Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 34995 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 175(@200wpm)___ 140(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34995 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 175(@200wpm)___ 140(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
Something more resigned. Something that made me want to ask if he was okay, which was ridiculous, because I didn't know him, and he didn't know me beyond "Thea, the waitress who brings his omelet."
Sundays became the best and worst day of my week because it gave me space that brought me relief and agony. Jolie teasing me about him, I could handle. But it was when Sarah herself finally (but gently) encouraged me to pray about my feelings for him, for wisdom from God...
It made me realize just how big a coward I was...because all this time, I refused to pray about him. Because a part of me already knew. A part of me had always known and remembered that since God gave us a spirit of love and power, but not fear...
Fast forward to the present. It’s Monday again, Day 36 of watching a stranger eat breakfast, and yes, I’ve finally plucked the courage, backed by my prayer to God, that yes, I am absolutely going to talk to him today.
Not just take his order. Actually talk. Maybe ask him how he's doing, or what brings him to Jackson Hole, or literally anything that constituted actual human conversation beyond the transactional exchange of food for money.
I practiced in the bathroom mirror while getting ready.
I had talking points. I had conversation openers. I had a whole mental script, and yes, it was deeply embarrassing, but it was better than standing there with my mouth open like a fish while my brain abandoned ship, which is what usually happened when I tried to talk to him.
"How's your morning going?" I said to my reflection.
Too generic.
"Cold out there today, huh?"
Ugh, that was even worse.
Jackson Hole in February was always cold.
"So, you come here a lot."
I physically cringed at my own reflection. "No. Absolutely not. That sounds like a pickup line from 1987."
I settled on something simple. Something safe. Just: "How are you today?" With maybe a smile. Maybe some eye contact. Maybe the appearance of being a competent adult human who could string words together in a socially acceptable manner.
I could do this.
I walked to work repeating it like a mantra. How are you today. How are you today. Just ask how he's doing. Simple. Normal. Not weird at all.
Except..he didn't come in at seven-fifteen.
Or seven-twenty.
Or seven-thirty.
By eight o'clock, I'd refilled the napkin dispensers twice, wiped down counters that were already clean, and counted the ceiling tiles above the corner booth so many times I could have drawn them from memory.
"He's not coming," Jolie said, not looking up from Wuthering Heights.
"I didn't—I'm not—"
"Thea. You've checked the door seventeen times in the last hour."
"I was just—"
"Looking for him. I know." She finally looked up, and her expression was kind. "Maybe he had somewhere else to be."
"Right. Obviously. He doesn't owe me—I mean, the café—anything. He can eat breakfast wherever he wants."
"Or maybe he's sick."
"Maybe."
"Or maybe he'll come tomorrow."
"Maybe."
But he did come.
Just not at seven-fifteen.
He walked in at eight-forty-seven (I checked), and the café was mostly empty by then, just a couple lingering over coffee in the back, and when I saw him, my carefully rehearsed script evaporated like steam.
He went to the corner booth. Sat down. Looked at his phone with that beautifully brooding expression I'd memorized without meaning to.
And I stood behind the counter with a coffee pot I didn't need and a heart doing something structurally unsound in my chest, and I thought: Okay. This is it. Now or never. Just go over there and talk to him like a normal person.
But my feet wouldn't move.
Jolie kicked me under the counter. Literally. Her sneaker connected with my ankle, and I yelped.
"Ow—"
"Go," she hissed.
"I can't—"
"You can. You've been psyching yourself up for this all morning. Just go."
"What if—"
"Thea." She closed her book with a soft thump. "If you don't go over there right now, I'm going to go over there and tell him you've been mooning over him for a month."
"You wouldn't."
"Try me."
She would. I knew she would, because Jolie Liang had exactly zero shame and one hundred percent follow-through on her threats.
So I went.
I walked across the café with the coffee pot I still didn't need, and my pulse was doing something concerning in my ears, and my carefully rehearsed conversation opener had completely fled my brain, and all I could think was: Please, God. Just let me not embarrass myself. That's all I'm asking. Just this once, let me be the version of myself that doesn't trip over her own tongue and—
"More coffee?"
The words came out automatically. The exact two words I'd told myself I would not say.
Outstanding. Truly. A month of planning, and I'd defaulted to the most boring question in the history of waitressing.
He didn't look up.
I stood there.
I should leave. I should absolutely, definitely leave, because he clearly didn't want to be disturbed, and I was clearly disturbing nothing except my own dignity, and if I turned around right now, I could still pretend this was just a routine check-in and not the sad little