Love Will

by Lori L. Otto

  “I know. Don’t let me down, now.”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  All the way to the restaurant, I pray that Shea doesn’t have any customers there. I know that’s bad for business, but I really just want more time with her. Maybe I’m just starved for company other than the guys, I don’t know. Honestly, I look forward to her giving me a hard time again today. It was, like, old-school flirting. I think it was flirting, anyway. Regardless, I liked how we talked to one another. She made me smile and laugh and defend myself a lot. I liked all of it.

  OPEN. CLOSING. I wonder if she has to see these signs every day when she comes to work. That must be depressing. Disheartening. Sad. Inside, she waves to me from behind the counter. I open the door and wipe my feet on the rug, longer today than yesterday, respecting her establishment more now than I did then.

  “Afternoon, Shea,” I tell her, removing my wet boots when I realize no amount of rubbing them on the rug is doing any good. I’d worn thick socks today, and they’re still pretty dry.

  “I was wondering if you’d found another place to crash.”

  “I think this is the only place with power. Well, this, and the convenience store a few blocks west. We go there for breakfast.” I set my guitar down at the back of the store, and immediately head toward the bookshelf.

  “What do you have there?” she asks.

  “My absolute favorite book in the whole, wide… galaxy.”

  “You don’t have to use your space terms around me to prove you’re an astrophysicist. I did my research last night.”

  “Did you?” I ask, turning around suddenly. She picks up my copy of The Ultimate Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and flips through the huge tome.

  “Will,” she says, shaking her head. “What are all these scribbles?”

  “I’m the third owner. It was my brother’s dad’s book… Jon gave it to me when we were teenagers. I thought it was time to pass it on to some other science nerd who’d appreciate all the things we’ve added.” I blush as I tell her this, watching her as she reads some of the column notes.

  “You can’t just give this away to a stranger,” she says. “What about giving it to Max?”

  I like that she knows Max’s name from her research. “He’s not into science like Jon and I are. Or reading.”

  “Maybe your kid someday, then…”

  “Ha!” I can’t help but laugh at that thought. The pages of that book will be brittle and yellowed by the time I ever have kids. If I ever have kids.

  “It’s not such a laughable thought, is it?”

  “It’s pretty far out there,” I admit. “Surely you learned about my reputation in your Googling.”

  “I don’t believe everything I read on the internet. I reserve the right to make judgments of my own, you know?” she says, setting the book back down on the shelf. “I am curious why you told me not to get used to your last name…” She heads back to the counter and opens a soda for herself. “Want one?”

  “Sure,” I say, taking off Damon’s coat and sitting down on the stool I’d claimed as mine yesterday. “I’m changing my name–legally–next month.”

  “Oh? Why? If you don’t mind me asking…”

  “Not at all. I guess you read all about the public spectacle of my brother and his boyfriend coming out over the summer?”

  “Yes… I would guess that anyone dating Carter McNare’s son would be newsworthy, but for him to come out as gay… that must have been rough.”

  “It was really hard on Callen–”

  “Max’s boyfriend,” she confirms.

  “Right. Well, his parents have had a tough time, as has my mother, but they’re all getting used to their sons being gay. No big deal. They’ll be fine. But my father–and Max’s dad–he, uh… he’s not gonna be fine. He’s disowned Max, and me by proxy. He calls himself a Christian. To me, he’s the worst kind of human.”

  “Sounds like it. I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t give a fuck,” I tell her. “For me… but I feel bad for Max. I feel a little responsible. He’d always tried to maintain a relationship with the asshole, but not me. We had a falling out years ago. I’d only recently reached out to him for help with something, but that was a mistake.

  “Anyway, Jon told me in September that Max wanted to change his last name to Scott. And it made sense for me to do the same. I didn’t want to be the only one with the asshole’s last name. So when I go home for Christmas, I’m going to petition the court to make it legal.”

  “Will Scott. Is it William?”

  “No,” I tell her, even though it technically is.

  “Middle name?”

  I waver on that one. “Kind of. Will S.”

  “Does it stand for anything? Spaceman, maybe?”

  I chuckle at the suggestion. “It stands for Scott, actually.” Shea looks at me curiously. “My mom was married to Jon’s dad when she got pregnant with me. She was madly in love with Jon’s dad, actually, but he wasn’t into feelings or anything like that. He never loved her back… so of course she looked elsewhere, right?”

  “I guess…”

  “Well, by the time I was born, things were already rocky with the asshole. He was insistent on having his last name on the birth certificate, even though he had no intention of being involved in my life. Mom was feeling guilty and embarrassed. She didn’t want people to know that Jon and I had different fathers, so she thought she’d just give me Jon’s last name as my middle name and introduce me to people that way. My dad was livid. He wouldn’t allow that… so she settled on the initial only… but never really used it, thanks to his intimidation tactics.”

  “So will you keep the S when you change your name?”

  “I haven’t really given it any thought. It used to bug me. It doesn’t anymore. Wow. That was a lot to unload on you.”

  “Stuff I didn’t learn in my research.” She smiles, showing off her perfect teeth.

  “What did you learn?”

  “The most surprising thing is that your older brother, Jon Scott, is the Jon Scott that married Livvy Holland last year. As in the daughter of Jack and Emi Holland.”

  “Jon’s just a normal guy.”

  “I’m sure he is. But Livvy Holland is my fashion idol. You have no idea. When I was fifteen, I would see pictures of her and beg Momma for a sweater like hers, or shoes like hers.”

  “You don’t want to know what I would do when I saw pictures of her when I was fifteen,” I tell her.

  “Wasn’t she already dating your brother?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “You’re awful!”

  “What guy didn’t? C’mon!”

  She laughs at my reaction, and finally concedes. “Okay. I hope you’ve dealt with those feelings appropriately.”

  “I’ve stepped aside for my brother, yes. But secretly, Liv knows I’m the better man.”

  “I’m sure she does.” Shea has a hard time holding back her disbelief.

  “We have a really good relationship. She’s great. And she’s perfect for Jon.”

  “Good. So… Will Spaceman, what are you hungry for today?”

  “Anything you have that’s warm,” I tell her earnestly through the smile that comes naturally from the name she called me. I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t want to put you out or anything.”

  “I love to cook, and I spent the morning going through ingredients that I have. How about chicken enchiladas with salsa verde?”

  I pause and look at her for a few seconds. “Seriously?”

  “No?” she asks, looking disappointed.

  I stand up and go behind the counter, crossing my arms as I stand next to her. “It’s not a coincidence that you just suggested my favorite meal, is it?”

  She sighs in relief and bites her lip. “You’ve done a few interviews, and they’re not very original with their questions.”

  “No, they’re not. You really have all the ingredients for that?”

  Shea nods. “I made the sals
a this morning.” She strides into the kitchen and puts an apron over her neck, and I can’t help but watch her hips sway from side to side. She really is a beautiful woman.

  “What can I do to help?”

  “Get out of my kitchen,” she says. “Go sit back down at the counter. I saw you brought your guitar… why don’t you play or write or something? I’m going to do something I love. You should do the same.”

  “Okay then,” I agree. “But if you need my help–”

  “Can you cook?”

  “No.”

  “I can’t play the guitar, so I’m going to stay in here. Deal?”

  “Got it,” I tell her, picking up my instrument out of its case and reclaiming my seat at the counter. “You’re the boss.”

  After a few minutes, Shea joins me in the dining area, resting her forearms on the countertop and leaning in to listen to me strum the chords to Where Your Horizon Meets Mine. She doesn’t even know the words, but she’s already moved to tears simply from the music itself. I stop playing and hand her a napkin from the dispenser beside me, and start talking to distract her.

  “So Livvy’s been learning how to cook over the past few years. Her latest thing is trying to make baby food. You know, since she has a baby now… she wants to know everything that goes into Edie’s body, so she’s been researching and testing recipes. She doesn’t seem to have it figured out yet. Either that or the baby hates her cooking.”

  “Oh, no!” Shea says. “I have about twenty recipes that I put together for my best friend last year. They’re all organic and healthy and her baby loved them. I could give them to you to give to her.”

  “Yeah?” I ask.

  “My degree’s in nutrition. Even though my menu doesn’t really reflect a lot of healthy options, I’m good with healthy. I promise. It’s what I cook for myself most of the time.”

  “I trust you. I’d love that. And to think of the brownie points I’d earn… it’ll make up for so many times I’ve fucked up with them.”

  “Whatever,” Shea says, blowing off my comment.

  “Maybe a few times…”

  “I’m ignoring all the negative things I read, Will. And it’s not that I don’t believe them… I’m just starting from a clean slate. That’s all. Everyone deserves a fresh start.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So stop tearing yourself down, okay?” She points at me until I nod to agree to her terms, then returns to the kitchen to continue cooking. I go back to playing my song, getting caught up in the chorus of it, the emotions it evokes. Even I get choked up.

  “Excuse me!” I jump at the sound of a man behind me. “Waiter! Waiter!”

  I look into the kitchen, but Shea’s so caught up in her food prep that she doesn’t hear him. He must be talking to me anyway. Still in my socks, I take off my guitar, returning it to its case, and walk over to a man seated in the first booth at the front of the restaurant. “Me?” I ask him.

  The customer looks away from the menu he was holding and down at my feet, cringes, then looks at my face judgmentally. “I want some coffee,” he barks.

  “Uhhh…” Coffee does sound good, but I’ve never smelled any brewing in here. “I’ll see what I can do for you. I’m sure I can find some coffee for you.” I spin around on my heel and start walking back to the kitchen.

  “On ice,” the man mumbles. I stop for a second, thinking that’s an odd request, but they always say, ‘The customer’s always right.’ I’ll get the man what he asked for.

  “Hey, Shea?”

  “Yeah?” she asks, looking up from the two pots she was intensely focused on.

  “I rhymed again.” I wink at her playfully, and she laughs. “Anyway. Do you have any coffee?”

  “Not brewed… I can make some instant coffee really quick.”

  “That works,” I decide, just wanting to get the man what he asked for. I lean in the doorway, glancing back at the customer periodically until she hands me the coffee. “If I wanted this on ice, what would I do?”

  “You want it on ice?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  She takes it back from me, gets another cup, fills it with ice and pours the coffee in it. “Grab a straw from the rack out front. Unless you’re one of those guys that can’t drink out of a straw.”

  I laugh a little, thanking her and taking a straw on my way back to the customer that she still hasn’t noticed.

  “What is that shit?” he yells at me after I set his drink down in front him.

  “Coffee. On ice.”

  “Who would drink coffee on ice in this weather? In any weather, for that matter? It’s coffee!” he yells at me.

  “You said on ice! As I walked away.”

  “I said no such thing.” He slams down his menu and grabs his hat and scarf, placing them back on hurriedly.

  “I’m sorry. That’s what I heard.”

  “And would you look? It’s snowing. Again! And I left my umbrella at home.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” I tell him, looking back at the kitchen. Shea’s now watching from the doorway.

  “Oh, nice,” he says sarcastically as he opens the door, but it could definitely be mistaken for, ‘On ice.’

  “Tha–” I decide to let it go as I let him leave out the door. I’m tempted to lock it behind him to ensure no one else interrupts my time with Shea, but I can’t do that. I turn around to face her, walking towards her solemnly. We meet on opposite sides of the counter, both looking at one another seriously. The tip of her tongue peeks through her lips, outlining her bottom one, drawing all of my focus there while she does it. I swallow hard before speaking. “I’m sorry, but I think I may have lost your only other kisstomer.”

  She does that brow-dimple combination thing again, and my finger almost reaches out to touch it, but I make it stay put.

  “Uh…” she says.

  “I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “I misheard him.”

  “Did I just mishear you?”

  “What?”

  “You just said kisstomer instead of customer.”

  “What? No, I didn’t.” I replay what I said in my head. I totally did. She totally made me.

  She starts laughing. “Yes, you did.”

  “Well, that’s weird,” I say, blowing it off. “So I’m guessing on normal days you have other people working with you?”

  She seems disappointed that I segued into another conversation, but I had to, or else I may become the legit definition of a kisstomer to her. “Yes, I normally have a small waitstaff, a busboy, and another chef… and believe it or not, many more customers.”

  “Good, because I was wondering if it was safe to leave a lone woman in this place, running it by herself.”

  “I can take care of myself. Plus, I have a gun.”

  “I’m not sure that’s really any safer,” I tell her. “I think I read once that the odds of an assault victim being shot were nearly five times greater if she had a gun with her than if she didn’t.”

  “Is this something I need to worry about with you?” she asks me.

  I chuckle at the suggestion. “Let’s just say if Mr. Coffee-On-Ice were to come back and rob you right now, I’d be counting on you to do the defending. I don’t know the first thing about using a gun. I’ve seen more than I’d like to, but I’ve never held one.”

  She walks over to the door and flicks a light switch that appears to do nothing, then locks the door. “Just a precaution,” she says. “Plus, dinner’s ready.”

  “Are we closed?” I ask her.

  “Done for the day,” she says with a nod, her cheeks growing pink as she looks away from me.

  “Excellent.” I’m starting to wonder if Miss Livingston might be into me…

  Shea sips on a glass of wine, leaning against the stove and watching me rinse the last of the dishes. “I’m not lying. My aunt made the best enchiladas. And my mother could never replicate them… but you’ve… you…” I glance over at her, taken aback by how pretty she is. “I’ve forgotten
what I ever liked about Aunt Patty’s enchiladas. I had no idea what I was missing. Tomatillos? Best fucking tomatoes grown. Where have they been all my life?!”

  She huffs as if she doesn’t believe me. “What do you want from me, Will?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You keep saying all these nice things. You must want something in return.”

  “I swear,” I tell her. “I’m being honest.” I dry my hands off and draw an ‘x’ over my heart. “Astrophysicist here, remember?”

  “Right, I forgot,” she says as she laughs.

  “Dinner was perfect. Thank you. Now tell me where these dishes go.”

  “Plates to your left. Silverware in the drawer behind you.”

  “All right. What’s next?” I ask her, not wanting to leave yet.

  “Your turn. I provided dinner. You can provide the entertainment.”

  “I presume you don’t want my comedy routine tonight…”

  “That song you played earlier–does it have words?”

  “Yeah, but, you know… Damon’s the singer.”

  “I heard you humming. You can hold a tune.”

  “No, I don’t sing, Shea. Not for people. If you want to hear the words, we can probably find it pirated somewhere online.”

  “Did you write it?” she asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “The lyrics, too?” I nod. “What’s it called?”

  “Where Your Horizon Meets Mine.”

  She grins. “I love that. It sounds like something an astrophysicist musician might write. Please?” She walks out of the kitchen and back into the diner where she takes a seat on the couch by the heater.

  I don’t think I can say no to her. After helping myself to another bottle of water from her cooler, I grab my guitar and take a seat next to her on the couch, where she’s directing me to sit.

  “That’s a beautiful guitar,” she says.

  “Isn’t it?” I agree. “It was a gift from the Hollands.”

  “Birthday?”

  I shake my head. “A thank you gift of sorts.”

  “For?”

  “Can you keep a secret?” I ask her, and she nods. “You know how I told you I reached out to my dad–the asshole–for a favor?”

  “Yeah…”