Page 18 of Nailing Studs
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Dom and I took his work truck, and the first few minutes of the ride were spent in awkward silence, save for the hum of the engine and the whip of the wind. Then Dom drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and sighed. “I’m an asshole,” he said finally, still staring straight ahead.
“Yes, you are.” I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye and caught him doing the same. We each chuckled softly.
Before the awkwardness could set back in like a damp, mildewed blanket, Dom spoke again. “I’m sorry for being a jerk. Yesterday and today.”
I looked over at him. Everything about him was sharp, hard. His jaw line, his eyebrows, the angle of his shoulder, the muscles down his arm that I could see past his rolled up flannel shirtsleeve. But I knew there was hurt and vulnerability and complexity behind all those sharp, hard lines.
“I accept your apology,” I said.
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
We settled into an easy conversation, with Dom telling me he was taking me to a diner he’d been going to for years. He’d even taken his first date there a long time ago.
“Aww, that’s so cute.” I smiled. “How old were you?”
“Sixteen?” He squinted, trying to remember. “I’d just gotten my license. I really liked this girl and wanted to take her out, but I didn’t have money for a fancy place, so we went to Frawley’s instead.”
Sixteen. Before Laura and college. “Hey, it’s not the price tag, it’s the fun you have, right?” I reassured him.
“I guess so,” he said quietly.
“How long have you lived in Fosterman?”
“I was born here, grew up here. Only left for college.”
“And how’s it been since you came back?”
“Good. My family’s here. Plus, Taylor’s not a bad roommate and he’s a great business partner. A lot of people are moving out of the Bay Area to remote locations like Fosterman, so work is steady.”
I considered asking him about his fiancée…maybe even telling him that I’d spoken with Laura. Why stir up old emotions, though? Dom was finally relaxing around me, and I wanted more of that.
In no time, we were pulling into the diner. The place seemed a little run-down around the edges but cheerful, with a bright neon sign announcing that Frawley’s was named Fosterman’s Best Eatery for the sixteenth year in a row.
“Looks nice.” I climbed out of the truck and noted a few more trucks parked around us.
“Doubt it’s got much on all the places you’ve been to in the big city, but—”
“It’ll be great,” I interrupted, reassuring him. I saw a shadow in his eyes, as though he was worried I would turn my nose up at this restaurant, deem it not good enough for my high standards. Right, because broke ol’ me who couldn’t afford to renovate Tabitha’s house would turn my nose up at a diner?
I took his arm as we walked in. He looked down at my hand for a brief moment, seeming surprised at my touch. The air felt charged between us and time slowed down ever so slightly.
I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. Good, because I wanted to have a connection with Dominic so much, despite his moodiness the day before, but bad, because I shouldn’t have been feeling anything for anybody when I wouldn’t be staying in Fosterman. Once again, however, I pushed that thought out of my mind and decided to simply focus on the here and now.
We headed inside where the diner was even more old-fashioned than on the outside. Gleaming tiled counter, a couple of coffee pots percolating away, and a rotating stand showing off glistening donuts and thick wedges of pie. A few waitresses in short skirts and big smiles walked briskly about, pausing to chat with people here and there and letting out enthusiastic gales of laughter.
My heart warmed. This was community, real community, something I’d lacked back in New York.
In the kitchen, a large, older man worked his ass off at the grill, wiping sweat off his brow. Dom led me to a leather-clad booth in the corner. Someone in the booth next to us was drinking a vanilla milkshake out of a tall glass, which made me smile. So classic. If I ever needed a reference for what a small-town diner looked like while writing one of my food articles, I’d only need to come here for lunch.
Something tugged in my chest—anxiety. Would I ever go back to writing food critiques again? Did I even want to? What path should my career take? Where did I go from here?
“You’re in for a treat,” Dominic said, nodding toward the short-order cook. “Nathan’s great. He puts the word ‘home’ in ‘down-home cooking.’”
The cook looked up and noticed Dom, and called out, “My man! Can’t resist my fries, right?” He flipped a burger onto a bun, placed the plate on the pass, and came out from behind the grill.
“And who’s this?” Nathan asked, smiling down at me. “Don’t think I’ve seen this lovely lady around here before.”