The Real

“Maybe we should go back.” I stopped my feet, haunted by the amount of pain in Max’s eyes when he had been all smiles moments earlier.

“You can’t fix that. They have to work it out, Abbie.”

“I know, it’s just . . . he told me more about them when you were getting our drinks. She has a son, and Max loves him. I just wish we could help.”

Cameron’s eyes glittered over me.

“What?”

“I love the way you care about people. It’s such a good thing. It’s like your heart is too big for you.”

“So, I’m not a witchy woman?”

“Of course you are,” he said with a smirk. “You ripped my head off when I woke you up Saturday.”

“It was early.”

“It was noon, you big poser. When we first met, you were all dolled up early for our coffee dates,” he said with a laugh as we walked outside to discover it was sleeting. The brisk air hit us, and we both sighed in welcome.

“Wait here, I’ll get us a cab.”

“Okay, good, because I’m melting, melting!” Cameron rolled his eyes and jogged to the street, successfully flagging down a taxi. Once he gave me the signal, I burst into a sprint to meet him there.

Cameron grinned as I met him at the door. “That was cute.”

“What was cute?” I asked as I slid into the seat to make room for him.

“That little dance you just did.”

I bit my lip as he shut the door, his hair covered in glistening water.

“Oh.”

“Oh?” he said, confused. He spoke to the driver, “Hollywood Grill.”

We took off like a shot away from the curb as I spoke under my breath. “I wasn’t dancing.”

“What?” Cameron asked. “What were you doing?”

Meh. Next subject.

“I love Hollywood Grill. They have good chicken fried steak, though Bree said it’s shit, but that’s like the state dinner of Georgia I think.” I snorted at my own joke.

“Don’t change the subject. What was that back there?”

I grimaced. Damn Kitchen Sink punch. “I was running.”

“You were what?”

“I was running.”

Despite my warning look, his laughter didn’t stop until we got to the diner.

Hollywood Grill was a ’50s style eatery and the best place to soak up a night of drinks in Wicker Park. When Bree and I moved to the neighborhood, we used to frequent the diner often after our late nights. It had been years since I’d been there. I missed my good-time girl and shot off a text to her telling her so as I sat with my good-time guy, who was still grinning at me.

“So that was running?”

“Would you drop it?” I scorned. “I think we’ve had enough fun tonight at my expense.”