Part 1 – April – The Son
The bell chimes over the door of Sal’s Diner as I pull it open, immediately welcomed by the scent of frying bacon and coffee. The place is packed, and I let out a grumble as I squeeze through the horde of patrons to reach the hostess stand.
The young woman behind the booth greets me with wide eyes and a flirtatious smile.
“Mr. Goode,” she chimes happily as she picks up a menu.
“Good morning, Veronica,” I reply with a grin.
She blushes as her gaze lingers on my face for a moment too long, clearly chuffed by the fact that I remembered her name. Then, she spins toward the bar, and her expression falls when she notices that every single stool is occupied, including the one on the corner that I always take.
“I’m…sorry,” she stammers, but I hold up a hand to stop her.
“It’s okay, Veronica. I can wait.”
“I’m really sorry,” she repeats, looking apologetic, but I shake my head at her as I quietly ease into the corner of the crowded waiting area, pulling out my phone in hopes that it will hide my face enough to not be noticed here.
Apparently, Sal’s has picked up in popularity over the last few months. It doesn’t help that Austin is filled to the brim with trendy brunch spots—it would appear that greasy spoon diners are back in because every hipster tourist or college kid within a thirty-mile radius has started packing in the tiny restaurant each weekend.
My regular Saturday morning diner.
The only saving grace is that most hipster tourists and college kids don’t know who I am. Unless their parents tuned into my father’s Sunday morning program, they don’t know Adam Goode from Adam Levine.
And my Saturday morning breakfast is the only time I like it that way.
Any other day or time, I’d be happy to smile for selfies or sign their King James Versions, but this is my time. This is when I get my writing done, where I can really focus and create my best sermons. I usually watch recordings of old sermons on my phone before digging into writing my own.
I have my own office at the church, but I prefer working elsewhere. When I’m here, surrounded by the white noise chatter of the breakfast patrons, I feel as if I can really tap into something deeper.
Someday I might not have this option. I’ll be too busy running the church instead of just writing sermons for it.
Eventually, it will be me at that pulpit on Sunday mornings. But for now, it’s still him.
So, until then…waffles and coffee.
“Just one?” a warm voice chirps from the hostess stand, and I glance up from my phone to see a mess of pink waves on a petite frame standing near the front. “It’ll be about thirty to forty-five minutes.”
The woman’s shoulders sag as the look of defeat washes over her entire stance. “Seriously? I just got off the late shift and I’m famished. Can I put in an order to go?”
The girl grimaces. “It’ll probably take that long to fill the order, to be honest.”
“Fuck my life,” the woman groans.
My eyes subtly rake over her body, from her brightly colored hair down to her black boots. She’s not wearing much, exposing her belly, back, and limbs all covered in ink. Various tattoos are stamped across her body like someone was bored in class and spent their time doodling on her sun-kissed skin.
The black crop top she’s in stops somewhere along the middle of her back, and those blue jean cutoffs leave a gap in the high waistline like she bought a size too big.
Wincing, I curse myself for staring at the woman’s ass like some perverted gawker. Biting my bottom lip, I turn my attention back to my phone. I’m watching the broadcast from last year, a sermon about morality playing in the AirPod stuffed in my left ear.
A blur of pink enters my periphery as the tattooed girl takes a seat on the bench next to me. I glance her way, shooting her a polite smile before staring back at my phone.
The girl lets out a sigh, followed by a soft moan as she rubs her forehead. I catch sight of her bloodred nail polish and the tiny tattooed symbols on each of her delicate, long fingers.
“Mr. Goode,” the hostess calls sweetly from the stand. My eyes widen as I glance around to see who might have heard her call me by my last name, but the only ones who pause are an elderly couple sitting on the opposite bench.
I smile at them before moving to the front.
“Your seat is ready,” the hostess says, clutching the menu to her chest. But as she steps toward the empty seat, waiting for me to follow her, my feet don’t move. There’s a right and a wrong in this scenario, and even as my stomach growls with hunger, I know what I have to do.
With an internal grimace, I turn back toward the pink-haired girl on the bench. Her eyes are closed as her head rests against her fist, but I step back toward her, tapping her gently on the arm to wake her.
As her eyes pop open, she stares at me in shock.
“Take my seat,” I say with a huff.
“What?”
“A seat at the bar just came open. Take it.”
“Seriously?” she asks, scrutinizing me like this is some sort of scam.
“Yes, seriously.” I step back and hold out a hand, showing her the waiting hostess, whose smile has turned tense.
The pink-haired girl stands up hesitantly before moving toward the empty stool. “Thank you,” she calls back, her eyes meeting mine for a brief second before she sits down and turns her attention to the menu.
I take my place back in the corner, watching my phone as crowds of people come and go in front of me.
When the sermon comes to an end, the app immediately loads the next video. Our services are nationally televised and recorded, available to the whole country on nearly any streaming platform they prefer—satellite radio, TV broadcast, or online. For all I know, people in this very restaurant are tuning in to their own personal AirPod sermons.
The theme of this week is virtue, and I need inspiration from sermons in the past because, at the moment, nothing clever is coming to me. But some of these old speeches of his were written by his staff, and they lack appeal. They’re dull. That’s why my father passed the sermon writing baton over to me. He says I phrase it all differently and in a way everyone can understand. He’s a bit old-fashioned, so he grew up on flowery prose and, frankly, boring-as-hell metaphors. But he wants to relate Leviticus to the Dallas Cowboys’ last big trade, and that’s what I’m here for.
“Mr. Goode,” a sweet voice calls, and I look up to find the hostess grinning at me. “Another seat at the bar is open.”
I smile at her, my stomach growling with the promise of hash browns and bacon, thankful that my wait wasn’t too much longer. Quickly following behind, my grin turns to a frown when I realize the empty barstool is just to the left of Miss Pink Hair herself.
Taking the seat next to her, I glance her way just as she looks up at me. There’s a nearly empty plate in front of her and a half-filled cup of coffee. There’s also more color to her cheeks now and a much livelier expression.
“Oh my god, it’s you,” she proclaims as I take my seat. With a cordial grin on my face, I nod to her. I’m a little surprised she recognized me, if I’m being honest. She doesn’t seem like the kind to—
“You’re the one who gave me your seat. You are literally a fucking lifesaver. I was so hungry, I thought I was going to die.”
I look downward, momentarily humbled as I realize she recognizes me as the Good Samaritan who gave up his seat…and not the son of Austin’s most prominent pastor.
“You’re feeling better, then?” I ask, without looking at her. My eyes are still glued to my phone while I silently pray that she’s not the kind of person to indulge in too much small talk just because I was polite.
“Much. The biscuits and gravy here are good enough to bring someone back from the dead.”
“I agree. It was my pleasure. I’m glad you had a good breakfast.”
As I glance toward her, getting a good look at her up close, I notice she has her left nostril pierced, not once, but twice. And a gold hoop hanging from the middle of her nose as well. Then there’s another on the right side of her bottom lip. It’s a pity, really. She has a very nice nose.
And very nice lips. And very nice piercing blue eyes.
Honestly, it’s a perfect face overall—even with that tiny star tattoo hovering just over her cheekbone.
It’s wrong of me to be so judgmental, but if the girl wasn’t so covered by ink and metal, I might have noticed sooner just how beautiful she is.
The waitress comes by and takes my order of coffee and the waffle breakfast with a side of hash browns. Then I turn my attention back to my phone and try to focus on the sermon, looking for inspiration, but I keep getting distracted.
At first, I blame it on the lively conversation happening between the couple to my left, but in reality, it’s her every movement next to me on my right. There’s something about those nimble fingers and pierced face and exposed midsection that makes it nearly impossible to focus.
So I give up and place my phone on the counter, pulling the AirPod from my ear. Instead, I focus on pouring four half-and-half packets into my coffee. Then I let my eyes wander over to the red nails drumming on the counter as she finishes her breakfast. When she picks up the ketchup bottle from the metal stand on the counter, I watch in horror as she douses her scrambled eggs with it.
I let out a stifled laugh.
Her pink hair flips as she turns toward me. “Are you laughing at my breakfast?” There’s a hint of playfulness in her tone, such that it makes me feel comfortable with a little light teasing.
“I wouldn’t have given my seat to you if I knew you were going to desecrate those eggs.”
She laughs around a mouthful, covering her pretty pink lips with her fingers as she aims her humor-filled eyes at me. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” she mumbles, chasing down her bite with a sip of coffee.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
With a shake of her head, her expression fills with mischief. When our eyes meet for a moment, I realize she might take this for flirting.
When was the last time I really flirted with someone? The last few dates I’ve had were all awkward arrangements set up by friends or my mother. It’s possible that in the last five to ten years, I have completely lost my game.
Not that I should be flirting with this girl. There is zero interest on my part, and even if there was, I could only imagine my mother’s face if I brought home someone like this. I remember what happened when Caleb introduced his wife to my mother and had to break it to her that she was a Lutheran.
The next thing I know, Pink Hair is grabbing my napkin-wrapped fork and pulling it out from the sticky paper holding it together.
“I’m telling you. You’re missing out.”
Then, to my utter shock, she stabs the fork into the untouched portion of her plate and holds it out to me. I could make a big deal about germs and her being a complete stranger and how inappropriate this is, but I’m too shocked and entertained to say no. Those sweet, nimble fingers of hers, holding the fork out to me, are too compelling for me to refuse.
So I lean forward and close my mouth around the repulsive bite of sweet ketchup-covered eggs. And it truly is repulsive, but the way she’s watching me is making it impossible to disappoint her. So I dab my napkin on the corner of my pursed lips and nod.
“Not bad.”
She sets the fork down with a scoff. “Not bad? You’re crazy. It’s delicious.”
Just then, the waitress sets down my two plates—one piled high with waffles and three dollops of butter on top and the other covered in steaming hash browns.
As she refills both of our coffee cups, there’s an awkward silence between me and the girl to my right. When the waitress leaves, Pink Hair turns toward me. “I’m Sage,” she says.
“Adam,” I reply, putting out my hand. She slides her long, tattooed fingers around mine and shakes it with a firm squeeze.
“Nice to meet you, Adam. Thanks again for giving me your seat.”
“Thanks for sharing your breakfast with me.” I laugh, nodding toward her eggs.
She blushes, covering her cheeks and looking away from me.
I hate to admit it, but it’s actually a little adorable.
“I can’t believe I did that. I worked all night, so sometimes when I’m sleep deprived, I might as well be drunk. I’m sorry.”
A laugh spills from my chest. “Don’t apologize. I should be thanking you for enlightening me about the magic that is ketchup-covered eggs.”
She knocks my shoulder with her own. “Stop it.”
“Seriously, don’t be embarrassed. I normally sit here alone and eat my breakfast. No one has ever fed me at the bar before.”
This time when she laughs, it’s a feminine giggle, and I get lost in the wrinkles her cheeks make when she smiles so brightly. Her elbow is propped on the bar and she rests her head on her palm, turning toward me and letting her gaze settle on my face as I cover my waffles with syrup.
“You’re going to watch me eat now?”
“It’s either that or fall asleep?”
“Well then, by all means.” With a smile, I lift a hefty bite to my mouth and hum as the sugary sweet syrup hits my taste buds. “Want a bite?” I mumble with my mouth full.
She snickers again.
After a sip of coffee, I start cutting up another bite and glance toward her as I ask, “So, what do you do? What kind of work keeps you up all night?”
“I work at a nightclub. It usually closes at four, but last night was busy, so we stayed open. Which meant I couldn’t leave until almost seven. My boyfriend stayed behind to close up.”
I swallow down more coffee and a stinging sense of disappointment.
“You need some rest,” I reply because I suddenly don’t know what else to say. I feel blindsided by this news of a boyfriend, which is ridiculous. This girl is not my type—boyfriend or not.
“No kidding, but the real kicker is that I know I won’t be able to fall asleep. I hate sleeping during the day.”
“Then I don’t think the night shift is wise for you.”
With a huff, she shrugs. “I know. It’s ridiculous.” Almost like a sign from God himself, she lets out a yawn, covering her mouth with her elbow.
“So, tell me about this club of yours. Is it fun?”
A throaty-sounding laugh nearly makes her choke on her coffee. I’m not even sure why I asked that. I have a suspicion I’m subconsciously trying to prolong her stay, even though it’s clear she should pay her tab and go home to sleep.
“It’s not really your type,” she replies, blotting her face with her napkin.
My head snaps toward her after taking a bite of my potatoes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Her fingers pinch at her bottom lip as she stares at me with a devious smile. “I mean…look at you. You’re not a club kind of guy. When was the last time you went to one?”
I feign offense. “Are you calling me old?”
“Not at all,” she replies. “I’m calling you…conservative.”
“Still offended,” I reply with a laugh.
“This club is…not for conservatives.”
“Is it a strip club?” I whisper, leaning so close I can smell the flowery scent in her hair.
“No,” she whispers, leaning even closer.
I notice that as we both pull apart, we do so slowly, almost begrudgingly. Is it just me? She’s really flirting with me, isn’t she? Or maybe she’s like this with everyone? Bold of me to assume this beautiful and clearly beguiling woman has any interest in me just because she smiles at me.
And ridiculous of me to assume it matters. She might as well be a house cat with how compatible we are.
After the next couple of bites of my breakfast, I notice her hesitating. She’s biting her bottom lip and staring at her hands that are encased around the tiny ceramic diner mug. I’m about to ask what she’s thinking about when she reaches into her back pocket and produces a black card.
The script on the front is shiny and pink, naturally, as are the edges and logo on the back.
And I let out a laugh as I read the name of the club.
Pink.
Ironic.
There’s not much more information aside from the website, address, and phone number.
“You should…check it out sometime.”
“I will,” I reply as I slip the card into my back pocket.
Sage yawns again, so I flag down the waitress. When she approaches, I promptly inform her that I’ll be paying my pink-haired friend’s tab.
“You don’t have to do that,” she argues.
“Go home. Get some sleep, Sage.”
“Well, aren’t you just my knight in shining armor today?” she replies sweetly.
“More like khaki slacks. Now go.”
She turns on the barstool so her knees are practically pressed against the side of my thigh. She hesitates before leaving. I’m about to insist she go again when her hand lands softly on my forearm. “Maybe next Saturday, I’ll get off late again and we can share another breakfast.”
My focus is lost on the enigmatic crystal-blue color of her eyes. And for a moment, I don’t see the pink hair or tattoos or piercings. I see a mystery wrapped in beauty, and I start to wonder what might be underneath.
“Maybe…” I reply softly with my gaze on her face.
“Bye, Adam.” With that, her hand leaves my arm, and I feel a cool, empty void where it once was.
“Bye, Sage.”
I watch her leave through the front door and disappear down the street before turning back to my half-eaten breakfast, suddenly less interested in waffles and syrup.
For a while, I just sit on the stool and relive every moment of our conversation, committing her scent and smile to memory since I know it’s the most I’m going to get. It’s hard to decide if I’m really so attracted to her or if she’s just the most interesting person I’ve ever truly met.
Either way, she steals every thought in my head for the rest of my morning—for reasons even I can’t understand.
When I finally pick up my phone again, I see the sermon I was watching is now over.
