Kian

I SIP ON my milkshake, looking around the diner. Dale’s Diner is exceptionally busy on this Thursday evening.

Eunica’s with her parents, Eugene and Kasey Yoon, all eating burgers. She invites me over to their booth but I kindly decline. A booth over, I see Darvis and Ruby Ho sitting side by side, sharing what looks to be a honey and strawberry pie. Near a corner, I see Adalyn, Sid and Giovanni Olsen sitting in a red booth. They sit quietly amongst each other, looking down at their separate phones.

After putting down my milkshake, I bring out my journal and start making a new weekly spread. I begin jotting down my weekly tasks when someone taps their fingers on my table.

It’s Jonathan Olsen.

“Hi.”

His voice is soft. Low, in an usual way, but soft, in an unusual way.

“Can I sit here for a bit?” he asks, rocking a bit on the heels of his shoes. He watches me nod before sliding into the seat in front of me.

It’s been a couple weeks since I had any type of interaction with either John or Kian. I’ve had better days, yes, but the idea of talking to Jonathan brings me back a couple steps.

Jonathan starts to pick at his fingernails. “Uhhh, yeah, I came to meet up with Gio and my parents for a bite,” he says, gesturing to his family a couple booths down.

I nod again, putting my pen down. I close my notebook and start sipping on my milkshake. He shifts in his seat, probably because of my silence.

I'm not mad at him. Or annoyed. Or even pissed. I'm confused. And surprised. Mostly confused.

“Have you talked to Kian recently?” Jonathan asks, lifting his chin.

I shake my head. “Not for a while.”

I want to say more. But I don't know how to string the words together. I begin playing with the milkshake straw.

I continue, “I haven't spoke to him since we hung out at the BBQ house.”

And it’s true. Kian and I haven't spoken spoken for what feels normal. We barely saw each other around town. Texting him isn’t the same. We aren't the same.

I think of admitting this out loud.

A minute passes.

I don't.

“Did you eat?” Jonathan softly asks. His question surprises me.

I raise an eyebrow. “What?”

He repeats, “Did you eat?” He eyes my milkshake and continues, “Or did you go straight to dessert?”

I want to roll my eyes. I want to burst out laughing. I want to do a lot of things to Jonathan.

“Yeah, I did,” I say. I watch him nod, looking down at his hands.

A light bulb goes off above my head, and I think of all the times I have asked Jonathan that very question (twice to be exact–both of which when he wasn't exactly in the right mindset).

“Usually I ask that question.”

The corner of his lips curves up into a half smile. With his cheekbones lifting and his eyes lighting up, it looks like Jonathan is finally relaxing. He draws in a long breath, still looking down at his hands, grinning slightly.

All this is gone once Jonathan opens his mouth again.

Before blowing out his cheeks, he looks up, away from my stare.

“I know this is probably the worse timing of all timings in the world,” Jonathan starts. He's being dramatic. He continues without missing a beat, “but I want to get to know you.”

He's looking directly at me now. He repeats, “I want to get to know you.”

But I'm no longer looking at him. I lower my head, placing my hands under the table. I start to fiddle my nails as Jonathan continues.

“Bethany,” he says in a softer tone. “I want to know the real you.”

I hold my breath, unsure what to say; unsure how to feel.

What am I supposed to say?

Oh, course?

Great chatting!

Yay?

My chest is swelling, beating ever so loudly as if my heart is connected to speakers. I'm still fiddling my fingers when I notice my hands start to sweat.

“I want to stay up with you until dawn, talking about your dreams, your ambitions, your goals, you. I want to know about your family, friends, hobbies, and hidden talents. I want to know how you were like in high school. I want to know how your first year of college was. I want to know why you chose this chocolate milkshake. I want to know why you're down to earth–why you have the most kind soul in all of Beasley.

“I want to take you on a date. I want to play with your hair. I want to take you out on a picnic. I want to dance with you under the moonlight. I want to hug you until you fall asleep. I want to show you off. I want to be with you. I want to kiss you. I want you to want me—the same way I want you.”

I look up and Jonathan is staring at me. His green eyes, no longer stuck in dark matter, but glistening, as if he finally found some light. His bottom lip is quivering, waiting for me to speak.

I stare back at him and feel everything (I don't know exactly what it is!) building up in my chest ready to implode. My eyes begin to fight back tears. My lips start to quiver.

Last week, I learned a lot about myself. I learned that if an opportunity is given to me, take it. Don't hesitate. In order to grow, take chances. And along the road, I dodged a few chances given to me in plain sight. I didn't take my chances. Even if I didn't like my chances, at least a part of me can say I took it.

“But if there's something going on between you and Kian, I'm sorry. I'll back off. But Kian isn't telling me anything. He's sour. And I'm sorry, again, for stepping on your toes but Bethany,” he paused, staring at me. He whispers, “Please say someth–”

“Okay.”

His eyes widen and his mouth forms a small o. Jonathan stares at me.

“What?”

I repeat, “Okay.”

He holds his breath. “As in, okay you'll say something?”

I want to laugh.

I let out a heavy breath, feeling all the nerves in my chest diminish once I say, “Jonathan, yes, I'll go on a date with you.”