My Darling Bride(10)

I’m inside the Roller Diner across the street from the motel. Patsy Cline sings from the jukebox. Above me, ceiling fans turn slowly, creating a soft whir over the clang of plates and silverware. The place smells like grease and coffee. I came in and picked out the darkest part of the restaurant to sit.

“Here you go, our special today,” the waitress says in a sugary voice as she places down my honey chicken, rice, and egg rolls.

“Great.” I barely read the menu.

“Can I get you anything else? More water? Coffee?” Her hand goes to her hip, calling attention to a curved body that fills out her pink uniform. She’s attractive, with dark hair and red lips.

“I’m good.”

She smiles, lingering.

I raise a brow.

“I almost forgot your fortune cookie.” She takes it off her tray and places it down, then gazes at me expectantly.

Mom loved fortune cookies and horoscopes, and I never pass one up for her. It’s almost as if she’s talking to me through them. I crack it open and pull out the tiny piece of paper. I never was one to wait until the end of the meal.

Come out of the dark and embrace the sunshine. I blink away the sting of emotion that pricks my eyelids. It sounds exactly like something she’d say. I’ve been in the dark ever since my tackle on the field.

The waitress still hasn’t walked away. She giggles, and I glance up. “Um, are you Graham Harlan, the tight end for the Pythons? See, the fry cook said you were, but I said, ‘What on earth would he be doing in Old Town?’ He bet me five bucks it was you. Are you him?”

Normally, I am not the most recognizable player on the team. That’s reserved for quarterbacks and wide receivers, but the entire team has been on the TV since the Super Bowl. I’ve picked up some rabid fans, a lot of them female, plus more requests for interviews, and while that’s great for the franchise, I’m not one to share publicly about my life.

“Yeah, that’s me,” I mutter.

Her eyes widen. “Wow! We never get famous people in here. Thank God your team won, right? I mean, after—”

I pick up my chopsticks. “Do you mind—”

She sits down. “Can I ask you a question?”

“No.”

“Is it true you died?”

My jaw tics.

Yes, my heart stopped beating. I wasn’t breathing. The used a defibrillator to bring me back. I was in the hospital for a week while they monitored me. My symptoms on the field represented what a “clinical death” can look like. Most experts say that after four minutes of no oxygen to the brain, your cells begin to die as parts of your brain expire: first the temporal lobe, where memories are stored.

I was out for under two minutes.

I’m about to tell her to mind her business when my phone rings.

“May I have some privacy?” I say to her.

“Oh. Sure, yeah. It was worth losing the bet just to meet you. We’ll talk later. I get off at ten.” She winks as she slides a piece of paper across the table with her number written on it. She flounces away, and I crumple the note.

“Hey,” I say to Brody.

“Hallelujah, my big brother is alive! Tell me all the things. Did you figure out your dream?”

I laugh as I picture him in his apartment in Manhattan. He’s probably on his balcony, sipping on a martini and taking in the views of Central Park. I bet he’s wearing slacks and a tweed blazer. His socks will be color coordinated. At twenty-seven, he’s three years younger than me and a replica of our mother with his sandy-blond hair and smile. He inherited her fun and spontaneity, while I got our father’s dark looks.

“I’ve seen coyotes, roadrunners, snakes, and a tarantula as big as my hand. You’d be shitting your pants.”

“Gross. But did you figure out your chat with God when you were dead? I’m picturing His Holiness as Queen Elizabeth in pearls and a powder blue suit.”

“Your God is a British monarch?”

“Isn’t yours?”

I chuckle. “I did find an interesting motel called the Golden Iguana. I’ve stayed in better tents.”

My head tumbles back to the motel. I consider telling him about Emmy. My lips quirk. She ran into my arms like a long-lost girlfriend, and damn her acting was good. I’d been fighting a dizzy spell from the stairwell, and when she launched herself at me, I’d been stunned and a little confused, then angry. I’d assumed she was someone who recognized me and wanted to meet me.

He pulls me back to the present. “How’s the head?”

“Fine.”

He lets out a gusty exhale. “The desert sun has to be killing you. I’m sorry, G.”

I tap my fingers against the side of the coffee cup. “There was a woman. She pulled me into her room.”

“Now we’re talking! Roarrr!”

“Nothing happened.”

“So delicious! Was she hot? Blonde, nice tits?”

Yes. “I didn’t notice.”

“But you felt a tingle in your pants?”

“Jesus. No, Brody.”

“You lie. In case you want to know, I’m twerking in happiness on the balcony right now.”

“She wasn’t my type.”

Yet . . .

My fingers drum the table, thoughts drifting to her heart-shaped face and big green eyes. Her ass in that bikini was luscious. And she’d smelled like sun-kissed skin and vanilla.