I zip passed him, swerve around the empty hostess station, and slide into the booth in the corner by the kitchen.  The diner is outdated and in extreme need of some TLC.  Yellowed chandeliers hang throughout the ceiling, one above every third table.  Faded green and white wall paper peeks out beneath an array of local sports memorabilia.  Jerseys from past all-star players, bats with signatures, hockey sticks, team photos, trophies; all dating back to when my generation’s grandparents were kids.  Ancient dark green booth tops stand in a half moon shape around the counter that’s lined with hard metal barstools.  Stained and faded dark green carpet covers the floors.  Despite the crippling décor, the food is delicious, encompassing all that is warm belly filling home-style comfort food, and the owners are the friendliest couple I’ve ever met.

My assessment takes all of three seconds, and then Ryan is seating himself into the opposite green padded seat of the booth.  Grinning at me.

“Are you always so happy?”

The words slip from my dry lips before I have time to assess if I should speak them aloud.  Normally, I can pride myself on a decent brain-to-mouth filter; however, it’s been malfunctioning in Ryan’s presence.  His grin falls for half a second before he fixes it back into place.  I duck my head and suck on my lower lip nervously, hoping he won’t respond.

“Aren’t you ever happy?”

“No,” I answer flatly.  That was an easy question.

“No?  You’re never happy just because?  Happy to be alive?  Being able to wake up each morning doesn’t make you happy?”

There’s more he wants to say, but he’s waiting for a response from me.  So I give him one.  Tipping my head back, I release the bubble of laughter erupting from deep in my belly.  Tears trickle down my cheeks as I roar from the hilarity of his question.  Happy because I exist?  Abso-freakin-lutely not.  I don’t have an obsession with death.  There isn’t a plan somewhere for how and when I’ll die.  I’m not suicidal.  But I’m also not even remotely happy for my existence.  Not unless that existence was a few hundred miles away from here.

“That funny, huh?”  The clipped tone of his voice brings me back from the edge of a manic episode, and I crack open an eyelid to peek at him.  He’s pretty cute.  Ryan’s leaning back in his booth, his long masculine fingers fiddling with the roll of silverware while he waits patiently for me to contain myself.  He looks slightly exasperated except for the corner of his mouth that’s twitching.  He finds me amusing!

“Sorry!  I’m sorry.  I just-.”  What can I possibly say to explain my crazy?  “Are you really happy simply based on your existence?  I find that hard to believe.  Nobody is that happy.”

“Sounded pretty stupid, didn’t it?”  Ryan runs his hand through his thick, dark hair making it stick up quite charmingly.  He pauses amid a second swipe, freezing as if realizing he’s performing a nervous habit, and he flattens both palms on the hunter green tabletop.  “I have a friend who was always trying to get me into a more positive mindset.  She suggested I work on being happy because I’m alive.  That’s it.  Be happy because I’m here.  I always thought it was a load of crap.”  His smile turns thoughtful and somewhat sad.  “I’ve never tried her advice on anyone else before.  Judging by your reaction, I’d say you feel the same way as I do.”

I nod carefully.  I try to ignore the way my stomach contracts at the mention of ‘she’ and force myself not to ask who ‘she’ is to him.  I’m having a friendly meal with a stranger who rescued me from the side of the road in the middle of the night.  There’s nothing more to this.  Nothing.  There can’t be.  Even if I had the time to invest in a relationship, I can’t think of one reason why this guy would want to go out with me.  So ‘she’ can have him.  She can have him.  I can’t.

“Is she a psychologist?” Damnit.  “I mean, it sounds like a load of shrink mumbo jumbo.”

Ryan opens his mouth to respond when the waitress appears to take our orders.

“Hey there, my name is Heather.  What can I start ya off with to drink?”  Heather is a few years older than me, a blonde bombshell beauty complete with a soft body and perfect curves.  She’s round in all the right places.  She’s wearing the standard uniform of black slacks and a white collared shirt with a hunter green apron folded across her waist.  She folds her hands and rests them against her cocked hip while she waits for us to order.

“A water for me,” I reply quickly, keeping my gaze away from Ryan’s.  Now that my car is junk, I’ll have to repair that first.  Which means no food or kindle money for the next week.  Why did I agree to this?  I can’t expect him to pay for me just because he’s a guy.  Sure, he’s been sweet and chivalrous all night, but that doesn’t mean he wants to pay for my food, too.  He’s done enough for me already.

“I’ll have a Coke,” Ryan says, but I know his eyes haven’t left me.  I can feel the weight of his stare, my body tingling with awareness.  The hairs on my arms and neck prickle to attention.  God, please look away before my embarrassment is evident.  I’m sure my cheeks look like two hot tomatoes.

“You two ready to order or do you need a minute?”  Heather’s voice rides the scale, nearing a crescendo in her sweet singsong tone.  Girl needs to lay off the caffeine.

“Are you ready, Tatum?”

“Uh-sure.  I’ll have a side of fries.”

“A side of fries?”  Ryan and Heather repeat simultaneously.  If my face wasn’t pink before, it sure is flaming now.  Please, someone take me out.  Send in a heat seeking missile or a zombie apocalypse.  I’m sure either would be able to find me with the way my heart is pumping right now.

“Sorry, can we have a minute?”

My gold nail polish is chipping off.  I really should get them painted more often, but it takes so much time and between school, and work, and homework, the last thing I want to do at midnight is paint my nails.  They look ridiculous with half the color coming off though, so I start grinding away at the edges using my thumbnail.  Scrape.  Scrape.  Scrape.

“Tatum.”

Only two more fingers left on my left hand, then I need to move onto my right.  Can’t have one hand with polish and one without.

“Tatum, look at me.”

I scrape harder, almost done with my pinky, but my thumb slips off my nail and tears into my cuticle.  The skin breaks and a trail of blood wells up from beneath the sliced skin.

“Ouch!”

My skin burns, and I bring my damaged finger to my mouth to suck the blood from my wound.  Ryan reaches his hand out to stop me.  My head snaps up to find him seated next to me instead of across from me where I left him before retreating inside myself.

“What happened?  Are you hurting yourself?” Ryan swiftly wraps my finger in a napkin from the silverware roll.

Oh, the irony.  I sigh.  “I scratched my finger.  You can let go now.”

He doesn’t let go.

Ryan holds slight pressure on my barely injured finger while he looks intently into my eyes.  “Why don’t you want to eat anything?”

His proximity is making it hard to breathe, and his question makes me want to punch him in the face.  Sucking in a quiet breath, I hush my inner bitch.  It’s not his fault I’m dirt poor.

“I’m not hungry,” I try to placate him.

“I call bullshit.”  No such luck.  “Why come to eat with me if you’re not hungry?”

“Because you look like you tell fascinating stories?”

“Don’t lie to me,” he warns.  “Does it have anything to do with your newly acquired car repair and the money you’ll be spending to take care of it?  Because, Sweetheart, I wasn’t joking when I said I was offering dinner.  Don’t worry about the cost.  It’s my treat.”

I shake my head sadly, wondering why this stranger had to drop into my life tonight.  Maybe if this was a year or two from now I’d be more willing to relax and eat a comfortable meal with Ryan.  “I can’t accept that.  You’ve been too generous already.”