Vacant Heart

Chapter Two

"Sunny-side eggs, extra crispy bacon, hash browns," the waitress announces while depositing plates onto the table, "two buttermilk biscuits with honey and butter, fruit bowl, coffee, and a tall glass of OJ."

The files in front of me hold my complete attention. "Thanks."

"That's quite a bit of food for such a bitty lady. Sure you can handle it all?"

Her hands are on her hips, one holding the tray that held the food. The small table is full, swarmed with color and condiments. The breaking sun beams into the rustic diner, blinding me as I peer up at her.

"You may catch me licking these plates, if I'm being honest, ma'am. I have a hearty appetite."

"It must be nice to be young. Young metabolism is really something."

I scoff. "I'm not that young."

"Yeah? What are you? Twenty-five or something?"

"Yeah, add five years to that number."

"Ah, the big thirty." She's eying my hand, or rather lack of wedding band. "You have kids?"

It's a harmless question, but one I'm asked far too often. "No, I don't."

With a sigh, she observes the endless spew of papers concealing the tabletop. "Let me guess. Work has gotten in the way?"

"How did you guess?" I ask, my sarcasm dripping like icy icicles onto the conversation. She takes the hint, and leaves me be, heading to refill the coffee pot. Instead of submersing myself into facts again, my attention deters, sweeping over the other early risers, who have managed to fill every table. A family dawning matching Christmas sweaters have piled into one of the booths, and are devouring Belgian waffles with red and green sprinkles scattered over piles of whipped cream. Perched by the counter are two women dressed in odd costumes, also designed to enhance the holiday spirit. Three people stand by the register, waiting for a space to become available.

I gather one thing as I study my surroundings: we're not in Seattle anymore, Toto. This is a small town, where everyone seems to know each other, and everyone seems to smile without really knowing it. Used to suits and traffic and unsatisfied workers, this is an amusing change. I make it my mission to search for any sign of normalcy, unsuspecting of what I might come upon.

It takes a double take and a quick glance to my array of documents to recognize the man who's approaching the counter.

Aidan Hughes, the man of the hour and the entire reason I'm here. I'm sure it's him.

He's older than the last photo I saw of him, but other than a chocolate beard, and sharper, more etched features, he's recognizable. I don't think he's trying to be. He's hiding hair under a baseball cap despite the fact that he's wearing designer clothing, a charcoal topcoat that matches vintage-looking leather loafers. His collar is popped, making his shiny waves, which are the shade of his beard, fall along the edge of the stiff material.

He's gorgeous, without show. Dawned completely in earthy colors, he's clearly attempting to blend in with objects around him. It's fascinating to watch his efforts fail, as the people stuffing their gizzards stare and speak as he walks by.

He's close enough to talk to, trying to get a women's attention behind the counter. His broad shoulders are dusted with snow, snow that wasn't falling when I arrived. I realize the sun that blinded me moments ago is also gone.

Messily, I gather the papers containing details of his entire public life, and listen in to hear him speak.

"Rosanne, it's really starting to come down out there. The order ready?"