Boulevard and can best be described as low-key. However, it serves coffee and a half decent burger and fries at odd hours, when I most require these things. Therefore, it has my heart. Beck doesn’t seem put off by the faint film of grease on everything and smiles at the 1950s kitsch aesthetic. Thereby passing another of my tests.
“You haven’t told me your story,” he says once we’re seated in a booth and have ordered.
“I finished my degree and realized it was basically good for nothing and there were next to no jobs available anyway. Or at least nothing that appealed. Teachers and librarians are fighting for every scrap of funding they can get while newspapers are folding. The publishing industry is going through serious cutbacks. Majoring in English Lit may have been a mistake.” I shrug. Truth is, I got stuck for various reasons. But this explanation is easier to swallow. “Figured if I was going to wind up serving then I’d like to do it somewhere I can walk along the beach now and then, without getting stuck in traffic for hours.”
He nods. “Makes sense.”
“I thought so. I’ll figure out what I want to do with my life eventually.”
“No rush. Good that you can take the time and space to figure things out for yourself without anyone pressuring you.”
“Just the student loans hanging over my head,” I say.
His answering smile is brief and small. “Grow up around here?”
“Close enough; San Bernardino,” I say. “What about you?”
“No, I’m half a country away from home and intend to keep it that way. Though maybe half a country away is still too close. I hear Iceland’s nice this time of year.”
I raise my brows in question.
“Family.” He shrugs. “What can you do?”
The waitress delivers our food, filling up the table with Beck’s order of half of the breakfast menu. Without hesitation, he proceeds to devour it all. If I ate that much, my ass wouldn’t fit in the seat.
“Want some?” He offers me a forkful of pancake, dripping with syrup. “It’s good.”
“I’m fine with my burger. Thanks.” And I’m curious as heck about his family, but pressing him further wouldn’t be polite. Dammit.
“So what are my future wife’s favorite hobbies and/or interests?”
“Hmm.” I stick a fry in my mouth and chew, thinking it over. “Reading, films, music…the usual. You?”
“Lots of things.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know…hiking, rock climbing. Stuff like that.”
“So basically I like to sit still and you’re all about being busy and athletic. We have nothing in common.”
“No. Wait. I can change,” he jokes. “Give me another chance.”
“You shouldn’t have to change.” I swirl another fry in some ketchup. “I’m sure you’re perfectly fine just as you are.”
All humor is gone from his face now, his expression blank. The look in his eyes, though, is dark and unhappy. It would seem I’ve hit a nerve. So of course, I do the worst thing possible and babble.
“I mean, what is even the point of being with someone if all you want to do is change them?” I ask. “If you and your significant other were both exactly the same, where’s the interest or challenge in that? Do you just live in each other’s pockets until the day you die? You’d have to run out of things to talk about pretty fast, right?”
Nothing from Beck, but a line is now embedded between his dark brows. A moment ago, he seemed all good humor and confidence. Now, however, he almost seems kind of lost. Something I’m more than familiar with these days.
“Beck, are you okay?”
He blinks, coming back to life. “Sorry. What were you saying?”
“Nothing; it’s fine.” My face warms and oh my God. Blushing is so fucking annoying. Be gone, foul anxiety. “I was just….”
“Imparting wisdom to me.”
“Sure. Yeah. The combined wisdom and experience of my twenty-two years plus a degree I have yet to find a use for. Please take it with all due seriousness.”
“I’ll do that.” The tension he’s feeling seems to ease. His shoulders relax; his hands gesture around him. “I like this place.”
“Me too.”
“Probably not quite right for a wedding, though.”
“Probably not,” I agree. The weird mood has lifted. I want to ask him what it was about, but I don’t know him well enough to pry. So instead, I settle for staring at him. Good Lord he’s pretty. I’ve said it before and I’m sure I’ll soon be saying it again. While I feel sort of bad for objectifying him, what can you do when he’s right there