help me. You know that, right?”
This man could be on fire and he’d ask permission to borrow a hose. I arch a challenging brow. “It’s just a train ticket. I owe you for my half of the rental anyway, may it rest in peace.”
“You could use that money on a plane ticket.”
I roll my eyes. “Why is everything a struggle with you? I’m not buying another plane ticket. Period. Even if I wanted to, it’s massively expensive and I’m working with a credit limit. Enough for us to get by until we get home, but not so much that I want to toss a thousand dollars at an airline that will probably screw me over somehow.”
He rubs the space where dark undereye shadows should be on his face. “Is that supposed to make me feel better about you spending money on me? Every dollar you spend is going to put you closer to your limit, and when you reach above sixty-six percent of your revolving credit, your score—”
“My credit score is none of my business, Luke. That’s between FICO and the lord.”
My chest tightens at the visible conflict splayed out across his face. A few more minutes at close range, privy to the zoomed-in view of his expressions, and I might actually think he cares about things like my credit score.
I’m not sure what I would do with that information, but my skin heats the longer I consider it. I extend my hand, my jewelry glinting in the meager post-storm sunlight. “So stop trying to ditch me, and I won’t ditch you. Deal?”
“I was never—you know what, fine.” He floats his hand my way but pauses mid-air. “This feels like a one-sided shake. You don’t need anything from me. What’s in it for you?”
I close the distance, sliding my hand in his. “I guess I don’t like traveling alone. You’d be doing me a favor.”
The warm press of his hand jolts me as he clasps tight. My palm has more nerve endings than I remember, each one reporting for duty.
“Okay. It’s a deal.”
I pull my hand back and shake it out. “Great. Wonderful. Tickets, meet cart.”
He tilts his head to watch as I pull up the website. His finger taps bold text at the top of the screen, interrupting my scrolling. “Shit. Looks like I’ll need an ID.”
I flick his hand away. “You can print one out through the North Carolina DMV’s website. Berkeley had to do it after she misplaced her license last year.”
He peers past me. “Are there any UPS or FedEx stores near the train station, Colto?”
“It’s Colton. Though come to think of it, I might actually favor Colto. Sounds kinda like a superhero name.” He prods the touch screen console of his truck, plugging UPS into the map. “Look, there. The station and your store are as close as two coats of paint.”
After poking around on the world’s worst website, I form a plan. A train leaves tonight and arrives in Los Angeles in the morning. Perfection. I should’ve thought of trains way sooner. “I’m going to book two tickets on the Southwest Chief. This is good. What could possibly go wrong on a train?”
Luke levels me with a terse look. “Are you seriously saying that out loud right now?”
I book the 10:42 train for what feels like a steal compared to the cost of airfare, then peek at my credit card’s website. I’m trying to leave several hundred dollars on my credit line open because I haven’t bought a wedding gift, and I have no idea what expenses a week at Isabelle’s disposal will hold. At least one expensive event looms; Isabelle requested a bridesmaids’ outing on Saturday night after the rehearsal dinner, and I have to be able to pay for her stuff. And when she goes out, she goes out.
“We’re getting close,” Colton announces as we battle the slow crawl of traffic. “About ten minutes out.”
I snap to action. “Better call Berk before we lose phone access.”
A sigh exits Luke’s mouth. “Oh, here we go. She’s going to castrate me when she finds out I let harm befall the princess.”
“Yep. Might even cancel your dowry. Then how will you afford your My Little Pony collection?” I dial Berkeley’s number from memory.
“I collect LEGOs. Get your facts straight.”
Berkeley interrupts us by way of greeting. “I’m at the airport. What’s up?”
I grimace, even though she can’t see me. “Right. You’re on your way.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Well.” I suck in a rallying breath. “First and foremost: all is well.”
“Oh fuck. What does that mean?”
“There was an accident in our car, but we were not in the car. It was totaled with all our stuff inside. We’re going to catch a train tonight. So that’s the bad news. But the good news is you’ll now have an entire evening on your own to enjoy Westlake!”
“Cassidy, what? Are you all right?”
“Please don’t full-name me. You’re going to make me panic. This is not that big of a deal. We’re fine. It could’ve been so much worse.”
“Sure it could’ve, but this is terrible.”
“Tell me something good and then I’ll let you board,” I insist.
“Elvis totally smiled today before I dropped him off at the sitter. Beaming. Told me he missed you.”
I laugh much too loudly for this confined space, imagining the absurdity of my dog breaking out in a grin. Berkeley always knows just what to say. “Of course he did.”
Her tone takes a shift into Mother Bear territory. “And where’s Luke?”
“He’s next to me. Why, want to talk to him?”
Luke grips the door handle like he’s contemplating a tuck-and-roll escape.
“Put me on speaker.”
I press the button.
“Hello, Lucas.”
“Just Luke, actually,” he informs.
“Okay, Skywalker. What happened to protecting my precious cargo?”
Luke’s mouth pulls into a hard line. A blink-and-you’d-miss-it flash of hurt passes over his face before he schools his features into something passably light. “You have my full permission to leave a bad review on TripAdvisor. Very poor form, on my part. You see, I was dancing and driving—”
“Berk, don’t listen to him. It’s not his fault. We pulled over in a storm, got out to pee, and a semi smashed the car to smithereens. When it all went down…” Emotion clogs my throat as I relive the way he comforted me, the phantom slide of his palms against my arms. “I’m really glad he was there.”
Luke’s gaze flits up from the phone, catching mine. The air seems to solidify between us, heavy and thick.
I could’ve said I was glad I wasn’t alone. But the truth is I’m not sure I’d want to be touched or soothed like that by anyone else.
You wouldn’t. Just him.
It’s a whisper in my ear, a primal tugging in my chest.
The tiredness. It’s getting to me.
Berkeley’s laugh rings through the phone, sounding far away. “I’m just giving him a hard time. I will certainly leave the highest praise on TripAdvisor, so long as he gets you here safely.”
Luke’s gaze holds me captive for a few more seconds before it drops to the phone. It feels like a suction cup separating from glass. “I’ll make sure she’s taken care of.”
I barely register Berkeley’s goodbye.
When the following silence threatens to swallow me whole, I try to redirect the energy flowing between us. “That call went better than the first one, don’t you think?”
“Mm.” Luke shifts in his seat to fully stare out the window.
Mm.
What does that little pulsing noise mean? He tells Berkeley he’ll make sure I’m taken care of, as though he genuinely cares whether I’m okay, but then spares me a tiny mm before glaring off into space?
This man may require a Rosetta Stone.
…
Colton drops us off in front of a UPS store near Union Station. After our delightful stint on the side of a rural highway, this bustling downtown with buildings that stretch toward the sky is a welcome change of pace. Smog and all.
“Civilization.” Hearts in my eyes, I follow him into the narrow store. I blow a kiss at the wall. “I’ll never take you for granted again.”
Luke shifts past me with a hand at the small of my back in pursuit of the computer station. “I’ll give you and the wall a moment alone.”
I shiver, moving toward a display of mailing supplies. While he does his thing, I do the important work of constructing a tower out of stiff envelopes, goaded by the bored UPS employee to make it higher.
He accesses his information on the computer and lets out a long “yessss” when he discovers he can, in fact, get his copy here and now.
Printed ID in pocket and hours to kill until boarding, Luke and I wander the city block in search of sustenance.
We come up on a Walgreens. I still Luke with a hand to his arm. “You think this place carries phones? The kind you can get without a cell plan?”
His gaze sweeps the door. “They should, yeah. When my mom—” He steels his expression. “They sell prepaids at drugstores.”
Minutes later, we emerge with a burner phone. I tear into the package like a kid on Christmas. “Doesn’t have internet on its own, but it hooks up to wifi.”
“Best news I’ve heard all day.”
“Keep your eyes peeled for food.” I poke at the phone, programming Berkeley and Isabelle’s numbers. “We’re having a real meal.”
Luke’s answering grunt is happier than his usual grunt. “Never mind, that is the best news I’ve heard all day.”
After ten minutes of walking, during which the exhaust fumes of slow-passing cars stir a nagging pressure behind my eyes, I spot it.
It. Pearl’s Pink Cadillac Diner.
Famed Kansas City hot spot, according to the bus bench ad located within spitting distance of the establishment itself.
Beautiful, retro respite. The gigantic sign atop the building features the front half of a replica pink Cadillac haloed by an arch of rose-tinted light, spelling the name in vintage lettering.
The sign is everything. It’s the inside of my brain when I’m drunk on fizzy pink champagne, the color of my best dreams, the hue of my future bedroom (I just decided). It’s almost too pretty to be real.
And then, there’s the promise of all the greasy diner food yet to be consumed. My mouth instantly waters.
“Oh fuck yes.”
I whip my head toward Luke. I’ve never seen such naked lust in a man’s eye. Though in fairness, my few encounters with lust have been in the dark.
And now I’ve wasted two perfectly good seconds thinking about lust and Luke.
We speed walk the remaining distance. He pauses to study the menu posted outside the door, so I do the same, even though I’m certain I’d eat anything this place sold.
The frigid breeze whips my hair off my neck as I drag my finger down the sticky plastic. “So many choices. What do you think? Bang, Marry, Kill: burgers, fried chicken, breakfast food.”
A shocked laugh rockets out of his mouth. The cackle heard ’round Kansas City. “That’s a tough question.”
“I’ll go first: marry breakfast food, bang fried chicken, kill burgers.”
“I don’t know what I expected. But it wasn’t that.”
“Your turn,” I insist.
His features screw up in concentration, as if this is the most important decision he’ll make today. “Marry burgers. Kill fried chicken.” He clears his throat. “Bang breakfast.”
“I’ll allow it. Breakfast is good for a romp or a lifelong commitment. It’s hard to mess up.”
“Depends who’s making it. Eggs, sausage, gravy, biscuits—it can all go very wrong in the wrong hands.”
I fist my hands on my hips. “Whose hands are you putting your sausage in?”
He chokes on air as he opens the door. “Is this what happens when you’re hungry? Stand-up comedy?”
“Yes. And also when I’m not hungry.”
The sweet, sinful smell of bacon wafts through the air. We navigate through a few clusters of people waiting with pagers in their hands. My eye is instantly drawn to the pink-and-white tile pattern, but there’s so much else to soak in. Records mounted on a far wall to create the silhouette of a flower, an old jukebox with an out-of-order sign, teal vinyl booths. Silver retro tables—all currently full.
My excitement wanes after further investigation. This place is packed.
The hostess greets us warmly and procures a pager from her stand. “If a seat at the bar opens up before we call you, feel free to grab it! Same menu.”
Luke and I peer at the bar in unison. Also very full.
We exist in seat limbo for about fifteen minutes before the first table turns. There are at least four groups ahead of us in line, and I can hear Luke’s stomach grumbling over the din of the crowd.
I seize this time to call and chat with Isabelle’s caterer about the salmon snafu, discussing alternatives. We come to a swift agreement on a suitable alternative (hello, halibut). Next, I leave a detailed voicemail to her florist about possible replacement flowers.
Luke side-eyes me as I shoot Isabelle a text with the caterer update. “Wedding stuff?”
“Yup. Trying to fix my sister’s problems so she doesn’t have to. The vendors both had huge mishaps that jeopardized her orders.”
“They messed up her orders the week of her wedding and you were falling over yourself to be nice and thanking them for their help? My sister would’ve raised hell and threatened to call the Better Business Bureau.”
I shrug a shoulder. “Drizzle a little honey on the right people and you wind up with a sweeter deal.”
Two seats at the bar open up. They aren’t side by side, but Luke’s face is largely drained of color. He also appears to be lacking the will to live. I nudge him. “Let’s take those. I know you must be starving.”
He doesn’t fight me for once.
We each descend on an open barstool. The girl between us jerks her attention from her phone and glances at Luke, then me. “Oh, are you two— Sorry, let me move.”
My gaze moves from her phone charger—the cord snakes all the way behind the bar—to her overtly pregnant stomach. That’s not conjecture. Her dress says it’s a baby! in loopy green lettering, and she’s wearing a matching green headband. The cast on her right leg has also been decorated with a green marker. She doesn’t look a day over eighteen.
Luke and I shout over each other in our haste to keep this girl seated comfortably.
“Please, stay.”
“Don’t you dare move!”
Because there’s no dignified way to get on a backless stool, I mount my seat. From the corner of my eye, I note that Luke makes it look effortless.
At eye-level, I glimpse the girl’s streaked mascara. Black tear tracks mar her rosy cheeks. She picks up her phone, sighs, and slides it away from her.
A sniffle escapes her mouth a few seconds later, and she blinks up at the tiled ceiling.
I scoot closer and lower my voice. “Are you all right?”
With a start, she shifts in her seat to look at me. “Oh, totally. One hundred percent.” She says this all like it’s one word. Ohtotallyonehundredpercent.
Her bottom lip quivers. She drums her hands on the metallic bar top, her chunky bracelets pinging against the surface.
At some point, she loses the fight. A few silent tears stream down her face. “Just didn’t want to be alone today. But I also don’t want to be with anyone who doesn’t respect me and my choices. It’s complicated.”
I twist the ring on my right pointer. Her words strike a deep chord.
I cried in my fair share of restaurants, bars, and grocery stores after the move to Asheville. I desperately wanted the company of someone who wanted to be with me, just as I am.
But loneliness came with the territory of a cross-country move. I wanted that fresh start more than I’d ever wanted anything. Needed it. That seed was planted when I lost the first pageant Mom forced me to enter, and she told me it was my personality in the Q&A that sank me. That can always be fixed. Use the same discipline with your words and actions that we’re practicing with our diets, and you’ll get there.
It sprouted when I found out she put a down payment on Isabelle’s first house as a reward for her being Westlake High School’s valedictorian, but skipped my senior recital—the culmination of years of training—because she’d scheduled a surprise couples cruise for her and my stepfather and didn’t want to postpone because Rand works so hard, he deserves this.
It blossomed during the wall-shaking fight when I told her I was dropping out of college. (I didn’t, in the end.)
Leaving was always the plan, a need that hummed in my bones. And it was the right thing. The freedom from Mom’s constant scrutiny hit like Mucinex at the height of a cold; I got out of L.A., and I could finally breathe.
But all that easy breathing took place in an empty studio apartment at night. I was alone constantly. My DNA is not wired for solitude. I became desperate to find my people. The kind of community that anchors you, where they know your weirdest habits and love you anyway. I craved it so deeply, I did all kinds of things in the hopes of finding it. Apps and meetups that amounted to nothing but disappointment. People my age already seemed to have their circle and it was impossible to break in. Meeting people at work was a no-go because I was only teaching dance to little kids at the time, and I wasn’t about to mine their parents for friendship.
By month three, the loneliness had me wearing similar mascara tracks on my cheeks. I’d sit at bars, wondering what was worse: being invisible in my own family or being invisible in a crowd.
Month five, I met Berkeley. I adopted Elvis. I started stacking studio jobs to enmesh myself further in the dance world and added a weekend bartending gig where I scored access to a ton of new people. The ache lessened over time. But what I wouldn’t have given on those dark days for a stranger to see me in my struggles, grab my hand, and—
“Are you sure?” I squeeze her wrist. “I’ve got a crapload of time to kill, so if in the off-chance you aren’t okay and wanted a sounding board, I’m the girl for the job.”