Chapter 3: The Diner

We walk.

Two blocks. That is what Eli said. Two blocks to the diner. It should take maybe five minutes. But we are walking slowly. I do not know if he is slowing down for me or if I am slowing down for him. Maybe neither of us wants the walk to end.

The streets are quiet. Most stores are closed. Their windows are dark. A few cars pass us, their headlights bright for a moment and then gone. The sidewalk is cracked in places. I watch my feet step over the cracks.

Eli walks beside me. Not too close. Not too far. His sketchbook is under his left arm. His hands are in his pockets now. I wonder if they are cold. I am still wearing his hoodie. I should offer it back. But I do not want to. Not yet.

"So," he says. "Post colonial studies."

"So," I say. "Architecture."

He makes a small sound. Almost a laugh. "What do you want to do with that? After school, I mean."

"Teach. Maybe. Or write. Or work in policy." I shrug inside his big hoodie. "I want to change things. The way stories get told. The way history gets remembered. Whose voices get heard."

"That sounds big."

"It is big. But someone has to do it."

We walk a few more steps.

"What about you?" I ask. "What do you want to do after school?"

"Survive my final project first."

"And after that?"

He is quiet. We pass under a streetlamp, then into darkness, then under another light. His face comes and goes in the orange glow.

"I do not know," he says at last. "My father wants me to join his company. Build things that make money. But I think I want to do something else."

"Like what?"

"I do not know yet. Something that matters. Something that makes people feel something when they look at it." He pauses. "Like your face on that bench. I looked at you and I felt something. So I drew it."

My stomach does a small flip. I am glad it is dark. He cannot see my face right now.

"You cannot say things like that," I say.

"Why not?"

"Because. We just met. Officially."

"We have known each other for six weeks."

"We have sat on the same bench for six weeks. That is not the same thing."

He thinks about this. "Okay. You are right. But I have been paying attention for six weeks. So I know some things."

"Like what?"

"Like you drink coffee before your night class, not after. I can smell it on you sometimes. Like you bite your lip when you read something hard on your phone. Like you check the bus schedule three times before you trust it. And you always sit on the right side of the bench. Never the left."

I stop walking.

He stops too. Turns to face me.

"What?" he asks.

"That is a lot of things."

"I told you. I pay attention."

We stand there on the empty sidewalk. The street is quiet. A dog barks somewhere far away. I can see the diner now, just half a block ahead. Its windows are bright yellow squares in the dark. A neon sign says OPEN in red letters.

"Why me?" I ask. My voice is softer than I want it to be. "You draw lots of people. You showed me. The old woman on the bus. The man with the newspaper. Why did you keep drawing me for six weeks?"

He looks at me for a long moment. His hands are still in his pockets. His shoulders are a little hunched against the cold. Without his hoodie, he looks smaller somehow. But not weak. Just real.

"I do not know yet," he says. "I am still trying to figure it out."

That should not be a good answer. It is not an answer at all. But something about the way he says it feels honest. He is not trying to give me a smooth line. He is telling me the truth.

"Okay," I say.

"Okay?"

"Okay. Let us get pie."

We start walking again. The diner gets closer. I can see shapes inside now. A man at the counter, hunched over a cup of coffee. A waitress in a yellow uniform, wiping down a table. The door has a little bell on it.

Eli reaches it first. He pulls the door open and holds it for me. A warm rush of air hits my face. It smells like coffee and toast and something sweet.

"After you," he says.

I step inside.

The diner is small and bright. The floor is black and white tile. The seats are red plastic. Old music plays from a speaker somewhere. A song I do not know. An old one. The waitress looks up when the bell rings. She is older, maybe fifty, with blonde hair pulled back and tired eyes. But her smile is real.

"Sit anywhere you like, sweetheart," she says.

I pick a booth by the window. It has a view of the empty street. Eli slides into the seat across from me. The table between us is small. Our knees almost touch underneath.

The waitress comes over with two menus. She hands us each one. "Coffee to start?"

"Please," I say.

"Yes, please," Eli says.

She pours two cups from a pot she carries. The coffee is dark and steaming. I wrap my hands around the warm cup. Outside, the bus stop bench is two blocks away. It feels much farther now.

"So," Eli says. He opens his menu but does not look at it. "What kind of pie do you like?"

"Apple. Always apple."

"Good choice."

"And you?"

"Pecan. But I will try apple if you let me have a bite of yours."

"You are already planning to eat off my plate?"

"I am an optimist."

I smile. I cannot help it. He is easy to talk to. Easier than I thought he would be. For six weeks I built him up in my head as this quiet, strange, faraway person. But sitting across from me now, with his tired eyes and his messy hair and his stolen hoodie on my body, he just feels like a person. A good person.

The waitress comes back. I order apple pie. Eli orders pecan. And a side of fries, because he says he is hungry for more than just pie.

"Fries and pie?" I say.

"Do not judge me. It has been a long day."

When the food comes, the table fills up. Two plates of pie. One basket of fries. Two cups of coffee. Eli pushes the fries to the middle so we can share. I did not ask for fries, but I take one anyway. It is hot and salty. Perfect.

"So," I say. "Tell me something. Something I do not know."

"You already learned my name. That is a big thing."

"Tell me something else."

He thinks. He takes a bite of his pecan pie. Chews. Swallows.

"I can play the piano," he says. "Badly. But I can play."

"How badly?"

"Bad enough that my neighbor once banged on the wall. I was playing something simple. I cannot remember what. But he banged so hard a picture fell off my wall."

I laugh. A real laugh. It feels good.

"What about you?" he asks. "Tell me something I do not know."

"I can cook," I say. "Really well. My grandmother taught me. I can make fried chicken, cornbread, collard greens, mac and cheese. The real kind. Not from a box."

His eyes get a little wider. "That sounds amazing."

"It is. My friends beg me to cook for them."

"Now I want to try it."

"Maybe someday."

The word hangs in the air. Someday. It suggests a future. A time beyond tonight. Beyond this bus stop. Beyond pie at a diner. I did not mean to say it. But I did.

Eli does not look away. He just nods slowly.

"Maybe someday," he repeats.

We eat in silence for a moment. The music plays. The waitress refills our coffee. Outside, the street is still empty.

Then my phone buzzes.

I check it. The time is 10:44. The bus will be here in six minutes.

"The bus," I say.

Eli looks at his own phone. "We still have time."

"Six minutes. That is not enough to walk back and be sure."

"We can run."

"In these shoes?"

I point down. I am wearing small boots with a heel. Not tall, but not made for running. Eli looks at them and nods.

"Fair," he says. "So we stay until the next one."

"There is no next one. The 10:50 is the last bus of the night."

This sits between us. If I miss that bus, I have no way home. No car. A taxi would cost too much. Walking would take an hour in the cold.

Eli sets down his fork. "I can drive you."

"You have a car?"

"In the campus lot. It is a ten minute walk from here. Maybe fifteen."

I think about it. Getting into a car with a man I just met. My mother would scream. My friends would lose their minds. Every safety video I have ever watched plays in my head.

But this is Eli. Pencil Boy. The man who draws strangers because he wants to understand them. The man who gave me his hoodie without me asking. The man who knows I check the bus schedule three times.

"Okay," I say.

"Okay?"

"You can drive me home. But I am sending your license plate to my friend. And if you try anything, I will scream so loud they will hear you in the next town."

He holds up both hands. "That is fair. I would expect nothing less."

The waitress brings the check. Eli picks it up before I can even look at it.

"I asked you," he says.

"I can pay for my own pie."

"I know you can. But I asked you. So I pay."

I want to argue. But there is something nice about it. Something old fashioned. My grandmother would approve.

"Fine," I say. "But next time, I pay."

Next time. There it is again. A future. A promise.

Eli smiles. It is a real smile. It reaches his tired eyes and makes them look less tired.

"Next time," he says.