When she returned, the waitress was carrying a menu that was larger than the one they’d seen with the appetizers and entrees, and seemed to feature a single dessert on each page, displayed in high-definition vibrant color on glossy paper. As the waitress flipped through the pages, Emily’s eyes focused on only one thing: a giant parfait glass filled with what appeared to be a pink milkshake of epic proportions. She glanced at Brandon and saw from the look in his eyes that he’d noticed the page too. It was as if he were a caveman seeing a spark of fire for the very first time.
The waitress had stopped flipping to give her spiel about the Atomic Chocolate Brownie Bowl and the Apple Pie à la Explode on the opposite page, when Emily held up her hand, silently letting her know to stop.
“We’re interested in the Strawberry Tsunami,” she said.
The waitress’s smile widened as she turned back a page to the pink dessert, which seemed to glow with some sort of inner light on the page.
“Is that the Strawberry Tsunami?” Emily queried.
Brandon’s eyes were glazed over. “The one from the sign on the highway?”
“That’s the one,” the waitress said. “Three scoops of homemade strawberry ice cream and a piece of fresh strawberry pie—crust and all—blended to perfection, then layered into our biggest parfait glass with strawberry compote and more whipped cream than federal law should allow. Whatcha think?”
“Bring us one of those and three straws, please,” Ana chirped. Brandon and Emily both turned to look at her, then slowly turned back to the waitress.
“Oh no,” Emily said. “Bring us three of those with one straw apiece.”
“What?!” Ana shrieked. “I am not drinking a whole one of those things. That’s more calories than I’m supposed to eat in an entire day. It’s more calories than anyone is supposed to eat in an entire day! I’ll just have a sip of yours.”
“I’m not sharing it,” Emily said, shaking her head. “I haven’t had a strawberry milkshake for at least two years, and I can’t really say when it will happen again. I’m planning to drink every drop of that Tsunami or die trying.”
Ana rolled her eyes and turned to Brandon. “Can’t I just have a sip of yours?”
Brandon pointed at Emily. “What she said.”
“Ugh.” Ana flopped back against the booth and sighed. “Fine,” she said. “Bring us three of them. But I’ll need a to-go cup for mine.”
The waitress laughed. “Comin’ right up.”
Emily checked her watch and smiled. “Right on time,” she said, happily.
“Does it really matter if we’re a few minutes later than we thought we’d be?” Brandon asked.
Emily simply winked in his direction. Brandon had never understood the simple pleasure it brought her to know that all things were going according to plan. A place for everything, and everything in its place; this was a rule that applied not only to closets and sock drawers, but also to schedules—especially important schedules. And what could be more important than this party? When things were on schedule, that meant nothing was going wrong. And when nothing went wrong, that meant the maximum relaxation time. When relaxation time is limited, getting the most possible is crucial.
Ana was staring out the window, eyeing a couple of diners who had just walked by. Emily followed her gaze and saw the pair from behind as they made their way to the door. The guy was short and stocky and was wearing combat boots with red track pants and a hooded sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off. Both of his arms were fully covered in tattoos, and the biceps that bulged when he held open the door looked like something from a comic book superhero. Or villain—Emily couldn’t decide.
“Like what you see, mamacita?” Ana nudged Emily in the ribs, and Emily immediately blushed and turned away.
“What is he wearing?” she whispered.
“I don’t know,” said Ana. “Some sort of grunge garage-sale chic. Don’t stare too long though. He’s not headed to Harvard.”
Brandon laughed. He’d turned around to catch a glance of the couple over his shoulder. “Can you imagine if Em brought him home to her dad?”
Emily laughed, imaging the scene. “With my luck, my dad would let him move in. That guy looks like exactly like the type of person who would be building the World’s Largest Collection of Bongs.”
After the man walked in, the woman with him followed. Emily couldn’t help but stare as she stepped into the diner.
The woman was lean and tall, almost two heads taller than the man she’d come in with. Her hair was short and spiky, sticking out all over her head and dyed a blue-black that seemed to shine under the neon lights of the restaurant. She was dressed like she’d just stepped out of one of the Matrix movies, with black leather pants, a long black trench coat, and heeled boots. Big red sunglasses covered her eyes, and the color on her lips was the same vibrant shade.
“Holy moly,” Ana said, shaking her head. “Is there a costume party?”
Emily sighed. “I want to think so, I really do, but I don’t.”
At that moment, the waitress appeared with three towering parfait glasses expertly balanced on a tray. She set each down, then handed out spoons, straws, and a fresh pile of napkins. “There you go, hons. You kids enjoy. I’ll be right back with your to-go cup and your check.” She winked at Ana, who groaned and fell over onto Emily’s shoulder.
“I can’t even look at that, I’m so full,” Ana whined.
“Oh, enough. Belly up to the bar, young lady.” Emily laughed and picked up both her straw and her spoon, then glanced at Brandon. “How do we even go about this?” she asked him.
Brandon shrugged and a big grin spread across his face. “I’m going in head first,” he said.
Emily squealed as he did just that, plunging tongue into the top of the shake, licking out a giant scoop of whipped cream and chomping down on the two strawberries that garnished the top. She pulled her glass toward her and did the same, her nose suddenly covered in the sticky, sweet cream, her mouth flooded with strawberry.
Ana started pushing her out of the booth. “Gross!” She giggled. “You two are whipped cream piglets!”
Suddenly Emily was gasping and snorting whipped cream up her nose. “Wait!” she said, trying to catch her breath from laughing. “I’m about to asphyxiate on whipped cream!”
“Serves you right, you little oinker! Out of my booth. You have to go over there and sit with Brandon.”
Emily laughed, obediently swinging around the end of the table while Brandon slid over to make room for her on his side. Ana pulled out her phone and began snapping pictures of the two of them while grunting like a pig between laughs.
If Emily had chosen a different method to start eating her dessert, one that didn’t involve getting whipped cream all over her face, then maybe Ana wouldn’t have felt compelled to send her to the other side of the table to sit with Brandon. Then she wouldn’t have had her back to the door, and she might’ve been able to see what was going on before it happened. She might’ve been able to stop it.
If Emily had just continued driving, and if they had gone past Rick’s Diner and just stopped at a rest stop or some other fast-food restaurant for something to eat, then they wouldn’t have been in the diner at all. If they weren’t in the diner, they never would have gotten into the situation.
But it was all moot anyway, because she had turned off the highway, and they had decided to eat at that diner, and she had smashed her face into the whipped cream, and she had been sent to the other side of the table, where she couldn’t see the front door.
And because she couldn’t see the front door, she didn’t see it when the woman with the spiky hair and long trench and the man with the chopped-up hoodie and excessive tattoos pulled ski masks over their faces, raised two guns above their heads, and screamed over the noise of the restaurant:
“PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR! THIS IS A ROBBERY!”
This definitely was not part of Emily’s itinerary.