Michael (The Airel Saga, Book 2) - By Aaron Patterson Page 0,66

up on sports, or…?” I motioned to the paper.

His eyes sparkled. “Comics,” he said.

I rolled my eyes. “Nerd.”

He kissed my cheek, setting me afire. “Where’s everyone else?”

I pushed him away gently. “‘Everyone else’ is still sleeping. I figured why wake them.”

“Cool.”

I could tell he was going to ask me something important, something potentially awkward.

“So,” he said, “You want to try that date again?”

My heart skipped a beat when I realized what he had said, and my mind flitted back over all the—well, the Audrey Hepburn moments we had had. The awkwardness I had felt. It was like he was asking me out for the first time. Um, again.

“On one condition, mister. This time, no thuggish fights in the parking lot.”

He laughed, a musical sound. “No worries. So, what’ll it be? Pizza? Or pizza. That’s, like, all they have here.”

“Hmm,” I rested my chin on my finger, thinking. “Let’s see here. I’m gonna go for pizza.”

He nodded as if I had said something very wise. “Good call.”

“I could eat a whole one all by myself,” I said. I loved that I could be a pig and not worry about…about being a pig. I could be me with Michael, and I loved that.

CHAPTER XVII

WE FOUND A TABLE near the back of the small hometown pizza joint and sat down. The place was moderately full; farmers, road crew guys, fishermen, and just-passin’-thru types filled various booths and tables. An ancient Rock-Ola jukebox hurled the occasional hatefully catchy 80’s power ballad at all of us whenever someone dropped in some quarters, which was too often for my taste. The waitresses hustled from table to table with frilly little salmon-colored aprons around their waists. It didn’t take much imagination to see them taking orders with pad and pen, lit cigarettes dangling from their lips, held fast by their filters in the bond of thick blood-red lipstick, thus completing the cliché. I mean, why not, after all?

One of them, a rough bulldog of a woman with pock-marked jowls and strands of gray hair rebelling against the bun that held most of it at bay, came and curtly took our order. She then swooshed away in a storm of polyester and Aqua Net hairspray.

“So,” Michael began, “what do you think about Ellie?”

It was abrupt; it made me suddenly cautious. I brought my guard up by taking a sip of Coke, hiding behind the glass and speaking into it, “What do you mean?” My voice tumbled out amplified, it embarrassed me.

“Well, I mean…you two seem to have your differences, ya know? I couldn’t help but sense the drama.”

I huffed. It was mostly a laugh. “Yeah. Well, I honestly don’t know what her problem is. Can we talk about something else?”

He looked frustrated. “Yeah, I guess.”

I thought about how she had insisted on dividing us up along boy-girl lines at the hotel. “Look. I think she’s who says she is, okay? I mean, like her or not, she’s the real deal…”

Michael’s expression was a clear question mark, and it hung over both of us. “But what was going on back there on the train?”

I thought about it, wanting to give him my best answer. “It was crazy. I don’t even know. It’s like all this…this evil…just came out of nowhere.” I wiped beads of condensation from my glass down onto the table, spinning it counterclockwise as I did so. “I guess after the devil was done down in Georgia he decided to take a little train ride in Oregon, huh-huh,” I laughed crazily at my own pathetic joke and made a face.

He didn’t laugh or even crack a smile. “Yeah,” he said, and that’s all he said.

“What.” I knew there was more.

“I don’t know.”

“Yeah, you do.”

He acknowledged the truth with a little shrug. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Just okay.”

“You’re holding out on me.”

This time he sighed heavily. “Sparkling conversation. First date.”

“Second,” I corrected him into my glass, taking another sip.

“Second,” he acknowledged, drumming his fingers on the table.

“And don’t try to change the subject. Go on, spill it,” I said. I tried to sound encouraging, optimistic. It came out too harsh.

He sighed again. “I just don’t know...” He looked like a little boy sitting there, like a little boy whose dog had just been run over and he didn’t know what to do with himself.

I reached out and touched his arm. “What is it?”

We were interrupted by the waitress. She placed a hot pizza down on the table with a couple of plates, called us both “hon,” and walked off after confirming we