byMARIE RUTKOSKI
HE WAS THEREagain. Sitting, as always, in the red-cushioned booth by the window overlooking Old County Route 6, dressed in a way that managed to be casual yet refined, in a light blue button-down shirt that was probably a blend of silk and linen, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, the collar open to his tanned skin. He looked as though he were not in an Upstate New York diner known for its hobo scramble and strawberry-pretzel pie but on a terrace someplace European, like the Amalfi Coast, where burning pink flowers climbed in a canopy over a shading screen of rattan from which hung, here and there, inverted pyramids of grape clusters not yet ripe. Kacey had seen pictures online. She had seen wealthy Italians on little boats sailing out to open water for a swim away from tourist-crammedbeaches, then sailing down the coast as night fell to dock at a cove where a restaurant served whole fish roasted with potatoes, lemon, and olives. The man’s profile resembled an emperor’s, stamped on a Roman coin. He glanced up, caught her gaze, and smiled. Perfect teeth. The sun was just coming up over the road outside, transforming the asphalt into a river of orange light.
“Go on,” Rosanna told Kacey. “You know his usual.”
“That’s your table.”
Rosanna was old enough to be Kacey’s mother and had clear, gray eyes and short hair dyed a vibrant red. She said, “That man is gorgeous. You can thank me later.”
It was an odd time for dessert, but Kacey cut a large wedge of strawberry-pretzel pie and brought it to him with a pot of coffee that didn’t taste great. It was a little scorched, actually, as though someone had stirred in a spoonful of firepit ashes—but whatever, people didn’t come here for the coffee.
He added three sugar cubes to his coffee and drank it quickly, though surely it blistered going down, then touched one elegant finger to the rim of the mug as though it were a wineglass. She refilled it, and said, “I don’t mean to judge, but...”
“Everyone means to judge.” He took a bite of the sweet-and-salty pie and drove his fork into it again, sliding through the pink fruit to pierce the crisp, brown crust.
“That’s a lot of sugar to start your day.”
“What are you, the pleasure police?” He said it lightly, in fun, but Kacey flushed, feeling instantly guilty. Even if shecouldn’t have what she wanted, even if she was stuck here, thinking about her friends’ first year at college—the brick dorm rooms, the bedding bought by their moms for move-in day, the red Solo cups at parties, the complaints about coursework—who was she to act like no one else should get what they wanted, that there was something wrong with pie for breakfast? He was right.
“It’s so good,” he said. “Get yourself a piece and sit here with me.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
She sighed, impatient. He knew why. He just wanted to hear her say it. But it was her job to be polite, and as he took another sip of coffee, his blue eyes watching her over the rim, she couldn’t help being flattered by his clear interest. “I’d get fired.”
“You could quit.”
“You say it like it’s so simple.”
“It is.”
She shook her head. He didn’t know how much she needed this income, how much her family needed her. Before the real estate bubble burst and brought down the economy last year, crashing the stock market, they had been happy. She remembered the joy on her mother’s face when she qualified for a mortgage to buy a brand-new three-bedroom house with central air and a kitchen faucet with no handle. It ran at the merest touch. “How can we afford this?” Kacey had asked. Her little brother, Sam, had run upstairs, shouting,“I call dibs!” on whatever bedroom he had decided was the best.
“I got an ARM,” her mother had said, voice giddy.
“A what?”
“An adjustable rate mortgage. Come on, Kace, don’t they teach you anything practical by sophomore year? You gotta know more thanthis.” She had poked at Kacey’s beaten copy ofThe Age of Innocence, which she was reading for AP English. She wanted to start college with as many credits as she could, and had managed to convince teachers to let her into some AP classes even though they were supposed to be for juniors and seniors. “An ARM is an adjustable rate mortgage. It’ll save me a bundle. The first two years, I pay practically nothing in interest.”
“What about after that?”
“Well, the interest rate goes up, but I’ll make more money then, or I can refinance. Honey, don’t worry. The loan officer says he does a million of these kinds of loans. It’s a really smart investment.” Her mom had looked proud. Then she said, “I haven’t even shown you the best part.” She led Kacey through the kitchen’s sliding glass doors into the backyard. At first, Kacey saw only the swing set and thick lawn and thought,Yes, this is perfect for Sam.Then her mother’s hand touched her shoulder, turning her slightly so that Kacey faced the house again, and Kacey gasped. Edging the back of the house were bushes heavy with white peonies, their shirred petals open in glorious lassitude. There were pink tea roses. Twined beneath them was periwinkle, withits purple stars, and tiny blue forget-me-nots.
“You always wanted a garden,” her mother had said.
“Oh, Mom.”
“Do you love it?”
Kacey hugged her, her face buried against her mother’s graying blond hair as Sam jumped from the kitchen doors and barreled into them, tackling them around the legs. “This place is awesome!” he shouted.
“Yes,” Kacey whispered, still holding her mother tight. “I love it.”
The man settled back in the booth, examining her face as if he could read in her expression the history of what had happened next, how the higher interest rate kicked in and they began to cut back on food so that sometimes dinner was a peanut butter sandwich, but that was okay because they still had the house. Then the recession came, and her mother lost her job as a receptionist at the dentist’s office. Now the house was gone, and the roses, too. It no longer mattered what Kacey’s grades were, or how many AP credits she had. Graduation came and her mother cried, but not like the other parents cried. Kacey, her diploma rolled and tied with a ribbon, wasn’t going anywhere.
Or rather, she was goinghere, to Rosanna’s Place on Route 6, where the man stared at her, his interest now tinged with pity. “Maybe it’s not so simple,” he said. “But the offer stands, anytime.”