"Date?" I repeated, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice.
"Yeah."
"I thought it was a bet."
"If you thought that was a bet, babe, I got to work on my moves," he said, lips quirking up at one side.
"I think your, ah, moves were just fine," I admitted, ignoring the way my face felt warm at that declaration as the memory of the kiss washed over my mind and body. "I mean, you're a good dancer," I rushed to cover when his eyes went knowing.
"It was my dance moves you were thinking about right now, huh?" he asked, leaning forward over the table slightly. "That made your eyes get all sleepy, your cheeks get all pink..."
Luckily, it was right that moment that Ed - the chef who couldn't have cared less about awkward timing came charging out of the kitchen, dropping our plates down with a clatter that knocked some of the French fries off the white plates with mustard yellow rims and onto the bright red enamel tabletop.
"Food," he declared, reaching up to scratch under his white hat, making the cigarette behind his ear wobble a bit ominously, threatening to fall down on top of our food.
"Thanks, Ed," I told him, to which he gave me what could only be called a snort before walking back into the kitchen where he couldn't come in contact with innocent customers.
"He's charming," Charlie declared as he snagged a fry, drawing my attention to his mouth where it decidedly did not need to be.
"What he lacks in manners, he makes up for in cooking skills," I informed him, setting to eating my food to avoid watching him eat his food like it was somehow erotic.
"Did you want me to show up tonight?" he asked after a long couple of minutes.
That was a loaded question.
But I didn't really even have to think about it.
"Yes."
"This is probably a terrible idea," he went on, catching my eyes. "I should stay away from you."
"Because of my father."
"Fuck your father," he surprised me by saying, making me jerk back at the quiet fierceness in his words. "Because I know you need to go, and I am worried I am selfish enough to ask you to stay a little longer."
I wanted to say Come with me then, but that was ridiculous. It was too soon. I would sound clingy and insane.
"It's not like I was planning to leave tonight. Or tomorrow. Or the next day," I said instead. "And while I'm here, why can't we... spend some time together?"
That was maybe offering something I wasn't sure I was truly open to - casualness, messing around, non-commitment.
That being said, I wanted to spend more time with him. I wanted to get to know him better. I wanted another kiss that might make the whole world melt away.
I wanted more of the butterflies and belly flips and shivers across my skin.
My life had so much bad.
Was it really so wrong to want a little good?
Even if it was bound to be temporary?
"That's true," he agreed, trying to keep his tone casual, but I swore I heard some hope in his voice. "So does that mean I can convince you to spend a couple minutes with me after your shift tonight?"
It was taking a risk.
Coming home late again.
When I knew that Michael was likely still stewing from my outburst the night before.
And would likely be waiting to confront me again.
Maybe with more than words this time.
Maybe he would even drag my father in on it.
But I couldn't keep adjusting my desires and choices based on their potential reactions.
So what if they yelled?
I'd been yelled at before.
So what if they struck me?
I'd certainly been hit before.
And my time here was short anyway.
Whatever they doled out, I could take.
And then at least I would leave this town, leave this life knowing that I hadn't' always been meek and passive, I hadn't always cowered and caved, that I took a stand, that I made some choices based on what made me happy for a change.
"It's going to be late," I warned him.
"It's a good thing you serve coffee here," he said with a smile.
We talked then, about little things. How long I had been working here. What he wanted to do with his life. Once we had gotten over the initial awkwardness of new conversation, we delved a little deeper. He told me about how his mother had died of a freak blood clot when he was five, leaving him to be raised by his father, and occasionally his grandfather. But both would be dead before he finished high school, leaving him on his own, needing to take care of himself with no job training. So he turned to a life of crime.
"I was always good at winning fights," he said with a slightly bashful smile. "It was a natural progression."