Chapter 2
1054 Words
2
“Dandy Jayne, here for her morning kick-start.”
“Mr. Walker.” I throw a fiver on the counter. Every morning, same thing. Coffee, black. Lots of sugar. Warm apple turnover with light whipped cream. Precisely why Gretchen won’t stop hounding me about joining her gym.
Seriously, you have to try Luke’s apple turnovers.
His Goth-y twin hunches in the corner on the phone, eyes hooded and tired as per usual, fingers worrying the ring protruding from her lip. She’s scary.
“Leia! Customers!” Luke squawks. She ignores him, turns her back. Someone behind me makes a rude comment about how the line is too long. But people wait, rain or shine, line or no line, because there is no food truck on the avenue like Luke Piewalker’s. You wait because it’s that good.
Well, and because Luke. Untamed dirty-blond hair and eyes, the color of éclair chocolate, that sort of never stop glistening. Quick sense of humor, generous with extra helpings of whipped cream and his winning smile. The days where my tasty treat has been collected and I sit alongside the food truck, I watch for Luke’s adoring fans amidst the diners. Shorter skirts, tighter shirts, extra perfume, girls who stop by after salon visits to flip their locks and say, Oh hey Luke how are you isn’t my new hair cute are you free Friday?
What? I’m not jealous. I do not need a man. Men mean s*x. Remember?
The business boost also comes from the reality that Portland is filled with Star Wars geeks who want to see if there really is a set of twins named Luke and Leia Walker. Leia’s only here because it’s part of her work-release deal.
“Jayne, don’t leave yet. I gotta show you something after …” He nods at the snake of antsy patrons.
“Five minutes.” I could wait for ten or maybe even fifteen, but then I’d risk the wrath of Surly Brian. Our building’s security guard. My boss doesn’t give a rat’s ass when I show up—as if writing obituaries and garage sale ads and the occasional article is going to stop the eighty-year-old paper from publication. But thanks to one deranged chef with a knack for pipe bombs—it’s amazing how nuts a man can become when your paper writes the review that allegedly sinks his restaurant—Surly Brian is now a necessity. Best be in by the time Brian goes for his morning s**t, though. Once the doors are locked, you’re waiting until lunch. Unless you have an extra fifth of fine Russian vodka in your trunk for bribe currency, or you’re skilled with climbing rusted-out fire escape ladders.
I’m edging dangerously close to the point of no return—I have neither vodka nor the energy to climb rusted metal today.
With mere minutes to spare, Luke gets his sister’s attention long enough to sneak out the back door. In his hands, he holds a mighty prize.
“Where’d you get this?” I say, fingering the figurine’s robes.
“Private collector. Guy on eBay.”
“Limited edition?”
“Mace Windu, ¼-scale vinyl model kit.”
“Do I want to know how much you paid for this?”
“Let’s just say I’d better sell a hell of a lot more apple turnovers this month.” He smiles. The corners of his eyes crinkle. Impossibly long eyelashes. What is it with guys and long eyelashes? I spend six minutes per eyeball every morning just to get my nine eyelashes to look like double that number.
“This one’s a beaut, Luke. Why is he behind the counter? You’re going to spill cherry topping on his gorgeous bald head.”
“I had to show you. I knew you’d appreciate it.” He slides the action figure—not a doll—back into its blister pack. “You coming around for lunch?”
“Maybe. I brown-bagged it, though. The famine before payday.”
“Today is bacon chowder. I’ll save you a bowl, on the Empire.”
“Don’t let Vader hear you say that.”
“Hey, you got your ticket yet?” The Portland Comic Con. Luke goes every year and reports back.
“Nah. You know me. Crowds, et cetera.”
“This year, the pie truck is an invited guest. We’re on site for three days, and that means,” he pulls an envelope out of his back pocket, “comp tickets. One with your name on it. I told them you’re staff.”
“Luke … I can’t.”
“You have to. VIP access, baby. Peter Mayhew’s gonna be there. Billy Dee Williams. Rumor has it Sir George himself might make an appearance.”
“That’s the rumor every year.”
“This could be OUR year! Come on … you have to go.”
“I’m not great with these things. Plus, nothing to wear.”
“Lame excuse. Leia has a s**t ton of costumes.”
“Leia’s also a waif. She doesn’t eat your turnovers every morning.”
“LUKE!” His sister wails.
“You’ve got a few months to think about it. You’re not a real geek until you’ve shaken Chewbacca’s beautifully furred hand.” He waves the envelope at me. “See you at lunch.”
Easy for him to say. The helices of his DNA read G-E-E-K, a fact his twin struggles against with great flair. Their parents, as I’ve been told, met at a Star Wars convention in the ’80s and it was love at first lightsaber. The Comic Con for Luke is like a family reunion.
I shovel in the whipped cream from atop the turnover. Luke’s face shines as he serves his customers, a joke here, a free cookie there. I like watching him work, and I realize that makes me a little creepy. If I were to find myself romantically interested in a member of the opposite s*x, I think Luke could, maybe—
Stop. He’s a friend. I don’t want to screw this up. And what’s to say he’d even be interested in me? Just because we share a love of all things geek, I cannot do romance unless it’s on paper. Luke and me, we’re good as friends. No pressure, no weirdness.
But his comfortable demeanor and facility with wit are charming qualities, a stark contrast to his growly sister throwing napkins at people. He tried to convince her that wearing the Leia bun hairpiece would increase tips; she instead pierced another part of her face. I wonder what her probation officer thought of that.
Luke waves just as my cell phone alarm warns that I have three minutes to get down the block before Surly Brian locks me out.
I notice a text. “Frankie made partner! Dinner at Portland City Grill. Friday, 6 p.m. No jeans. Bring a date.”
God, I hate my mother.
- Writer
