Let It Snow: Three Holiday Romances Myracle, John (the lemonade war series txt) 📖

deep. Whatever it was, there was a curb buried in it, which I tripped over. I was drenched in snow by the time I made it to the door.

It was warm inside the Waffle House. In fact, it was so overheated that the windows had steamed, causing the large plastic holiday decals stuck to them to droop and peel away. Soft jazz Christmas standards blew out through the speakers, joyful as an allergy attack. The predominant smells were floor cleaner and overused cooking oil, but there was a hint of promise. Potatoes and onions had been fried here not long ago—and they had been good.

People-wise, the situation wasn’t much better. From deep in the kitchen, I heard two male voices, interspersed with slapping sounds and laughing. There was a woman lingering in a cloud of her own misery in the farthest corner, an empty plate dotted with cigarette butts in front of her. The only employee in sight was a guy, probably about my age, standing guard at the cash register. His regulation Waffle House shirt was long and untucked, and his spiky hair stuck out of the low-hanging visor on his head. His name tag read DON-KEUN. He was reading a graphic novel when I came in. My entrance brought a little light into his eyes.

“Hey,” he said. “You look cold.”

It was well observed. I nodded in reply.

Boredom had eaten at Don-Keun. You could hear it in his voice, see it in the way he slouched over the register in defeat. “Everything’s free tonight,” he said. “You can have whatever you want. Orders from the cook and the acting assistant manager. Both of those are me.”

“Thanks,” I said.

I think he was about to say something else, but then just flinched in embarrassment as the slap fight in the back grew louder. There was a newspaper and several coffee cups in front of one of the counter seats. I went over to take a seat a few spaces down, in an effort to be somewhat social. As I sat, Don-Keun made a sudden lurch in my direction.

“Um, you might not want to—”

He cut himself off and retreated a step as someone emerged from the direction of the restrooms. It was a man, maybe sixty years old, with sandy hair, a little bit of a beer gut, and glasses. Oh, and he was dressed in tinfoil. Head to toe. Even had a little tinfoil hat. Like you do.

Tinfoil Guy took the seat with the newspaper and the cups and gave me a nod of greeting before I could move.

“How are you on this night?” he asked.

“I could be better,” I replied honestly. I didn’t know where to look—at his face or his shiny, shiny silver body.

“Bad night to be out.”

“Yeah,” I said, choosing his shiny, shiny abdomen as my point of focus. “Bad.”

“You don’t happen to need a tow?”

“Not unless you tow trains.”

He thought that over for a moment. It’s always awkward when someone doesn’t realize you’re joking and devotes thought time to what you’ve said. Double that when the person is wearing tinfoil.

“Too big,” he finally replied, shaking his head. “Won’t work.”

Don-Keun shook his head as well and gave me a back-away-while-you-can—it-is-too-late-to-save-me look.

I smiled and tried to develop a sudden and all-consuming interest in the menu. It only seemed right to order something. I scanned it over and over, as if I just couldn’t decide between the waffle sandwich or the hash browns covered in cheese.

“Have some coffee,” Don-Keun said, coming over and handing me a cup. The coffee was completely burned and had a rank smell, but this was not the time to be picky. I think he was just offering me backup, anyway.

“You said you were on a train?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said, pointing out the window. Both Don-Keun and Tinfoil Guy turned to look, but the storm had picked up. The train was invisible.

“No,” Tinfoil Guy said again. “Trains won’t work.”

He adjusted his tin cuffs to punctuate this remark.

“Does that help?” I asked, finally feeling the need to mention the obvious.

“Does what help?”

“That stuff. Is it like that stuff runners have to wear when they finish marathons?”

“Which stuff?”

“The tinfoil.”

“What tinfoil?” he asked.

On that, I abandoned both politeness and Don-Keun and went and sat by the window, watching the pane shudder as the snow and wind hit it.

Far away, the Smorgasbord was at full tilt. All the food would be out by this point: the freakish hams, multiple turkeys, meatballs, potatoes baked in cream, rice pudding, cookies, the four kinds of pickled fish . . .

In other words, this would be a bad time to call Noah. Except he had told me to call when I got there. This was as far as I was getting.

So I called, and was immediately shuffled off to voice mail. I hadn’t planned out what I was going to say or what kind of attitude I was going to adopt. I defaulted into “funny-ha-ha,” and left a quick, probably incomprehensible message about being stranded in a strange town, along an interstate, at a Waffle House, with a man dressed in foil. It wasn’t until I hung up that I realized he would think I was joking—weirdly joking—and calling him when he was busy to boot. The message would probably annoy him.

I was about to call back and use a more sincere and sad voice to clarify that all of the above was not a joke . . . when there was a rush of wind, a bit of suction as the outside doors were opened, and then another person in our midst. He was tall, and thin, and apparently male. But it was hard to tell much else because he had wet plastic shopping bags on his head, his hands, and his feet. That made two people using non-clothing items for clothes.

I was starting to dislike Gracetown.

“I lost control of my car on Sunrise,” the guy said to the room in general. “Had to ditch it.”

Don-Keun nodded in understanding.

“Need a tow?” Tinfoil Guy said.

“No, that’s okay. It’s snowing