Stop thinking about him. Think about the road.
Pulling out of the driveway I headed back towards home, which was not a rich area like Cambridge. It was mostly single-family homes - much more reasonable. I had to watch my speed because the last ticket I received almost doubled my insurance. That was bad enough, but if I received another, I could lose my chauffeur license.I can’t do that to Dad.
Most of the ride, I listened to him tell me all about my car, as though I had no idea what type of engine I had under the hood or the horsepower this baby had.
When we pulled into the parking lot I said, “This is the diner. Not much to look at, but the food is great.”
“It looks like an old train car. I like it. Rhonda showed me around Boston today, and I’ve seen enough modern buildings to last me a while. Not that I don’t like them, but I’m not a big city type of guy.”
As we got out of the car and went inside, I asked, “Where are you from?”
“A small city south of Sioux Falls in South Dakota. We have everything we need there, and I’m enjoying the things we don’t.”
I didn’t understand what that meant. “Am I supposed to understand that?”
He shrugged. “I couldn’t help but notice the difference between my city and yours.”
“I don’t live in Boston,” I said.
“Really?”
“I went to college there, and don’t mind driving there and visiting, but I live in this town.”
I had no idea why I just told him that. It was too personal, and he was a client. Normally I didn’t even share my first name with anyone. There was just something different about Colton. An instant attraction I should not pursue.I’ve heard the best things in life are forbidden.
“Guess that makes two things we have in common,” he said.
“What’s the first?”
“Our taste in cars,” he replied.
“You drive a Mustang?” I asked.
“I did for many years. Now I have a Dodge Ram truck. Not as much fun, but practical,” he said.
I mumbled, “Practical is boring.”
I didn’t think he could hear that, but his response said otherwise.
“Damn straight it is.”
There was no one else in the diner so we ordered our coffee and food. Then I asked, “What kind of Mustang did you have?”
“A green 1966 Mustang.”
I was impressed. “And you didn’t keep it?” I asked.
“I was young and dumb. Totaled it racing my friend Jack. I broke my leg and lost my car.”
“Oh, my goodness. Sounds like you’re lucky to be alive,” I said. “How about your friend?”
“He became a cop. Believe it or not, he was the one who gave me my first speeding ticket. Said it was his civic duty to teach me to slow down.”
“You did say he was your friend, right?” I snickered.
“Since childhood. He was supposed to come with me on this trip, but ended up having to work,” he said.
“Isn’t three a crowd?” I asked.