“It always matters,” I laugh back, but my voice has a knife’s edge to it.
“Now, Aspen, not all men fall into one of your buckets,” she says and pats my arm like she’s my grandmother. “My daddy doesn’t, and you know that. My parents are madly in love, the same as when they first got together. Heck, they still make out in the kitchen when Mama’s cooking, and they still hold hands while watching TV. Every damn night.” She smiles, and her face lights up as she talks about them. But then she gets serious again, and a no-nonsense attitude colors her face. “Your buckets are funny, girl, but don’t be stupid, or you’ll miss out someday.”
“Yeah, well, who has time? Not me.” Eager to change the subject away from my love life, I say, “Hey, didn’t you have a modeling job you had to run off to?”
“I do! I’m leaving now. I was getting the directions.” She pockets the cash, and as she takes off her apron, she adds, “With this fat tip, and the money I’ll make from this modeling job, I can finally get my old-ass car fixed!” She grabs her leather backpack from under the counter and turns to leave.
“Drive safely!” I call out after her, and she throws her hand up in the air, acknowledging me without saying anything.
As she leaves, the little bells above the door jingle, and I grab a damp towel and walk back to the table where the over-tipping Mystery Man sat. As I wipe up the crumbs, cleaning it for the next customer, I think about Jessica’s parents. She’s right, they are in love. I’ve seen it, and I believe it. It’s just not for me.
“So, what was all that about with that guy?” I hear Popster say, his back to me from the next booth over, his booth.
Great. He heard.
Of course he did.
He’s the eyes and ears of our little place, with a regular stream of customers joining him throughout the day, since he’s here most of the time. I pretend not to hear him.
He closes his newspaper and twists around in his booth to face me. “Are you going to tell me what that was about? Do I need to call in the dogs?”
I shrug. “I have no idea. Figure you’d know more than me,” I say as I straighten the napkin dispenser on the table. I look over at him, and his crystal clear, sharp blue eyes shine with delight as he follows my every move.
“Nope,” he says and pulls his third toothpick of the day out of his mouth, beneath a bushy, white mustache. “It sure was exciting though. Guess you did something pretty bad!” He laughs, putting his toothpick back into his mouth, and he turns around. “Lemme know when you figure it out,” he says and opens his newspaper with a contented sigh.
Popster, my grandpa, is my mom’s dad. He’s almost more of a character than Mom, and don’t get me started on the two of them together. He’s had his white mustache and overgrown, white eyebrows since I was five years old, and his favorite thing to do—other than smoke a pack of Pall Malls every day, eat Entenmann’s coffee cake with icing (I try not to take offense, with my pies adorning the counter), and hang out all day at the diner—is messing with stuff. The man is as crafty as a crow, and he enjoys tinkering, whether it’s with appliances in our kitchen or the latest small-town gossip.
I’ve tried getting him to quit smoking, to eat better, and to not sit all damned day, but he claims he’ll outlive us all, because he does one thing we don’t. He doesn’t stress. Ever. He enjoys his life and swears it’s the secret. I tell him that’s bullshit. He just wiggles those white, steel wool eyebrows back at me. I have to give it to him though, he never gets sick. He’s never tired. He never complains. And? He’s always happy.
I could learn a thing or two about that from him, but I’m too busy making my way in the world. I’ll work on happy after I get my dream… my hotel.
I focus my attention on my long to-do list while I take the dirty cloth to the kitchen. On my way, I look at the giant grandfather clock in the corner, the one piece of furniture Popster insisted we have in the place. It looks absurd and chimes annoyingly on the hour, but the customers love it.
It’s almost closing time, which means it’s almost time for our meeting, and Mom promised good news.
Mom lets the last customers out and then turns the sign on the door to CLOSED. She sits next to Popster in his booth, across from me and my pink legal pad. I’m ready for her update.
“So, I have good news,” she says, her eyes dancing with secrets.
“Duh! What?” I say and lean forward, my heart thundering as it picks up speed. “I cannot beeelieve you made me wait this long. This, coming from the woman who secretly opens her Christmas gifts to see what’s in them and then rewraps them!”
Popster laughs, but she doesn’t bite, and instead, lets me squirm longer. “Let me rephrase. I have fantastic news.” Her brown eyes, dark like mine, get wider, the whites of them out-sizing the irises.
Fine. I lean back in the booth, playing along, but tapping my foot under the table. I fold my arms over my chest, and I wait. She leans back in her booth and mimics me, only then she changes her expression, and she squints her eyes like we’re in an Old West shootout.
But she can’t help herself anymore, and she blurts out, “Robert committed!”
Of course she couldn’t hold out. She used to give me my Christmas
