Puddin'(46)

He turns toward me, and our gaze locks in unspoken understanding. I hold my breath, scared that the slightest sound will cause this moment to dissolve.

“Anyway,” he finally says as the light turns green, “I’ve just never been good at showing people the real me. Sometimes it’s just easier to let them believe in the version of me they’ve built in their heads.” He clears his throat. “You want to listen to some music for a little while?”

I nod. “Yeah, that’d be nice.”

He reaches for a mix CD that’s been written across in black Sharpie and says COUNTRY MUSIC THAT DOESN’T SUCK.

He holds up the CD. “No plug-ins for my phone in the car, so I gotta make my own mixes.”

“You listen to country?” I ask, not doing a very good job of masking my surprise.

“Only the kind that doesn’t suck,” he responds with the hint of a grin.

Everyone in the world probably thinks it’s some kind of requirement to love country music if you live in Texas, but to be honest, I only started giving Dolly Parton a try after getting to know Willowdean. I’m more likely to turn on a movie or a TED Talk for background noise, but sometimes the only thing that can put me to sleep is Dolly’s Blue Smoke.

But Malik’s taste in country is a little folksy and more updated. They’re the kind of songs that you magically know the words to before the whole thing is even finished. And soon enough I’m singing along to an Old Crow Medicine Show song. At least that’s what Malik tells me.

He looks to me and grins.

My cheeks burn as we turn into the only gas station we’ve seen since leaving town.

All the lights seem to flicker like the electricity is being pumped out like gasoline. The sign above the convenience store reads QUICKIESHOP, but Malik circles around to the back, where I expect to find a grimy back door and a pair of Dumpsters, but instead there is a diner called the Bee’s Knees. The bricks are painted in black-and-yellow stripes and the huge window stretching from one side of the diner to the other covers the back parking lot in a warm honey glow.

“I’ve never even heard of this place,” I tell Malik.

He turns off the music and unbuckles his seat belt. “Most people haven’t. That’s the best part.”

I follow him inside, and the older woman behind the counter with a name tag that reads LUPE says, “Hey, hon, your usual spot is open.”

Malik leads me to the booth farthest from the front door and asks, “Is this okay?”

I eye the tiny booth and hope I can suck it in enough to make it work. I nod.

Malik sits down and immediately pulls the table closer toward him to give me a little more space. “Thanks,” I tell him.

I can’t even bring myself to make eye contact with him. Not because I’m embarrassed, but because for once it’s nice to not be the only person in the room who is aware of the space my body takes up. To me, the gesture is so sweet that I feel a lump in my throat forming.

“Of course,” he says.

Love is in the details.

“How’d you find this place?” I ask.

He reaches behind the mini jukebox and hands me a menu. “Priya. My older sister. This used to be her hangout. Everything in Clover City shuts down by ten or eleven, so the only twenty-four-hour diners we have are crawling with people from school. But this place is a little out of the way.”

“I’m never really out that late, but that makes sense.”

“My parents aren’t what you would call strict,” he says. “My sister and her friends would study here all night. When I was a freshman and she was a senior, she started bringing me with her. Plus this is one of the few places still open when I get out of work on Fridays and Saturdays.”

Malik works at our only movie theater, the Lone Star Four, and it’s like this whole facet of him that I don’t even know. “When did you start working at the theater?” I ask.

“Last spring. If Priya was going to leave me her car, I had to find a way to pay for gas. I love it there, but late-night weekend shows put me home so late I’m already jonesing for breakfast.”

“Must be nice not to have strict parents. My mom is beyond strict. She would never let me have a job where I work that late.”

He shrugs. “It’s sort of weird. With my aunties and uncles . . . they’re in their kids’ business all the time. Priya says they’re like ingrown hairs.”

I laugh. “That’s an interesting way of putting it. What makes your parents different?”

“Well . . .”

“I’ll be over in a sec!” shouts Lupe from across the diner.

“Thanks,” calls Malik before turning back to me. “I mean, it’s not that weird for my family or for Hindu culture, really. Especially with the older generations.” He pauses for a moment. “My parents had an arranged marriage.”

That is definitely not what I expected to hear. I smile maybe too widely. “Wow!”

“But they love each other. They really do.”

I lean in a little. “You don’t have to convince me.”

“I know,” he says, “but it’s sort of crazy, because sometimes I feel like they were meant to be. Like, they were specifically built for each other.”

“Must be nice,” I say. “So does that mean you’ll . . . get married that way, too?”