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Mysti
The bright summersun poured through the wide windows of Whitman’s Cafe. The diner was full of the sights and sounds that had become like a balm to the heaviness in my soul. This place was my second chance. A crack at the new life I’d always wanted but never dreamed I could live. It was the new beginning I’d been told I could have if only I believed in myself.
There were days where the past caught up with me. The trauma I’d lived through would never fully leave me; I knew that. And the sweet face of the first man to ever put his faith in me was never far from my mind.
Kosta.
It was on his prompting that I’d thought to come here. His death that had given me that reason to live. My therapist and friend had taught me so many things in the short time I’d known him. Most importantly, I’d learned I could no longer squander the minutes I’d been given on this earth, because I knew just how fragile life could be.
“Order up!” Calvin, Whitman’s best short-order cook and my dear friend, pushed two plates of eggs and avocado toast across the stainless-steel counter and winked my way.
“Thanks, sweetie.” I pulled the plates from where he left them and carefully situated them on my tray between the two bottles of sparkling water and the glasses of cranberry apple juice and kombucha tea. I wove my way out from behind the counter and through the press of early morning customers with a smile on my face and joy in my heart.
I loved it here. In this little diner. In this gorgeous seaside town. Though I ached for the friendships I’d been forced to leave behind when I came out west, I couldn’t help but think I was exactly where I belonged.
“Here you go, my loves.” I swung the two waters off my tray with one hand, dropping them lightly to the white cloth-covered table. “I’ll be back for your order in a minute.”
The older woman, Evie, smiled up at me while her husband, Clarence, did nothing more than lift his hand toward his bottle, his nose buried in the menu I’d set in front of him nearly ten minutes ago. As if he hadn’t done the same thing every day since I started working here.
I spun away from the table, my gaze zipping over the packed space. It was always busier during the Farmer’s Market and the Seaside Festival. At least that’s what Calvin and Junie had told me on day one. And today was proving just how right they were.
Whitman’s wasn’t your typical diner. What had started as a nice sit-down coffee shop twenty years ago had slowly morphed into what it was today. Where some coffee shops along the beach prided themselves on fancy drinks pumped out as fast as their customers could rattle off their crazy names, Whitman’s prided itself on the connection with its customers. Each coffee was crafted with love. Each plate of food was filled with the same. Here, we got to know our patrons, and in return, they gave us their loyalty.
“Excuse me, sweetie.” I reached my hand to the shoulder of the man in front of me, twisting so I could squeeze between him and the line of other customers gaping at Junie’s over-sized muffins and decadent pastries. But I didn’t anticipate him moving, didn’t expect him to dodge the child who went screaming through the space between us where my foot had been a moment before.
My tray spun as I did, and I gave everything in me to hold on and keep it from toppling to the floor. I felt this feeling inside of me, like my now-deceased friend was right there with me, once again giving me the tools I’d need to navigate this life without him.
Only, Kosta couldn’t give me the balance I needed. I might have enjoyed biking and boating; I might have loved to dance and hike. Racing across retainer walls like they were balance beams had been a skill I’d honed as a kid. But a lifetime of balancing couldn’t have saved that tray as gravity started taking it down.
There was no saving me, either.
As the tray fell, so did I. I braced myself for the impact, wondering briefly if it was better to keep my body and muscles loose instead. The cold splash of the juice and pungent, sweet-sour smell of the kombucha hit me at exactly the same time. Though that impact? It wasn’t the hard floor or the sharp edge of the table that my ass collided with.
It was hard, yes. Muscular, for sure.
And wet.
Of course.
Because my tray had preceded me in my fall, landing on my savior and soaking him through just the way it’d soaked me.
Sun-kissed skin peeked out under a smear of egg yolk and avocados. A tomato slice had landed in waves of sun-lightened brown hair. The kombucha dripped from the scruff of a beard and a tiny red droplet of juice hung from long, black eyelashes.
“Oh my God. Oh my God! I’m so sorry.”
The words left me in a rushed prayer. As if the God who’d guided me to this new life could somehow save me from this embarrassment.
“It’s okay, love.” His voice was a gruff rumble as his hands gripped my shoulder and leg, the man clearly trying to keep the mess I’d made from spreading as I wiggled to get free.
But his hands weren’t what gave me pause.
No. It was his words.
That phrase, the same one Kosta had always used.
It’s okay, love.
