Yolk(50)

“Morning,” I croak, opening his bedroom door and yawning, pretending like I’ve been asleep this whole time. Pretending like I didn’t set my alarm for 7:00 a.m. to remove my crusty makeup and reapply it by early windowlight and phone. I even thought about trying to poop without detection while Patrick snored softly, hugging the couch, dead asleep, but I’d rather hold it, poison my microbiome, and die slow.

He shuffles into the kitchen and returns with a cup of coffee. “Sleep well?”

I nod, taking the hot drink.

We stand side by side at the large window. It’s miserable. The kind of umbrella-flipping torrent where everyone’s huddled under awnings, waiting it out.

In his glasses, hair sticking up in the back, with his coffee mug, grinning down at the sad sacks on the street, he looks totally different from the version of him on social media, even the kid from church. This is nice, I tell myself. Other than Jeremy, I’ve never spent a morning with a guy in this way.

“What about you?”

“Great,” he replies, toasting me with his mug.

I search for any hint of resentment at my staying over.

“I guess I should be heading out,” I tell him, before he can beat me to the punch.

He frowns and nods toward the street. “In this? What time do you have to be at class?”

“Eleven.”

“Breakfast?” he asks hopefully. It’s just after eight.

I look to the sky for any indication it’ll let up. It’s a woolen moody mess up there. Patrick smiles. Honestly, I don’t need any further encouragement to ditch.

“I just have to text someone.”

Gina Lombardi’s office texts me back that I’m canceling within the twenty-four-hour cancellation period and that it’ll count as a session.

Whatever. Besides, I’m a little mad at her. Frankly, it’s irresponsible to rile me up with all those questions about June without teaching me how to deal.

“Where do you want to go?” I ask Patrick. I find myself wondering how this memory will feel in the future. If wherever he picks will become our special place and we’ll return for special anniversaries.

“Well,” he says. “Scale of one to ten, how gremlin monster are you feeling?”

“Is ten the gremliniest or…”

He nods. “Ten is comatose, don’t even shower, and roll over to the diner and eat eggs in our matching sweats.”

The idea of staying in his sweats is the closest I’ve come to true joy in a minute.

“That one.”

I borrow two pairs of socks and a pair of Timbs to add to my tab.

“Man,” he says, eyeing me. “Fucking adorable.”

I look down at my feet, cheeks heating, and throw on my coat.

He wasn’t kidding about how close the diner was. It’s a half block, and we bolt, leapfrogging under awnings and storefronts. When we get there, he holds my hand briefly. His palm is warm where mine is wet, and he leads me into the open door and to the counter. I keep reminding myself that it’s not a date. That you don’t go on morning-after, rainy-day dates with someone you almost barf on. The worst part is, I don’t even care that we’re dressed like dorks; I’m so happy. I feel like half of that couple who dresses in onesies and takes selfies and I like it.

The short, beefy Latino guy behind the counter turns Patrick’s cup upright on his saucer and pours steaming coffee as soon as we sit down. He looks to me, and when I nod, he wordlessly pours me a cup as well. “I’m here a lot,” explains Patrick, just as the dude asks him if he’s having the usual.

I’ve always wanted to have a usual.

“I’m going to need a minute,” he says, picking up his menu. “I could hit you with a total curveball today, Angel.”

Angel gives an unimpressed shrug and returns the coffeepot.

“What’s your usual?”

“Two eggs, over medium, sausage, home fries, rye toast, dry, side of hot sauce. But everything here’s good.”

I scan the menu. “Have you had the Streamline Special?” It’s described as a mound of cottage cheese with canned tuna and a side of peaches.

“Yep, and it slaps,” he says. “I don’t know why; it just does. It’s like peanut butter and bacon.”

I realize that I’m starving. “I’ll have what you’re having.”

He nods approvingly. “Donut for the table?”

“Sure.”

“Power.” He shuts his menu. “I’ll have the usual,” he says to Angel.

“I’ll have his usual.” I nod to Patrick.

“And a glazed donut.”

I’m proud of the order somehow.

“You think we would have been friends if our parents hung out?” I ask him. “When we were younger?”

“Totally,” he says, and then cocks his head. “I guess, all four of us would have. You would’ve been obsessed with Kiki, I wouldn’t have gotten off my phone, and June would’ve probably kicked all our asses. We look a little different now, but we’re still basically the same.” He reads something in my face and qualifies. “But I don’t know. You seem the same.”

I narrow my eyes. He said a similar thing last night. I try to decide if I feel insulted by this.