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The restaurant Professor Evory had discovered turned out to be a diner: the typical “Americana”-esque sort of fare that only seemed significant to me because of my history with the concept. My dad loved those sorts of places. He used to take me to them and celebrate every little detail. It was his nostalgia talking. His hometown was stuck in the 1950s until the 1990s. And while this diner wasn’t explicitly devoted to that specific style, there were touches of it everywhere like in the bright color scheme, clean lines of the decor, and the small, fake jukeboxes on each of the tables and booths.
Professor Evory and I sat in one of the booths. Just like Ellie and I used to at our place. But this view felt different and more desolate despite looking out on Dustford’s lively main street. People milling about, joking and laughing together. I could see it all. But as happy of a view as it was, the concept of an American diner was interwoven with a sadness I could not escape.
And my chest still hurt after that day’s coughing spells. I just hid it well.
“What’s good here?” I asked Professor Evory. “Or what do you recommend, I guess?”
“Anything served with fries,” he replied with a smile.
I loved fries. Actually, I loved potatoes in any form. It was the Irish in me coming to the surface.
Despite his confidence, Professor Evory still mulled over his choice, which only gave the restaurant more credibility. If there truly were no bad entries, then there were no corners to cut in the selection process, and each option had to be carefully considered. But in the end, he went with the turkey sandwich, and I went with the black bean burger.
“Are you a vegetarian now?” he asked after we placed our orders.
It was a fair question. While it did sting, he had no way of knowing why. And I was unwilling to explain, even if he would have liked to hear about Ellie.
“No,” I told him. “I’m just trying to make better choices now and then.”
He nodded approvingly. “Good for you.”
I faked a smile as I answered, “Yeah, well, easier said than done, sometimes.”
“That’s how you know it’s worthwhile.”
Agree to disagree, I thought. But that’s not what I said.
“I do feel better now that I’m out here.” I began to say, only to remember what happened at the train station. “For the most part.”
Professor Evory nodded. “Well, I guess this is also your celebratory brunch then.”
He raised his orange juice in an impromptu toast, and I met it with my iced tea.
“To the most unorthodox fellowship arrangement ever?” I offered.
With a faint memory twinkling in his eyes, he chuckled. “Not even close. But we did throw you a curveball.”
We lightly tapped out glasses together and sipped our drinks. The motions we went through still somehow felt genuine despite the way we had thrown them together and the whirlwind that still threatened to swallow me up.
“That I then returned by wanting to come sooner rather than later. Or needing to,” I added.
An empathetic somberness overtook him as he spoke. “I know. But sometimes things work out. Like now.”
“Like now,” I agreed.
Outside on the street, a few teenagers rode by on their bicycles. One tried showing off, lifting his hands off the handlebars and one wheel off of the ground. He didn’t strike the right balance immediately, however. So he stumbled back a bit, but he landed upright. At least he was wearing a helmet, though it didn’t look completely secure with the straps dangling unhooked.
“You still ride, right?” I asked Professor Evory, only then did I remember that his riding is what showed him this restaurant in the first place.
My face was flushed with embarrassment, but Professor Evory pretended not to notice. He only nodded and asked, “And you still...”
“Can’t,” I finished. “It’s on my list of things to learn. But at my age, learning how to ride a bike is... Well, it’s the sort of hobby that’s hard to start.”
“I don’t suppose the city makes it any easier,” he pointed out, taking some of the pressure off of me.
“Not too many places to learn, no,” I agreed. “Few bike paths and fewer secluded ones. It’s not like I want the whole city to see me stumble and fail. Or run me over.”
It wasn’t necessarily meant as a joke, but I still laughed.
“Maybe,” Professor Evory began, “while you’re here, you can learn. It’s a quieter pace. And I’m sure the owner of the bike shop I go to could help you find the right equipment. Maybe even teach you.”
It was a nice thought, but I wasn’t sure it was one I could act on. Mom had gifted me a profound fear of bike riding, more specifically the crashing part. Rationally, it’s not a big deal when you wear safety equipment and don’t go too quickly or ride along a major road. That’s what Dad said when he bought me my first and only bike for Christmas when I was seven. He wanted me to learn, and he wanted to teach me. But then his health took another dip, putting off the endeavor for a while. Mom had tried to take me out to ride it a time or two, but her fear made it impossible for me to ride comfortably. My muscles were too tense from anticipating the release of the scream I knew was sitting in her throat. And she made Dad put training wheels on the bike, but they didn’t fit right. Consequently, the bike was wobbly, which only gave Mom more reason to worry.
By the time Dad was able to even consider teaching me himself, it was too late. The damage was done, and the fear had taken root. It was tragic, really. Dad bought me a scooter a couple years later to make up for it, but I doubt that either of us really got over the hurt of the missed chance.
So no, I really wasn’t going to take this opportunity to learn what I wished I could have back then. But I smiled and pretended to be enthused by the idea, though Professor Evory was not convinced.
“What’s wrong?” he immediately asked.
A lot, I thought. And while I knew he was specifically asking about the memory that had twisted my mood, I didn’t want to talk about it. I had to say something, but it didn’t have to be the thing I didn’t want to disclose.
So instead, I sighed. “I have no clue what my project is going to be.”
“For the fellowship?”
“Yeah.”
Professor Evory’s expression softened, and his concern lightened. In response to something he thought was trivial, he could only shrug. “Well, you’re here early. You don’t have to know right away.”
“I mean, don’t you think there’s going to be a whole ‘hey, look at her. Look at our actual fellow and don’t think about what we almost did. Here’s what she’s working on’ sort of moment,” I said, gesturing to the empty air next to me with emphasis.
His face set sternly. “If so, the administration can do that without you or your project. You already did them a favor by coming out here. They can take care of themselves.”
Before I could stop myself, I remarked, “Now you sound like Erika.”
Smirking, he agreed, “And that’s how you know I’m right.”
I chuckled, and with that release of air and lightness, the conversation was free to move forward to the next stage, the part where we actually got to catch up with each other. I asked him about his classes, his wife and family, and all the other ends I had caught glimpses of on social media. That was another reason I stuck around those websites: it gave Professor Evory and I assuring glimpses into each other’s lives. They were highly manicured, but that was more Professor Evory’s issue than mine. In fact, I thought that was something good about social media. I liked the way it hid my flaws and problems. I couldn’t let him see just how much was wrong with my life; I cared too much about him for that.
From that care, when our food came out, I immediately reached for a fry as a nod to what he said to me. And Professor Evory was right; they were the best I ever had.
“They’re fresh,” he told me. “Made to order. Seasoned well. Everything is perfect with them.”
“You can taste all the work,” I agreed.
He smiled at me. “I’m glad you like them. You deserve nice things.”
I smiled back, choking down my own, more disagreeable feelings on the matter. The fries helped shove them down, at least.