Page 23 of Just Ten Seconds

We get back to the parking lot at Zion Episcopal Church and see two lone cars. My Honda Accord and an electric-blue Chevy pickup truck with a white diamond painted on the side.

“This is me.” I point toward my car as we get closer.

I click the unlock button, and Dean is quickly at the door to hold it open for me. I haven’t had a guy hold a door open for me in years, and tonight, not only was he a gentleman at the café, but he’s also even beaten me to my own driver’s door. Dean Delgado was definitely raised with manners.

He’s a good man. A kind man. That’s why I won’t be coming back, and I won’t be seeing Dean again either.

“The meetings help.” He draws my attention up to him. He must be mistaking my silent pondering as something else.

“It’s not for me.”

“I didn’t think they were for me when I first started, but opening up to people helps. Everyone else—your family, friends, colleagues—they tell you the pain will pass and that time heals all wounds. They mean well, but they don’t get it.”

“Sounds like you’ve met my mother.” I mean for it to be a joke, but Dean isn’t laughing.

“Think about it,” he says with urgency.

The sad realization is that sitting in that room with strangers gave me the greatest breakthrough. That, and a simple cup of coffee with Dean have made me positively reflective.

“I can't, but I’m glad it helps you.”

His confident demeanor falls a touch at my indifference.

I climb in the car as he nods his head in what he thinks is understanding.

I’m about to close my door when he holds it open, leans in, and asks, “What kind of candy?”

I tilt my head in confusion.

“Your husband. You said he bought you your favorite candy. What kind was it?”

A sting of emotion wells behind my eyes. I fight it back with a shake. “Toblerone,” I say as I grab the handle again and he steps back as I close the door.

With a start of the engine, I back up the car as Dean stands there, looking absolutely beautiful in the cascade of the moon and the dim streetlamp. His hands are in his leather coat, and his chin is raised in good-bye as he watches me leave.

And just like that, I drive away from the one place and the one person who have made me feel something positive for the first time in years.

“Is this mayo? Why is the mayonnaise orange?” Mr. Kenner squawks.

One thing about working in a fifteen-table café in a small town is that you tend to serve the same faces. This one just happens to be an eighty-three-year-old man who sits in my section every week and always has something to squabble about.

I adjust my apron and walk over to his table. The logo for the Harvest Café is etched in the glass just beside his gray-haired head. “It’s a roasted red pepper spread, blended with cream cheese—”

“What the heck is cream cheese doing on my turkey sandwich?” His face is downturned in a scowl as he hands me the plate. “Mayonnaise. Good, old-fashioned Hellmann’s. Not Miracle Whip because that’s not mayo.”

In the time I’ve worked here, the man has yet to be completely satisfied with his experience. Still, he comes back every week. His devotion to this place is probably why I always do as he asks even though he never says thank you.

I plaster on a smile. “Of course. I’ll be right back.”

As I turn on my heel, I hear him mutter, “Never had any goddamn cream cheese on my lunch when his old man was around.”

I walk to the open quick-serve kitchen window where Nick is giving me an annoyed glare.

“Don’t say anything. He’s old, and he doesn’t like change,” I say, handing him the plate.

“Then, why does he come here if he sends back everything he orders?”

“Because he’s been eating here for thirty-five years. Lunch on Fridays, breakfast on Sundays. Same routine like clockwork. And to give him credit, he didn’t send back the lentil soup last week.”