Read With a Little Luck: A Novel for Free Online Page B

I were meant to be.
    That was seven years ago. Over that time, Moose has seen hairstyles, jobs, and boyfriends come and go. I’d like to say he’s a good gauge for who’s a good guy or not, but he pretty much likes everyone, which does me absolutely no good whatsoever.

     
    Most nights, after my shift at the station ends, I meet Natalie at the diner. Admission: I eat dinner every night after midnight. I know it’s unhealthy, but the hours I keep don’t allow me to eat at a normal dinnertime. Plus, I love the cast of characters who have come to be my friends. Call me a creature of habit, but there’s something so comforting about a waitress who already knows my order. I like my short-order cook who winks and smiles at me when I come in; occasionally, the light hits his mouth so perfectly that his front left gold tooth sparkles like a diamond (and when it does, I know the next day is going to be stellar). I like sitting at the counter, always in the same seat, if possible. Natalie just tolerates it, which is fair enough—it’s hard to shell out cash at a diner when you own your own restaurant. Eat It is Nat’s culinary gem. Of course, there’s a command in the name. The customer is not always right when Nat is in the kitchen, and she’s not shy about letting them know. She’s been written up in every local paper and some nationals. She’s kind of famous for being a bit ornery, but people come to the restaurant expecting it. She has certain rules that customers have to adhere to.
    1) No two people at the same table can order the same dish. This encourages the trying of new things and the finding of new favorites.
    2) No substitutions. She doesn’t care if you’re allergic—in that case, order something else.
    3) Natalie reserves the right to kick anyone out at any time. This could be because of disagreements stemming from rules one and two, or it could be because she doesn’t like your hairstyle.
But it’s not all bad …
    4) Tablecloths are made of paper, and each table is equipped with colored pencils. At least once a night, Natalie will stroll around to examine tablecloth artwork, and every night at least one dinner is on the house due to exemplary doodling.
     
    Natalie works only dinners, so her hours are pretty similar to mine. The restaurant usually dies down around eleven or eleven-thirty, and by the time she finishes cashing out the waiters and planning the specials for the following night, we are walking out the door at almost the same moment. The diner is right down the street from the station and not too far from Nat’s apartment, so it’s a convenient place to meet most nights after work. Mostly she listens to me regale her with tales of random callers, and I listen to her restaurant stories, which are always equally if not more entertaining.
    Nat doesn’t eat diner food—perish the thought—but she does drink coffee, and lots of it. How she’ll drink coffee from midnight to two a.m. and then lie down and go to sleep is beyond me, but she claims to have ADD and says that coffee has the opposite effect on her.

     
    Tonight Nat walks in with a determined look on her face, her blond hair still tied back in restaurant mode, her normally gorgeous brown eyes (I know, most people hate brown eyes. Or maybe it’s just those of us who have them and wish we had something more exciting—but her blond hair/brown eyes combo is exceptionally pretty) oddly panicky—darting back and forth, and she looks around the restaurant as she makes her way toward me.
    “It’s bad,” Natalie says, bracing me, as soon as she sits down.
    I assume she’s going to tell me something bad happened to her—something along the lines of a customer ruining her poached salmon by asking for salt—because what could have happened in my life that she would know before me?
    “Just tell me,” I say. I can handle it.
    “So, Umbrella Guy?” she says, her face twisted to the side, like she’s not sure how to get the next