Page 13 of Love at First Sighting

El

I ncoming?

Is he about to crash through my window?

Thankfully, he follows up with an “I’m on my way.”

It’s late evening by the time a car engine hums outside the Nest and I peek through the glass front door.

Through the frosted glass, I see the fuzzy outline of Carter’s old car as it rolls up.

Lea is too busy becoming an expert on an invasive species of moth, because that’s the crusade of the week, but Bex will say something.

Carter (8:52 pm):

I look myself over. I’m still in a pair of yoga pants and an off-the-shoulder sweatshirt.

Trendy enough. I’m trying, like, 73 percent.

I usually worry about who is going to see me on any given day.

Normally, it’s the wannabe DeuxMois who want to spot me at Erewhon trying to buy a salad.

But tonight, for a reason I don’t want to investigate, I stop and think whether this is how I want Carter to see me.

I assume Bex is shooting a vlog in her bedroom, based on the outside-voice Cockney coming from the room next door.

I might be safe to make a run for it. I don’t know why I let a twenty-nine-year-old woman going through her Doctor Who phase like this is 2011 Tumblr boss me around, but she does decide if I get to stay here or not.

I dip along the hedges and round the corner. On the dark streets, Carter is little more than a shadow of sharp angles and crisp edges, from the brim of his aging trilby hat to the tight crease of his suit where his arm rests against the open window.

Someone assigned to follow me around should not be this handsome.

Someone who wears a hat and suspenders every day should not turn me on like this.

Someone like him isn’t supposed to believe me, but he does.

“Evening, Officer,” he says.

I lean into the window. His arm retracts into the car as I take the space from him.

“License and registration, please.” He feigns reaching over to the glove compartment before I scoff. “What are you doing here?”

The quips are gone and his blue eyes harden with urgency. “I needed to talk to you. It’s important. You hungry?”

Fifteen minutes later, we pull into the parking lot of a beat-up old diner I’ve only ever passed while wondering who even eats there.

I have my answer. The Men in Black eat there, apparently.

We step out of the car and Carter holds the door open for me.

He slips his hat off, and a few strands of blond hair stick up from the static until he pushes them back with a smooth swipe.

It’s just us and an old man perched at the bar, and the waitress offers a knowing nod to Carter when he enters.

Ah, he’s a regular.

We take a booth near the back and slide into opposite sides. Everything in this diner feels sticky—from the linoleum flooring to the cheap countertops to the menus, with pages undoubtedly plastered together by Coke. The melodious hum of fifties music floats out from the jukebox in the corner.

Carter sheds his suit jacket and places it over the hook beside the table. He combats the greasy bacon smell in the air with the scent of crisp sandalwood and the mint gum he brings everywhere he goes. He loosens his tie and rolls his sleeves up to the middle of his forearms.

“Are you going to totally undress…?” I ask. I mean, not like I’d complain.

“ No ,” he huffs as he ruffles his blond waves and sets his hat in front of us on the table. “You try wearing a suit every day.”

“What? There’s no leeway with the dress code?”

“There are no casual Fridays in government cover-ups.” He keeps his voice low, sinking into a warm rasp I feel in the pit of my stomach. I’m hyperaware of each close encounter of our bodies.

“I…Right. What did you want to talk about?”

Carter nods with enthusiasm, but the waitress smacks down two menus and asks what we want to drink. We order two waters, but truthfully, I need something stronger if I’m going to sit this close to Carter.

“We’re all clear,” I say as the waitress walks away after dropping off our waters.

Carter sets his glass down and glances around the diner.

The man at the bar has wrapped up his meal and left.

We’re the only ones here now, but Carter clears his throat and leans over.

His knees bump mine beneath the table. His body’s warm and there’s more chemistry in a single leg touch than there was in my entire relationship with Alaka-Sam.

When Alaka-Sam says he can make magic happen, he clearly does not mean in the bedroom.

Carter makes secrets feel so sexy.

“I talked to my uncle—Marcus—before I left tonight, and he told me he’s been ordered by someone higher up to purge the personnel files of any deceased or inactive agents from our archives to make room for new ones. That includes my dad’s file.”

“Your dad was an agent, too?”

“Yeah. I wanted to be just like him when I was a kid. My hat was actually his.”

“Does everyone wear a fedora at piss?”

Carter gives a hefty sigh. “ Trilby , and P-I-S , but yes. Most other agents have newer ones, but…he told me he wanted me to have this one.”

Despite the frayed strings and poor stitching, the hat is well cared for and well loved. Maybe I can stop bullying his fedora if it’s got such sentimental value.

“But he didn’t die on the job, right?”

“No, but he died while he was employed, so a full investigation should have been done. I’m told the conclusion is that it was a simple hit and run. But…now more than ever, I’m not sure. I need to get my hands on that file before time is up. Otherwise…”

“You never will…Well, where do we find them?”

Carter’s brows rise at the word we . Whatever we find out about his dad could answer my own mystery. Helping Carter helps me.

He thrums his fingers on the table. “If I had to guess, it might be in that archive we found.”

“How do we get inside? Who’s got access?”

He lets out a huffy breath, running his hands over his face before succumbing. “People with much higher security clearance. My uncle most likely can.”

“And you can’t ask him?”

Carter bites down on his lip. “No. We’re not…we aren’t exactly close. He’s not a blood relative, but my dad’s old partner. He took me in after Dad was killed, but he insists there’s nothing in the file. Clams up whenever we start talking about it.”

“He won’t let you see it?”

Carter shakes his head and rubs his jaw. “We’re going to need another way in. I haven’t figured it out yet. I’ve got an idea, but it’s still flimsy…”

The waitress returns to us in our silent pondering.

“Anything to eat?” she chimes.

“Uh, give us a few more minutes?” Carter requests, and turns to his menu.

I pluck the pages of mine apart and begin to skim.

Diners are the true liminal space. You can get breakfast for dinner and a Salisbury steak at any time of day, which I suspect should be illegal.

Diners don’t have a distinct brand, which is admittedly a little uncomfortable for a girl who once swore by an algorithm, even if something coming from the kitchen smells excruciatingly delicious.

“Don’t get any of the seafood,” he advises.

“Damn. I really was thinking about the Captain’s Combo.” But I’m not and never shall. It’s described as a combination of three fish, but no indication of which ones. It’s a level of vague I can’t handle, considering no one I’ve dined with recently would even eat sustainably farmed salmon.

I study the menu carefully. I never know how to order when I go out.

My “friends” will judge me if I get anything heavy.

Certain boyfriends, too. Three years ago, this guy Dylan who I attempted to go out with made a face and an unflattering sound when I flipped past the salad menu on our second date.

I’m not sure if I liked that more or less than the normal guys who wanted me to be “real,” encouraging me to get whatever I wanted, but then rolling their eyes if it was something on the healthier side.

All I’ve learned is, as a woman, there’s nothing you can do with your body that someone won’t criticize.

If Carter’s brought me here, I suspect he won’t judge me for what I order. He’s not giving me a whole lot of healthy gourmet options. There isn’t even an option to make the pasta gluten free.

“Are you having an existential crisis over chicken potpie?”

I meet Carter’s gaze across from me. He’s smiling, one arm propped on the back of the booth.

A muscle in his cheek twitches as he waits for my answer.

The tension that was in his shoulders when we arrived has left the building, and an easier, slouched demeanor has taken its place. It’s like he’s having a good time.

What shocks me is that I am, too.

“No, I…I’m overwhelmed.”

“Have you…never been to a diner before?” I don’t sense judgment. It’s sympathy.

“I have. It’s just been a while. Do I look like the kind of girl that goes to diners? Does it look like any of my friends would?”

Friends. I stumble over it again.

“Only if it were a pop-up photo op experience or something.”

“Exactly.”

He laughs and dimples pop at his cheeks. He sets the menu down with a sticky thwack .

“You decided already?” I ask.

“Oh yeah, you always go for grilled cheese at this place.”

Hmm, now that he’s said it, it does sound good. Pure, unadulterated carbs and cholesterol sound incredible. I set my menu down as well. The waitress quickly returns to take our order.

“What’ll you two have?” she asks.

“Two grilled cheeses,” I announce proudly. Carter grins.

“Oh, sorry. We’re down to our last two pieces of bread for the night. Unless you want an end piece, someone’s going to have to pick something else.”

“Do you want to share?” Carter asks.

I glance at him, then at the waitress. “Yeah, that works for me.”

“Excellent. Then add a side of fries, please.” As the waitress takes our menus and walks away, Carter scribbles something on a napkin with the waxy crayons they keep on the table for kids. His handwriting is boxy but neat. He folds it and passes me the note.

She thinks we’re on a date.