1.1 | Whirlwind ✓

01| one

01
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As the last of the diners leave, the waiters and kitchen staff exhale at once. Call it a day, for I have been mopping the floor, scooping ice cream, cutting bread, whipping cream and making coffee for weary workers. It is impossible to not spend a night without an adrenaline rush at Lola's diner, even though I have been working here for a week.

It's well past midnight, and Brendon, a waiter, starts blasting "My Chemical Romance". I'm still standing behind the bar counter when a bunch of tables are pushed together. Like every night, everyone sits down as Brendon waves me over. I wipe my hands with a towel and join them.

"Alyson, were you seriously wearing this the whole night?" Brendon asks. I look down, realizing the bright tomato sauce stain on my white waitress top.

I laugh faintly. "Don't even get me started." I recall the five-year-old who squeezed the tomato sauce bottle a bit too aggressively.

"Here." Brendon hands me a can of beer. "It's Saturday already, damn."

Time flies in Lola's diner. Summer has started and it's been one week in Redwood, the small town where I call home, which means I am one week closer to being back in London for college.

Cassandra emerges from the kitchen. She has tattoos on her arms and all kinds of silver rings on her face. I adore her courage of having tattoos--they stay on your skin for the rest of your life, it's like stains that you can never get rid of. She comes out with a large tray of pasta and leftover meat. I remember how my stomach let out a gurgle on the first night, free food from Cassandra Lee? People in Redwood are more than willing to pay for her signature pasta sauce. Lola is Cassandra's grandma, though she has never mentioned this to anyone. It's not like she has to.

I stare down at my plate. Cassandra places a piece of margarita beef on it as the orange salsa underneath it blends with the meat. I choke out a laugh, because this, this right here, is what Ethan ordered on our first date.

Ethan Richardson.

The name flashes in my brain. I stifle my urge to let out another laugh as I keep staring at the beef, smiling even though the smile never reaches my eyes. Why does everything remind me of him?

Cassandra clears her throat and I snap my head back up. She narrows her blue eyes. "It reminds you of something?"

"Uh," I stutter. "Maybe."

Shooting her eyebrows up, Cassandra smirks. "We all have been through this, don't be shy." She drinks and empties her can of beer as she bangs it onto the table, creating a loud thud.

A laugh liberates out from Brendon. "Wait, you've dated someone before?"

Cassandra bristles. "What do you mean?"

"Shut up, Brendon," one of the waiters chides him. "We were talking about Alyson."

All eyes are on me, the glint in them full of unconcealed curiosity. "It's nothing, really," I reply, hoping to end the subject.

Everyone else oohs and I hear "c'mon!" from some of them, as if I have ruined the vibe. Well I guess I did.

I shrug, hands still cradling the can of beer. I pour the rest of the beer into my mouth as well. Isn't this why I agreed to come back to Redwood when I had the chance to explore Great Britain with my college friends? That I may see him? He may be in another part of the world, he may be two oceans away, or he may be right here, in Redwood.

I came back home for my parents, for my childhood friends, and the fact that I don't like to travel--I prefer returning to my home. Before I have to hit my head in order to stop myself from thinking, I slip my phone out of my pocket.

I unlock my phone--my thumb remotely trembling--and scroll through the photo album. I know they are not there anymore, but when all I see are photos of myself or with other people except him, tears start forming at the brims of my eyes.

Ethan was never a person who fancied taking pictures, but we did take a couple of selfies together, because he loved me. And on that breezy night on the balcony, I deleted the only five photos we had together.

I should've had those pictures backed up somewhere like a computer or any social media, that I can somehow discover the pictures again one day. Because those are the only pieces of evidence left showing that Ethan was real, that we had happened before. That he is not a person I have been imagining.

The devastation two years ago invaded my mind, and little did I know that deleting those five pictures could hurt me for such a long period of time. When you lose something rare, it is disappointment. But when you lose something rare and you know that it is despairing to find it back, it is truly a loss.

I didn't realize it back then.

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Cassandra yells at me. I would've taken it personally a week ago, but she runs a whole diner, for goodness sake, of course she has to shout.

"Why the hell did you give them a full bowl of ice cream? Two scoops, not two huge ass scoops!" Cassandra bristles in indignation, staring at me with her bloodshot eyes.

I mutter the f word underneath my breath as I swiftly scoop some of the ice cream away from the white porcelain bowl, dropping them back into the ice cream tray. "Sorry," I mumble and quickly approach to the customers who ordered the ice cream.

The air conditioners are blasting in the hot summer; I walk in the hustle and bustle of Sunday night. How did I even end up being here?

I turn around and lean over to the bar table, my back facing the entrance. When I am organizing the menus, the bell attached to the main door jingles, mingling with the frenzy.

I shoot my head up, eyes still looking at the kitchen door as if a strong wave of turbulence forms behind me. My head starts throbbing.

My heart beats like a radar pinging, because I feel the figure that just entered the diner stops. And because I know it—I know it is impossible, but somehow I just know—I turn around.

I meet his eyes first, those dark brown eyes, hiding a spectrum of questions and shock, they gradually widen.

I don't say anything. I just stare, because he is just as I remember him, and at the same time, he is a completely transformed stranger. But he still has the mop of brown curls, the gorgeous pair of brown eyes. He is someone I know, I know best. Or maybe, I knew best.

He just stands there, looking at me for a minute, everything collides over his face. Questions, dismay, relief. Everything.

And that's it. That's when it is too much for me. The pile of glossy cardboard menus passes through my fingers and meets the floor below, scattering all over it. Because Ethan Richardson is standing right in front of me.