Page 104 of Ho Ho Oh No

“Just open it, woman,” I snap without any heat.

“Fine, Mr. Bossy Pants.”

Shefinallystarts opening it, running her finger longways under the seam of the paper, popping through the thin piece of tape. The anticipation lodges in the base of my gut as I watch her every move. By the time she’s removed the paper and popped the lid off the tiny box, I’m about to jump out of my skin with nerves.

Her thin eyebrows bunch as she looks at it, likely trying to figure out what it is. She plucks the folded, worn piece of green paper out of the box.

Regret and doubt attempt to poke their way through my once confident facade.

Was this a mistake? Will it upset her? Or will she see it for the romantic gesture I intend it to be?

I shake off the second thoughts with a pointed swoop of my head.

No. I know Maddie. And this is the right thing to give her.

As she unfolds the page, her amused curiosity fades, wiping down her face like she’s tugging off a mask. Her eyes scan from left to right as she reads the small page. More than likely, she’s deciphering the server’s chicken scratch. I’ve read it countless times and can recall it by heart.

1 Diet Coke

1 Cup of Tomato Soup

1 Grilled Cheese Sandwich

1 Dr. Pepper

1 Double Cheeseburger with fries. 86 pickles.

The last two items scrawled on the order pad were for Leo.

She meets my eyes, lips pursed sharply. “Alan, what in the world is this? A receipt from a diner?”

“You don’t recognize it?”

“It looks pretty old. So am I, though.” She turns the receipt over. “I guess the soup and sandwich were for me since it’s written next to the Diet Coke. The pickles.” She clicks her tongue. “That doesn’t make sense because you love pickles. What is this?”

“Here’s a hint,” I tell her, pointing at the bottom of the white register tape stapled to the bottom corner of the order slip.

“Is that a date?”

“Yes.”

“That’s like . . . fifteen. No. Sixteen years ago.”

“Yep. Sixteen.”

Her jaw unhinges as she does the mental math to roll back the calendar to the night we met. In a shitty diner in Georgia, just off base.

The night I swiped the check from her hand and insisted on paying for it while she and Leo discussed where she’d stay that night. She’d driven straight through from Maine to Georgia to hide from her piece of shit husband when she learned he’d made bail. I’ll never forget the sight of her stitched-up cheek and black eye.And the stunning woman beneath them.

Without speaking, she carefully refolds the check in the reverse pattern and sets it back in the box. She stares at it for a few heavy seconds before placing the lid back on it.

When she glances at me, her eyes are misty. “Why did you keep this?”

Despite knowing she’d ask some variation of this question, I clam up now that the moment to answer is upon me. My mouth refuses to open.

“It wasn’t a great time for me, you know?” Her voice is so low I have to strain to hear her. “But therewasone good memory?—”

Her shoulders roll back, and she whips around toward the sound of approaching footsteps.