"Welcome to the Clinton Diner, folks! Start you off with some coffee, to chase away the evenin'chill?" A warm baritone seasoned with time booms gently over the clatter of dishes and low murmurs of conversation. A friendly elderly waiter with a worn name tag reading "Harold" flickers his gaze between Dave and me.

"Ladies order first." Dave stretches his long legs and points at me. 

Suddenly in the spotlight, I scan the menu, my eyes widening at the vast array of options, from juicy burgers and golden fries to classic comfort food like meatloaf and mashed potatoes.

I can count the times I went out for a meal with mom and dad on the fingers of one hand.

"Hey, Lewis," says David. "Order anything you'd like. I'm dead serious.  We got a long drive ahead."

I clear my throat. "I don't have that much money."

"Food's on me. I told you before. I meant it."

I hate being poor. "It doesn't feel right to take your money."

"Okay, listen." David places his warm hand over mine. "How about this? You'll give it back to me."

I guess that's doable. Dad would pay Dave back once we're in L.A. And I really am starving.

After much deliberation, I make a decision. Clearing my throat to get over the awkward hump, I still only manage a low mutter. "A classic cheeseburger with a side of onion rings?"

"What was that, my dear? Speak up, don't be shy now," the server prompts me with a disarming grin.

I hate that he put me on the spot like this. I repeat the order, digging my nails into my palms. There is certain discomfort at voicing what you want in unknown places, before unknown people.

"As for me, I'm gonna go for the house specialty." Dave puts his hands behind his head and tilts his neck slightly forward. "Juicy Lucy. Bring it on."

"Excellent choice, young man. Our best burger, stuffed with delicious melted cheese." There is an unmistakable pride in Harold's voice.

Soon, the aroma of sizzling meat and fried onions fills the air, making my mouth water. Now I'm double glad I didn't eat those stupid Mac & Cheese Marjorie made at home.

I follow Dave's example and lean back into my red vinyl seat in a relaxing fashion, appreciating the place. Equally colored booths line the counter, chrome stools gleam under the soft neon light, and a jukebox in the corner hums "You Give Love a Bad Name". The grief I feel for the Walkman my dad gave me lessens with every beat. It was just a sound-transmitting object but music is all around me. It helps me always remember him.

I steal glances at Dave, his face illuminated by the warm light of the jukebox. The tension from the almost car-crash has melted away, replaced by a sense of companionship. Can't believe we've only been on the road for two hours and there's already a bond, a sense of trust blossoming between us.

It's so easy being around Dave. Because he lets me be... me.

Harold is back with our food, piled high on vintage plates. The first bite of the juicy burger sends a wave of satisfaction through me.

"Mmm. It's heavenly," I can't resist humming out loud. The flavors are simple, yet perfect — comforting taste of Americana that warms me from the inside out.

"That's a nice piece of burger for ya," the elderly waiter says. "You don't even have to taste it. Just smell it. It's a poem."

And he's right. I can almost hear the words in a poem that is this burger.

"Having you appreciate it for what it is makes me love my job even more." Harold shuffles away.

I stare after him. "I hope I'll find a job I can enjoy like that."

Dave nods. "You gotta do you, you know what I mean. Do a job you love. Do what makes you happy and don't give a shit about other people's opinions. Otherwise, their expectations will kill you."

"I know exactly what you mean." I scoff. "My mom keeps mentioning this cousin I have in Oklahoma, doing her PhD. Beats my dumb high school diploma."

"Haha." Dave grins and his perfectly white teeth sparkle with glee. "News flash: my mom kept comparing me to you, Lewis, because I couldn't even get the 'dumb high school diploma.' Guess we all have our hills we die on."

"I'm sorry." My hand instinctively reaches over and squeezes his.

Our gaze connects and I wish the moment could last longer.

When I take another bite, he smiles. "No need to be sorry."

"I mean... Not that I'd know how it feels but, it must suck to start over and over during your senior year and get grilled about it. You come to a brand new class, leaving all of your friends at your previous one behind."

"Well. Let's just say if someone asked me what my favorite pastime was, school wouldn't make the list."

"I mean, I am not a fan of school either. Just one particular subject."

"Oh? I thought Miss-Know-It-All is also a Miss-Like-It-All." He winks.

I decide it's time to share a part of myself with David Rivera. A part that I haven't spoken of yet. The passion that's been my companion through all the ups and downs.

"Well, I knew I had to get good marks in all subjects to have a better chance at a spot I wanted at the uni," I begin, my voice a mix of excitement and a bit of nervousness.

What will he think when I say it out loud?

"I'm really into art. Drawing, specifically."

Ugh. I hope he doesn't say "Lame," or somesuch.

But he does not.

Dave's eyes light up with interest. "Really? That's awesome, Lewis. Tell me more. I can respect artists."

A smile spreads across my face as I recall my earliest memories of drawing. "The first time I ever wanted to draw, I was about five years old. We had this old, beat-up set of crayons and a stack of scrap paper my mom kept in the kitchen. One day, I remember sitting at the table, watching her cook. She was chopping carrots, completely absorbed in her task, and I just felt this overwhelming urge to capture that moment."

I can see the image so clearly in my mind, as if it happened yesterday, and not thirteen years ago. "I grabbed a piece of paper and an orange crayon, and I started drawing. Of course, it was nothing more than a series of squiggly lines and rough shapes, but to me, it was magical. I was creating something, bringing my thoughts and observations to life. Recreating the scene before me.

Dave nods, his eyes never leaving mine. "So that was the first thing you ever drew?"

"Yep. It was my mom, standing at the counter, chopping carrots. I remember how I tried so hard to get the details right—the way her hair fell over her shoulders, the way her hands moved so precisely. When I finished, I ran over to her and proudly showed her my masterpiece. She laughed and said it was beautiful, even though I swear it looked nothing like her. But that encouragement, that moment of pride, it was everything to me. We still have that drawing hanging on the fridge. It's one of the rare moments she actually praised me." I harrumph.

"So why do you like drawing?"

"Drawing makes me feel free. It's like I can capture a piece of the world, hold it in my hands, and share it with others. Whenever I draw, I lose myself in it. Time just disappears, and all that matters is the pencil in my hand and the lines on the paper."

Dave's expression softens. "That sounds amazing, April. It must be incredible to have a passion like that."

"It is," I agree, feeling a warmth spread through me at his understanding. "Art has always been my escape, my way of processing everything around me. Even when things were tough, I always had my drawings. They're like a diary of my life, each one telling a story."

"Do you still draw regularly?" he asks, popping a fry in his mouth. He's genuinely curious.

"I do," I say, nodding. "Well, not as often as I'd like, with everything that's been going on. But whenever I get a chance, I try to sketch something. It helps me feel grounded, connected to who I am."

Dave smiles at me, and I can see the admiration in his eyes. "I'd love to see some of your drawings someday."

"Maybe one day, I'll show you," I reply, feeling a sense of excitement at the thought. "For now, I'm just glad I could share this part of me with you."

Then a thought crosses my mind.

"What do you want to do?" Words are catapulted out of my mouth before I can stop or second-guess myself.

"Next question." Dave smiles but something about this one feels off. 

He didn't pressure me about why I'm going to L.A. so I decide I won't pressure him into telling me about this. I continue talking about myself instead. "I wanna go to California Institute of Arts. I sent applications to more unis but this would be my number one choice."

"A good choice. I can almost hear my mom say: don't quit school, Dave. You wanna be a cashier for life? When I told her I'd find something she was all like: just with a high school diploma? Kids without a college aren't hired as much. They'll be bums or..."

"Whores, I know." I roll my eyes. "Marjorie was all like "You wanna end up a whore?"

"Your mom?"

"Yeah." It feels good to get this off my chest. "Sometimes I thought ending up a whore would be preferable to keep living with that nagging hag who says shush, or tidy your room." 

"My mother is unbearable like that, too. Dave, I've been breaking my butt for twenty years for you. Put food on the table. Made sure you had clothes to wear. Kept a roof over our head." He mimics a high pitched, shrill female voice and I can't help but giggle.

I push an onion ring into my mouth decisively. "It feels like both our parents and the society overall have a very narrow selection of narratives."

"For sure." Dave's warm brown eyes linger on my lips for a moment too long, and I pause mid-chew.

"You've got a little bit of a thing...on..." Dave murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down my spine.

He reaches out a hand, hesitantly at first, then with a newfound confidence. His fingers brush lightly against my cheek, the pad of his thumb gently swiping the spot where the rogue food resides.

He holds his thumb up, a tiny fleck of ketchup clinging precariously to it as a dead-giveaway red evidence, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

My cheeks warm until they are scorching-hot.

The intimacy of his gesture, the way his touch lingers –it's a message whispered on my trembling skin. A hint at a budding possibility. My heart pounds in my chest, a drumbeat echoing a rhythm of jukebox music.

Dave pulls his hand back to reclaim his Juicy Lucy burger. He takes another bite and chews. His eyes turn thoughtful. "We're supposed to finish school, have a career, fall in love, get married, get a mortgage, have kids, etcetera. If we don't follow that script, we are left feeling as though we have somehow failed. What are the top three questions everyone asks an adult? Where do you work? Are you married? Do you have kids and how many?"

"It's bull. We need more storylines. More acceptance of different choices. Less judgment and more room to breathe. Dammit." I slam my fist on the table, feeling better than I have in a long time. Finally, I voiced an opinion. My newly found courage is emboldened by his recent touch.

"A rebel streak. I like it. Never thought I'd agree on something with you, Lewis." Dave runs his long fingers through his lush, thick hair.

"On life matters? Why not?"

"Dunno. Guess because you always had your nose stuck in a book."

Just how much did David Rivera observe me? He always sat in the back row with the popular kids and would interrupt the lessons with stupid stuff like armpit farts or launching paper spitballs. Never knew watching me was another one of his quirks.

"You can learn a lot about life from books, too."

"Can't say I ever read one, but I s'ppose you like them?"

"I do." So freaking much. Books are a parallel universe I can flee to when my day-to-day becomes too unbearable. Books, and drawing.

I glance up at him, imagining what it would be like to capture that thick hair on canvas. Those almond shaped brown eyes, his perfect thick eyebrows, and his full lips.

Dave Rivera smirks as if he knows exactly what I'm thinking. "I prefer a hands-on approach. But, hey, respect. You're brave enough to be you. And like Harold says: Only you can do you as well as you can."

"My..." I swallow a lump that threatens to take over my voice. "My dad says something similar."

"Yeah?"

"In his... in his letters." Dave came clean to me about his family matters and perhaps I should do the same. I unzip my backpack and hand a mid-March letter to him.

"Can I?" His touch is featherlight and full of reverence.

"Dear April," he reads out loud. "Fall in love with yourself. Get rid of the shoulds: I should be thinner, I should be nicer, I should be getting As, I should be having a lot of friends. You decide who you are, you decide your worth. Mind, it's not going to be easy. This will likely require you facing some real fears, and will likely take years of effort. But the freedom you gain at the end: So. Worth. It."

"Your dad is a wise man. It only matters what you think of yourself. It's easy to blend in and be a part of the crowd. But I think it takes a special something to stand out and be different. Believe me, I'd know."

I take the letter back from Dave and finish reading it.

As the last words of Dad's letter echo in my mind, the jukebox song fades out too, replaced by  the murmur of late-night diners.

Dave leans back in the booth, a playful glint in his eyes. "So," he begins, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "You up for doing something reckless and fun, Lewis?"

"Reckless" and "fun" were not really words in my vocabulary. Thanks to my mom's iron fist, my life's been a neatly ordered box. Up till I met David Rivera.

"Reckless?" I echo with hesitation.

"Yeah," Dave chuckles, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Like... skipping out on a bill." He gestures towards the counter where Harold, the friendly waiter, is now polishing glasses, oblivious to the world.

Dine and dash? This is an uncharted territory. "Dave, are you serious?" I glance nervously around the place. The thought of getting caught sends a thrill of fear and a flicker of excitement coursing through me.

"Come on. Relax. Just a late night diner adventure. Live a little, Lewis."

Perhaps he's right. This road trip is supposed to be an escape from my structured life. My chance to break free from the rules. A tiny rebellious spark ignites within me. Maybe, just maybe a little harmless fun won't hurt.

"But what about Harold?" A thought tugs at my conscience.

Dave winks. "Harold's seen it all, trust me. Consider it a tip for his excellent service."

He reaches across the booth, his hand brushing mine. The warmth of his touch sends a jolt through me, emboldening me.

More than skipping on a bill, this is a chance to take a leap of faith. With him.

I slip my hand into Dave's. Our fingers intertwine, warm and reassuring. Grounding me.

"On three," he says.

A silent countdown forms in our shared leap as we shoot up from our seats. We bounce off the red vinyl booths and chrome accents, Dave's chuckle a melody more thrilling than any jukebox tune I heard tonight.

We burst out of the diner's doors, stepping back into the cool night air – a welcome shock against our laughter - heated faces.

"Bet you never did anything like this before?" he shouts as we sprint towards the car, our linked hands a lifeline amidst the chaos of our own creation.

The diner lights shrink behind us, leaving only the soft glow of the moon and street lamps illuminating our escape.

I steal a glance at Dave and his face is alight with a mix of exhilaration and something else, a warmth that mirrors the feeling blossoming in my chest.

"Woohoo!" Dave slams the door shut as we scramble into the car, breathless and giggling.

He puts his foot on the pedal and the Pontiac disappears into the distance. As we pull away from the curb, the weight of our daring act settles in.

Did we get away with this?

I can't believe we just got away with this and tricked that kind, old man who told us how to live our lives. He was just so nice.

A nervous look in the rearview mirror shows no sign of pursuit.

The prank we just pulled paves the way for a bond that just might become as timeless as the classic diner we've left behind.

I side-glance at Dave and he gives me a mission-accomplished wink. His eyes are incredibly difficult to describe right now: so tender and kind, yet at the same time hard, and determined. 

A bit like a shot of whisky: silky-soft in the beginning, and then exploding, daring: burning me up on the inside as a promise of adventures yet to come.