#popcorn panic

Your friend leans across the table towards you, bubbling over with excitement.

“I can’t believe we got in! The line was already so long when we got here, I thought we wouldn’t have a chance. Isn’t this just the cutest diner?” she gushes.

“I guess,” you say, “but no diner meal is worth that line.”

She waves her hand at you. “Of course not, silly. It didn’t go viral for the food. I showed you the chipmunks, remember?”

You nod. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

You came to see the chipmunks, but now your attention’s been grabbed by something else. You track your waiter with your eyes as he rolls around the restaurant, waiting for an opportune moment when he’s far away to lean towards your friend and whisper, “I have never needed anything more than I need that waiter’s number.”

Her eyes light up and she tilts her head closer, scanning the diner. “Which one?”

“Our waiter. The ginger?”

She studies him across the diner, tapping a finger on the table.

“Him? He’s cute, I guess, but you never ask anyone for their number. Not even, like, platonically. Aren’t you afraid of talking to people?”

She phrases it like a question, but you both know the answer.

“I’m not afraid,” you insist. “Just… I think too much about what people think of me, okay? I get embarrassed easily. But embarrassment be darned, I need that boy’s number.”

You both watch him skating between tables for a moment, only to realize with a devastating shock that he is skating towards you. Towards your table. And you’ve both been so preoccupied watching him that you forgot to give your menus even a passing glance.

Your friend doesn’t seem fazed, casually flipping her menu open. She’s probably planning to just tell him you’re not ready. If only you thought of that. Instead, you frantically try to scan your menu, words and dishes swimming before your eyes. When he gets to your table, he taps on it, grinning in your direction.

“Hey guys! Are we ready to order yet?”

“Can I have the Crisp ‘n’ Dips burger?” you blurt out.

“Yeppers, of course,” your waiter says, “great choice! And for you?”

He turns to your friend, who’s staring at you with vague annoyance in her eyes.

“Oh, I’m not ready yet,” she tells him. “Neither of us really had the chance to look over the menu yet? I think my friend here just decided they wanted the burger on your recommendation.”

“It’s totes great, I promise. The onion rings tie it together into the perfect meal,” he says, turning back and staring straight at you. You’ve never been great with eye contact, but you physically can’t look away from him. Despite that, you somehow manage to overcome your mental block and finally respond to him.

“I’m excited!” you say, plastering a smile on your face despite the butterflies in your stomach. “I’ve heard great things about this place.”

He beams. “Aw, thanks! We’ve put a lot of hard work into it these past few days.”

Before he has the chance to continue, if he was even going to, one of the other waiters calls “Cater!” from the other side of the diner, and your waiter’s head snaps up.

“Sorry, guys, duty calls! I’ll be right back to take your order,” he - Cater - says, pointing at your friend before skating away.

You roll the name around in your head and on your tongue. Surely he introduced himself when you sat down, but you were honestly kind of busy being star-struck by the droop of his eyes and the curve of his smile. They belong to a boy called Cater.

Your friend nudges you with her elbow.

“Hey, you owe me one,” she insists. “I let it go that you ordered before I was ready and I veered his attention back towards you. Plus now he has to come back again to take my order.”

You nudge her back. “You’re the best. Are you still gonna order the Popcorn Flurry gingerbread house so we can see the chipmunks, too?”

“Of course,” she says, placing her menu down on the table. “And then I’m probably just going to get that burger, too.”

You nod, fiddling with the straw in your water. “Do you think I should ask him for his number when we pay, or… I dunno, they’re really busy.”

“I’m not letting you chicken out,” your friend says, staring you down across the table.

“I’m not,” you say, and you mean it. You’re someone who never takes risks, but you look at Cater and you think this is a risk you’re willing to take.

Your friend sighs, leaning back in her chair. “It’s not like I’m super experienced getting people’s numbers either. But they’re just so busy, I’m not sure he’ll have time to give it to you after we’re done, you know? So maybe it’d be better to try to get it now.”

You bury your face in your hands, feeling your ears burn. “Oh gosh. But then he’ll say no and we’ll have to sit here and eat our burgers and it’ll be so awkward. I don’t want to ruin the day for you just because I -”

“Hey, ready to order yet?” you hear, and your head snaps up and he’s right there, smiling at you with those eyes and those pointy canines. Why’s he looking at you when your friend’s the one who still needs to order? Are you reading into it? You’re reading into it.

“Can I have the Crisp ‘n’ Dips burger? And if I order the Popcorn Flurry, we get to see the chipmunks, right?” your friend asks.

“Aw, who spoiled the surprise?” Cater says playfully, leaning on the table. “That’s one of the menu items the chippies come out to help us with, so yeah, you’ll definitely get to see them. Should I put you in for one of those?”

She nods, closing her menu and telling him, “My friend really wanted to come see them, and I wanted to try the dish anyway.”

“I love chipmunks,” you add. Hopefully he likes chipmunks, if he works here. Or maybe he’s tired of them. But his face lights up, sending the butterflies in your stomach fluttering again.

“Right? They’re so cute! The uniforms are striped like a chipmunk’s back, too, which I think is such a cool touch.”

“Yeah!” you say. “Your uniforms look great.”

He bobs his head, messing with the chipmunk charms on his belt. “For sure. I’ve been thinking of asking the manager if I can keep one when we’re done.”

“When you’re done?” you ask. You can feel yourself growing more comfortable talking to him, overthinking less the words you say. It’s hard to think in front of him anyway.

“Mm-hm, the four of us are just helping out temporarily. That’s why ya boi Cay-Cay gets to be acting manager.”

This time he definitely winks at you, grabbing you and your friend’s menus from the table in front of you.

“Let’s hope the power doesn’t go to my head,” he says, jokingly. “I’ll be right out with those burgers and Popcorn Flurry, okay?”

You find yourself nodding even after he’s gone, until your friend grabs your arm from across the table.

“Was I seeing things,” she whispers, “or did he totally wink at you?”

“He totally winked at me,” you tell her. You don’t think you can stop smiling.

-------

The diner is, of course, super busy, so after Cater drops off your food, he stops coming by as much. Which is fine. It gives you time to chat with your friend, who you are technically here to hang out with.

“Okay,” you say, for what feels like the kajillionth time. “So my number’s written on this napkin, and when he comes over to take our payment, I give it to him and say, like. ‘I think you’re really cute. Here’s my number. Call me?’ Is that gonna be too weird?”

Your friend just laughs, stretching in her chair. “I’ve never heard you talk about a guy this much before. Maybe you should just ask him to marry you.”

You try to glare at her, but your heart isn’t in it. “Can you focus?” you insist. “I’m giving him my number and you can’t stop me, but I want him to actually call me. Or text me. Probably text me.”

“He seems pretty chill,” she reminds you, “and super friendly. I bet even if you make the situation awkward, he’ll be able to salvage it.”

“I guess,” you say, “but I’d rather it wasn’t awkward at all.”

She laughs again, pushing her chair back so she can get up.

“I’m running to the bathroom, so don’t chicken out if he comes by while I’m gone,” she says. “And don’t forget, you’re paying for both of us because I covered it last time.”

You just nod, staring down at the napkin bearing your number, trying not to crinkle it with your nervous fingers. You don’t even know how long it’s been since your friend got up when you hear Cater’s voice again.

“Heyo,” he says, “are you ready to pay? Or should we wait for your friend?”

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” you say, adrenaline pumping through your veins, hoping your voice is steadier than you feel. “I’m paying for both of us.”

He hums an acknowledgement as he puts the bill in front of you, and waits by your table for you to be finished with it. You thought waiters normally just dropped the bill off and came back later, but maybe things are different here. Or maybe it’s just a him thing.

Your hands are definitely shaking when you hand the bill back to him, and when he starts turning away, the only thing you can say to get his attention turns out to be a shaky “um.” But it works.

“What’s up?” Cater asks, voice cheerful as ever. You’re having a hard time looking at him, feeling the embarrassment pooling in the back of your head, but you slide the napkin towards him.

“This is my number,” you say, staring at it so you don’t have to see his face. “I just, um. Call me, I guess? Please.”

Gosh, could that have come out any worse? What did you mean, ‘please’?!

But he takes the napkin, and he barely hesitates before ripping off a piece and reaching into his pocket for a pen. You watch him as he writes, and when he’s done he holds it out to you.

“Here’s my number,” he says. “This way we definitely won’t lose touch, ‘kay?”

You take the scrap of napkin and hold it like the treasure it is, heart thumping so loudly you can hardly hear yourself think.

“‘Kay,” you say, and Cater grins.

“Great,” he says. “Perfect. Um… I guess I should probs go back to work now? Acting Manager and all.”

“Of course,” you say. “Yeah. Go do what you need to.” You seem to have developed a warm and fuzzy feeling that’s originating from the spot where you’re holding his number close to your chest. You’ve never needed to not drop something more than at this moment.

Cater grabs the other half of the napkin off the table. He holds it tight in his hand.

“I’ll put this somewhere safe,” he tells you. “So… see you next time?”

You nod, feeling your face flush.

“Although,” you add, “maybe not if you won’t be working here anymore soon.”

He shrugs. “Even so,” he says, “there’ll be a next time, I promise.”