Diners and Deep Conversations–1
We’ve been on the road for hours and Zaid hasn’t said a word.
In his defense, neither have I, but I don’t want to be the only one breaking the ice
between the two of us. The hum of the engines and the rhythm of the tires against the
road is the only sound in the car.
I let my eyes slide over to look at Zaid’s profile. His eyes are fixed on the road, but his expression is distant. His knuckles are white against the steering wheel, his jaw clenched
tight.
I lean back in my seat and look out into the passing landscape. It’s a flat, dirt road for
miles with the occasional lonely tree and cacti. It’s nothing like Florida with the green
trees and water everywhere. It’s dry, cracked and brown, but there’s at least an endless,
beautiful sky above us.
Zaid’s phone buzzes on the dashboard, and he reaches for it without taking his eyes off
the road.
He taps something and hands it to me. “You should keep looking at the houses. Choose the ones you want to see, so we have something to do when we get there.”
I take his phone, still warm from his hand. I feel a surge in my heart. The fact that he trusts me with this, unlocked, is crazy.
I scroll through the list of houses he has. One catches my eye more than the rest. Green everywhere, a wraparound porch with a swing, a lake in the background. It looks peaceful.
I blink as I imagine us there. Zaid and I, sitting on the swing to watch the sunrise and the sunsets. Talking and laughing over the dumbest things.
I swallow the emotion in my throat and turn to him.
“This one,” I say softly, my fingers brushing over the screen.
Zaid glances at it, his gaze flickering briefly before he looks away, his jaw tightening. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and I feel the space between us grow even larger.
But then he lets out a breath, his hand tightening on the wheel. “That was my favorite,
1/2
Diners and Deep Conversations–1
too.”
For a brief moment, the tension softens. He still knows me. He still sees me. I don’t know if it’s a blessing or a curse. We share the same soul, and everything we do, everything we say, just reminds me of that fact.
We drive for a while longer in silence, only the sound of the engine and the occasional crackle of the radio filling the air. Neither of us has dared to put music on or anything, content with the silence.
The miles stretch out, and I wish I could ease the tension in the car.
The sun starts to dip lower in the sky, and Zaid pulls into a small diner on the side of the highway. Thank god, because I was starving. We get out of the car and walk inside; the door jingling as we enter.
The inside smells like grease and coffee. There’s the hum of conversation and the clink of silverware, though it’s mostly empty. The entire thing hits me like a brick, reminding me of the first time Zaid took me to his favorite diner.
I smile to myself, my hands resting on the edge of the table as we sit down.
Zaid looks at me for a moment, then down at the menu. I don’t want to talk, but the
silence is too heavy. I shift in my seat, trying to figure out what to say, when something inside me shifts, and I ask, “Will you tell me more about your mother?”
