Breaking South (Turner Artist Rocker #3) - Alyson Santos Page 0,98

this time. I’m grateful I have a different server, Darryn with a “y,” so he doesn’t recognize what I’m doing because I’m embarrassed for some reason. I don’t want anyone to know why I’m here. No one except the stranger, anyway. I need to know why he’s sad. Why he’s afraid. Why he’s ok being weird when he’s clearly not. I need to understand the chair.

I was very intentional in my decision to leave his chair open when I sat on the other side. I wonder if he’ll notice. I order my tea and pretend to study the menu, but really, I’m watching the door, waiting. It’s the wrong angle to view the door from this side, however, so I’m forced to scan the rest of the restaurant with each peek. I notice a few other familiar faces around the room and can’t help but wonder if they’re waiting, too. Stan is here, still too close to the entryway so he’ll be cold when the stranger enters and hesitates in the opening.

He’s a little later today. Just a couple minutes, but enough for me to think that he’s not some kind of obsessive sociopath who times his fixation on a rigid schedule. This chair routine is part of his day, but it’s not the only part of his day. I take some comfort in that, although I’m not sure why. This has nothing to do with me.

Like yesterday, the hostess doesn’t even ask him if he’d like to be seated. She knows why he’s here and watches with a vigilance that’s ready to call for help if necessary. Her hand seems poised to reach for the phone as he does his search.

And that’s when it occurs to me that he’s not searching. He knows where to go. He knows what he will find when he gets there. He’s not looking. He’s bracing.

He starts toward my table again and then stops abruptly. I can’t tell whether he’s annoyed, upset, or pleasantly surprised to discover my obvious intrusion into his life. He’s dressed similarly to yesterday, but different enough that I realize this casual style may be new to him, but it’s now permanent. As I study him with the same intensity he studies me, I also notice he’s younger than I first thought. He’s been aged, but not by time. If I had to guess, I’d say mid to late twenties. I’m terrible at guessing, though, so I decide not to.

“You’re back,” he says quietly.

I still can’t interpret his reaction.

“So are you.”

I motion toward the chair. “This might be my table, but you can have the chair.”

“Thank you.”

Oddly enough, he doesn’t even look at it today. In fact, he sits at the neighboring table as though he’s completely abandoned his mission. I’m disappointed, and again, startled by my strange reaction. I suck in my breath and grip my teacup.

“Mind if I join you?” I ask, before it actually occurs to me that’s weirder than anything he’s ever done. I kick myself.

He glances at me, but doesn’t seem nearly as surprised by my question as I am. Then I realize it’s only because he’s distracted. He doesn’t care about my question.

“Sure,” he mutters. I suspect it’s more out of politeness than a desire to allow me access to his life, and I quickly regret my impulsive request. He doesn’t really want me here, that much is obvious, but neither can I back out now in any reasonable way. At this point, I’m committed to picking up my saucer and sliding across the narrow aisle to his table.

“I’m Callie, by the way.”

“Luke.”

“You’re not from around here, are you?” I cringe.

Nice work, Callie.

There’s that brief smile again, and my embarrassing cliché is momentarily forgiven.

“No, I’m not. Are you the law in these here parts?” he teases back, and now I’m officially hooked.

“Sorry. I know. That was probably the worst thing I could have said.”

“I can think of worse.”

“Do you come here often?”

This time the slight smile becomes a full-on grin.

“As often as you, apparently,” he responds.

“You must think I’m stalking you.”

“Are you?”

“A little.” Before I can control it, my gaze shoots to the chair, and his smile fades.

I wish I could take it back. I wish I’d been strong enough to stop it, but we both know that’s why we’re here. We both know we’re connected for no other reason.

Neither of us says a word. I have no way of knowing if his mind is in the same tailspin as mine, but I sense