It’s dark out, a starry sky unraveling above the mountains that rise like giant shadows around the valley of Blackthorn Falls. The diner itself hasn’t changed much in the past five years. The parking lot is the same—I’m pretty sure the two cars at the far end were here the last time I came in. There’s a new neon sign mounted above the front door, but everything else is giving me plenty of nostalgic vibes.
“You used to bring me here once a week,” I say aloud, as if my brother is still here.
He’s always been with me, a quiet thought in my head, a bittersweet memory I dare not let go of. Whenever I miss him, I find that talking to him soothes that need, if only slightly.
“Double cheeseburger and fries. And a piece of pecan pie. You’d order extra dill pickles for your patty. I always asked for vanilla ice cream on top of my pie. It was our ritual, wasn’t it?”
In my mind, the events of that night replay parallel to the present. I park my car precisely where I did then. I get out slowly and walk across the parking lot.
“Hey, there,”the only waitress working the evening shift says by way of a greeting. “I’m Dina. Welcome to Mondy’s.” Surprisingly, she’s not someone I know. It’s a bit of a relief.
“Hi, Dina,” I reply.
“Make yourself comfortable. Coffee?”
“Sure, thanks.”
The booths are the same worn, dark red leather. I take a seat at the exact table where I last saw him—by the window facing the parking lot. The occasional car whizzes by on the road, a flicker of headlights disappearing into the night.
Toward the bridge.
Dina comes over with a plastic menu and a mug. She pours freshly brewed coffee from a large glass pot. It smells nice.
“New in town?” she asks.
I look up. She’s in her late teens. Probably working the late shift while going to school during the day. She must’ve been just a kid the night it happened.
“Sort of,” I lie. “What’s left in the kitchen tonight?”
“French fries and other stuff we can just throw into the fryer. Our chef is gone for the night but Perry, our sous-chef, has another hour on the clock.”
“Can I have the fries then, with a dip on the side?”
“Sure thing. Garlic mayo or the Greek stuff?”
I can’t help but smile. “You mean tzatziki.”
“I can never pronounce it right,” Dina giggles, “so I don’t risk it.”
“I’ll take the Greek stuff,” I reply still smiling. “And the pecan pie, if there’s any left.”
“We have a couple of slices left from lunch, I’m sure. Do you want?—”
“Vanilla ice cream on top? Yes, ma’am. One generous scoop.”
“Coming right up,” Dina says, jotting my order down as she heads back behind the counter, then disappears into the kitchen.
I look around.
Not much to see. Two truck drivers hang out at the end of the counter, trading stories while sipping coffee. A middle-aged couple sits in a booth across the room, working their way through a couple slices of pie, talking and occasionally smiling at each other.
It’s nice and quiet. The way it was that night.
Shifting my gaze back outside, I take a deep breath.
“We’d been arguing all day,” I mutter, wishing he could hear me. “I asked you to meet me here at nine. I wanted to talk to you, to talk some sense into you.”
I showed up, my brother replies in my head.
