Meet Me in the Middle

by Alex Light

Genres: Young Adult

Synopsis

Fans of Jennifer Dugan and Laura Taylor Namey will fall in love with this latest YA romance by Wattpad superstar Alex Light, author of The Upside of Falling.

Eden had her best friend Katie—she didn’t need anyone else. But then there was Truman.

Katie’s older brother, the artist. The recluse. The boy with the innocent smile and the dangerous eyes.

Eden had never really known Truman—not until the night of Katie’s accident. That was the night they’d finally let each other into their orbits—only to have the sky come crashing down on them.

With Katie in the hospital and Truman fleeing from his grief without a word, Eden is left alone to grapple with her own pain. But when Truman returns to the city, can Eden let him back into her life knowing that their first kiss is what tore their world apart?

Release date: July 12, 2022

Publisher: HarperTeen

Print pages: 384

Sample

1Eden

A QUICK GOOGLE SEARCH tells me there was once a woman who woke up after being in a coma for twenty-seven years, and I cannot wrap my head around that. That’s nearly ten thousand days of idling, of being stuck somewhere between reality and another world altogether. I try to imagine what that must feel like, to close your eyes and see an endless stream of black. A never-ending void. It’s so terrible I close the internet tab.

I don’t need to spend much time wondering what that woman’s family must have felt like. I know that feeling all too well.

Ten thousand days. It’s insanity. I’ve been waiting on Katie to wake up for five months now, and it’s broken me into so many pieces I stopped counting.

“Order up!”

I deliberately ignore Manny’s voice booming from the kitchen and delve deeper into my mental distress. Typically when I begin thinking of my best friend’s state in the hospital down the street, I check out seconds after and try to think of anything else. But tonight, I’m feeling oddly masochistic. Maybe I can conquer this brain of mine—or at least put a leash on the damn thing. Before any of that can happen, the bell behind me begins to wail. I know Manny is purposely pressing down on it over and over again to annoy the shit out of me. Not that it’s working. At all.

“Eden,” Manny grits out. The level of disdain he can force into one word is truly remarkable.

I’m well caffeinated and well rested, so in that moment I vow to tone down my regularly moody self by at least, like, 35 percent. I let my phone slide into the pocket of my apron, muster a smile, and spin around. Manny watches me with that familiar thinly veiled annoyance that teeters on amusement. His olive skin is flushed from being in the kitchen, and the narrowing of his eyes is comically offset by the slightest curve of his mouth.

If anyone can look angry in a nice way, it’s Manuel Álvaro.

“Need something, boss?” I ask innocently because I am a very good employee. And technically, he’s not my boss. Manny’s barely two years older than I am. His dad, on the 

other hand, is my boss. But he’s not here right now.

Plus, Manny and I already kissed once. Any air of authority he may have had left the moment his mouth touched mine.

“Just for you to, you know, do your job.” He slides a plate of chicken and potatoes down the counter, then crosses his large arms across his chest. It’s difficult work to drag my eyes back up to his face. “Think you can handle it?”

“Can I handle walking a plate of food to a customer sitting fifteen feet away? What a ridiculous question,” I say, taking the plate. “Of course I can’t.” Manny’s laughter follows me across the restaurant to where Earl, one of our regulars, is sitting in the corner booth—the same booth he’s been sitting in every Friday night since I started waitressing here two months ago. Same booth, same drink, same meal, same lousy tip. Although I can’t really blame him for the last one. I haven’t exactly been a ray of sunshine lately. More like a permanent storm cloud hovering around, waiting to drench everything and everyone that walks beneath.

But, as I mentioned, the level of caffeine flowing through my body is truly remarkable, and I’m determined to not be a pain in the ass for once in my life. So, for what might be the first time, I smile at Earl as I set his plate down. He responds with a scowl.

“Extra potatoes?” he asks like he always does.

“Of course,” I say, because getting yes-I-remembered-your-fucking-potatoes tattooed on my forehead seems a bit excessive.

Earl digs in as I stand there like a freak, watching a sixty-something-year-old man eat. Finally, I remember to walk away. Good choice. I do a quick once-over of the restaurant. Pollo Loco is unnervingly dead for a Friday night. Aside from Earl, there are two other customers here. Manny’s parents opened this place last year, serving up Portuguese food to a small Toronto neighborhood that’s lined with sketchy businesses and fast-food shops—my cuisine of choice, personally. Before Pollo Loco rose from the ashes, there was an old-fashioned diner here that specialized in deep-fried food that led you on a one-way track to a heart attack.

Manny swears that Pollo Loco used to be packed every single night. To put it in his words, “That stupid Mexican place ruined everything.” A meek reference to the Chipotle that opened down the street a few months ago. Like a black hole, they sucked all the customers right up. Apparently. Not sure I buy it. But the food here is amazing, so maybe he’s got a point.

Itching for someone to annoy, I head past the front counter and push through the door to the kitchen. Manny’s standing at the large metal table, rolling out a slab of dough into a perfect rectangle. Without having to ask, I know he’s making pastéis de nata, a Portuguese dessert that’s a creamy egg custard nestled in a flaky pastry. I can eat five in one sitting, theoretically speaking. I definitely haven’t done that on numerous occasions.

“Got anything for me?” I ask like a dog begging for scraps. Manny, like the angel he is, pulls a plate with a single pastel de nata on it out of thin air. “Have I mentioned that you’re 

my favorite person in this entire world?”

Manny blinds me with that eager grin. “Not lately, no.”

I take a seat at the table and dig in. The pastry is buttery heaven, and the custard makes me stifle a moan. In ten seconds flat I manage to inhale the entire thing.

Manny stops rolling the dough. He points the rolling pin at me in a very accusatory way that I’m not entirely fond of. “Is that the first thing you’ve eaten all shift?”

“Maybe.”

“Eden,” he groans like I’m single-handedly responsible for the nonexistent gray hairs on his head. “Not like you work five feet from a kitchen with an extremely talented chef who’ll cook you up whatever you’d like.”

I make a big show of looking around the small space. “Extremely talented chef . . . where?” Manny doesn’t bother humoring me anymore. He shuts me up by tossing a handful of flour at my face. I brush it away, stick my tongue out at him in a very dignified way, and continue to eat all the pastry crumbs off my plate.

“We should close early tonight,” I say.

Manny rolls his eyes at my bad idea. I watch as he expertly folds the dough into a square, wraps it in plastic wrap, and sticks it into the fridge like he always does. That way, the brunt of the work is done for tomorrow morning. And he claims the dough is easier to work with after it’s been chilled. Not that I’d know—he keeps me away from it like it’s the Mona Lisa and I’m a child with sticky fingers.

After he’s washed his hands and snapped a towel around his neck, Manny hits me with a quick shake of his head. “We can’t close early,” he says.

“Why not?”

His thick brows draw together. “Because we close at ten. It’s only eight thirty.” God, no twenty-year-old should be such a stickler for the rules. If he weren’t so damn attractive, it would almost be annoying.

I feel the need to point out that, in the past three hours, only four customers have walked in, so I do. Manny counters with, “Things might pick up soon.” We both know the real reason why he won’t lock up early. It’s simply a game of whether he’ll admit to it.

“And I might sprout wings and fly away,” I say.

“We’re not closing early, Eden.”

“Why not? It would be so fun,” I push. “There’s a whole world out there, Manny. Aren’t you dying to see it?” Manny snatches the towel off his neck and begins wiping down the counter. He’s now avoiding eye contact, which means I’m wearing him down. “Don’t be so lame. C’mon, we can go get donuts. Or I’ll buy you a cane, set you on someone’s porch, and you can yell at children to stop running around, if that’s more your speed. Is it, Manuel?”

At that, he stops scrubbing. “Why would I want to yell at children?” he asks with complete sincerity.

“Forget yelling. You can speak to everyone in a very civilized, friendly tone as long as said speaking takes place outside these four walls. You in?” At this point I’m practically bouncing

at the thought of leaving work early.

Until Manny caves and says what we’ve both been thinking: “My dad won’t like that, Eden.” Hope deflates from my chest like a balloon because, if there’s one thing we can agree on, it’s that disappointing Manny’s dad should be a federal crime.

The first time I met Mr. Álvaro was when he interviewed me on the sidewalk bench across the street. He’s, like, seven feet tall and covered in tattoos, which is enough to make you do a double take. But then he smiles and the hardness chips away, teddy bear softness peeking through the cracks. He might be the nicest person I’ve ever met—Manny included, which says a lot.

The doorbell chimes and I’m reminded that I’m at work. Manny eagerly peeks through the window that separates the kitchen from the dining area. I know he’s hoping to see another customer, but it’s only Earl leaving for the night. I shoot Manny a look that says, See, I told you no one else is coming, then head over to clean Earl’s table because I am on the clock.

I pocket the two dollar tip, add his dishes to the cart, and wipe down the table. By the time I’m finished, the other customers have left and I’m alone with my thoughts, which are by far my least favorite company to keep. My fingers itch for distraction. I head back to the cash register and collapse on my little stool, propping my feet up on the counter’s edge and probably violating a dozen different health codes. My phone is in my hand, and I have the article on the comatose woman open in seconds. I read every paragraph this time, even the ones about her family’s happiness at this “miracle.” Something bleak and gray snakes its way around my heart. Envy? Guilt? I’m not too great at identifying my feelings these days.

Something broke in me after Katie’s accident. Like the internal switch that makes you feel empathetic and kind and caring and all those sweet little adjectives just shut off with a simple flick. All I can really feel is tired. Sometimes sad. But like I said, I try not to dwell on that for too long. If I do, it’s suffocating.

Like Manny, I find myself staring at the restaurant door, hoping for someone to walk in, hoping for a distraction before I begin to spiral out like a spool of thread. I’m waiting for the day I’m unable to wind myself back up anymore.

Then heat radiates through my skin. Manny has sidled up against me, his arm pressed into mine. I scrunch my eyes shut for a minute and breathe because I refuse to unravel today.

When I meet Manny’s gaze, he’s smiling. I don’t understand why I’m constantly surprised by that. Maybe it’s because he makes happiness look so easy.

“I have an idea,” Manny says. He’s trying to play it off, but the guy is nearly bursting at the seams.

“Do tell.”

Manny raises his hand. A pair of keys is dangling from his finger. “Wanna get out of here?”

It takes us twenty minutes to clean and lock up. I’m standing on the sidewalk outside, hands fidgeting with the straps of my bag, watching as Manny locks the door. The excitement I feel is a testament to how utterly uneventful my life is. If leaving work early is enough to make me breathless, I may need to consider picking up a hobby. Or expanding my social life. Either-or.

Manny loops his arm through mine and guides us down the street. To my relief, he heads west at the intersection, not north, which leads to Katie’s hospital. Tonight, I’m trying to step outside my life. That hospital is a looming reminder of my bleak reality.

I want to ask Manny what changed his mind about leaving early, but I really don’t care. I’m just happy to be free. And part of me fears if I bring it up, he’ll change his mind right back.

The city streets are bustling, and the air has lost its humidity now that the sun has set. It also smells faintly of sewage, because the city refuses to let you romanticize it in any capacity. Manny leads us past the laundromat—which I’m positive is a front for something illegal—and keeps walking. Convenience stores, used bookstores, bubble tea shops. I don’t even bother asking where we’re going. I’m just happy to be heading somewhere that isn’t my apartment building, a hospital room, or the restaurant.

When we pass by Chipotle, I jerk to a stop. We stare through the large windows and I know we’re thinking the same thing—that the insanely long line of customers should be at Pollo Loco instead.

“I’m going in there,” I say, bouncing on the balls of my feet like a boxer trying to pump themself up before a fight.

Manny steps in front of me, blocking my view of the line. His face is creased with concern. Shocker. “What— Why?” His eyes are wide and anxious.

“To advise them that their money is better spent at a family-owned restaurant down the street.”

“Eden.” Manny takes my hand in his and begins dragging me away from the door. My feet literally slide across the concrete. I plant them firmly and hold my ground. I cross my arms like the eighteen-year-old child I am.

“I’m simply trying to save your family business, Manny,” I say.

The corner of his mouth kicks up. “Is that what you’re doing?” I nod. “Our business isn’t yours to save. Now, can we keep walking before you get permanently banned from Chipotle?”

I huff out a disapproving breath and fall into step beside him. “I’d like to see them try to ban me.” We pause at the intersection. I realize again that I have no clue where we’re going. “Where are you taking me?”

“The park,” Manny says a bit anticlimactically. He shuffles on his feet as we wait for the light to change. I assume he means Trinity Bellwoods Park, which is only a few blocks away. “I like being outside after work,” he continues. “Being stuck in that kitchen all day messes with my head.”

The

 traffic light switches to red. I take a step and Manny reaches out to stop me, his arm barricading my stomach. He looks both ways because of course he does, then takes my hand and hurries across the street. I want to make fun of him for being such a complete nerd. For some reason, I don’t.

Instead, I say, “You should talk to your dad about hiring another chef so you don’t have to work all day.” When business began to die down, so did the money. Manny told me how his dad had to fire the two other chefs because he couldn’t afford to pay them. Now he’s the last one standing. Mr. Álvaro helps Manny in the kitchen whenever he can. Still, I can’t imagine the pressure Manny must feel, holding all that weight on his shoulders.

“It’s not that easy,” Manny says simply, any trace of cheerfulness now gone from his voice.

“Money?”

Manny nods, his jaw a tight line below the glow of the streetlights. “The root of all problems, huh?”

“Tell me about it,” I say with all the exhaustion in the world.

Of course hiring new staff isn’t that easy. Whenever money’s involved, it rarely is. And I’m a struggling eighteen-year-old waitress here, living with a roommate in one of the country’s most expensive cities, so I know a thing or two about a tight budget.

I briefly consider donning a balaclava and robbing a bank. Anything that’ll make this easier on Manny and his family. Although getting arrested would really dampen things.

Up ahead, the park comes into view. Lush, tall trees flank the grass, and the tennis court’s lights are already on now that the sun has nearly set. I can hear the balls being thwacked around by rackets. Even this late, the park is bathed in a warm glow, and tons of people mill around, mostly sitting on the grass or walking their dogs along the pathways. I realize that Manny was right—being outside after work is sort of nice. At least it’s better than my standard subway ride home and subsequent collapse into bed.

We walk through the gates leading into the park, then ditch the sidewalk for the grass. Manny finds a quiet spot beneath a tree and sinks down. I’m about to drop too when he shrugs off his jacket and places it down for me. For the briefest moment, I wish my patchwork quilt of a heart weren’t ripped apart, being held together by cheap tape and Band-Aids. Maybe if it were a full, functioning, beating organ, I could be with someone as wholesome as Manny.

But he deserves a lot better than me. And I definitely deserve a lot worse.

I sit on his jacket and cross my legs, making sure to keep my shoes off the soft denim. Since I apparently can’t take a hint, I keep prodding. “You should just talk to your dad,” I say. “At least let him know you’re struggling. Don’t you think he’d want to know?”

“I’m not struggling,” Manny says. He holds out his hands in a sweeping gesture and grins widely. “See? Perfectly fine.”

Sure, he looks perfectly fine. That’s probably a bit of an understatement. But what I’m focusing on are the bags beneath his eyes, like faded blue smears of paint. And the way he’s 

always yawning. Or now, when he tips his head back against the tree trunk and his eyes droop closed, like he could fall asleep right here on the grass.

“Maybe I can be your sous-chef,” I tease. At that, Manny’s eyes snap open, like the thought of me cooking is the equivalent to downing three shots of espresso. “Is that the term? Doesn’t matter. I can roll out dough and beat an egg. Really, how hard can it be?” I’m picturing myself in a fancy white apron with one of those tall, stiff hats on. The look on Manny’s face tells me that he’s picturing me burning down the kitchen. “God, Manny. Tell me how you really feel.”

So he does, of course. “You’d be a terrible chef,” he says.

“I didn’t mean that literally!” I look around for something to throw at him. A branch. A small but effective rock. Nothing. Nature and its treacherous ways.

“Because,” he continues, “the customers would never get their food. You’d eat it all.”

“You eat one pastry in front of someone and they think they know you,” I grumble.

But he has a point. He knows it too, because his eyebrows jump up. I can tell he’s stifling a laugh, waiting for me to deny it. “Well? Am I wrong?” he asks.

“It’s simple quality assurance,” I say in what I hope is a very informed way. I try to think of more smart-sounding words to spit out that can further my case.

I can’t.

“How so?” he pushes. And now that I’m on the receiving end of the teasing, I don’t like it very much.

Thankfully, a woman brushes by us with her dog trailing behind. It buys me a few seconds to come up with an answer. The dog stops trotting around to pee, and I notice it’s wearing a neon-pink sweater that says BITCH on it in silver sequins. I turn to Manny with my jaw basically unhinged. His face is entirely lit up. It’s the funniest thing I’ve seen in a long time.

Manny is hunched over, laughing into his hands in what I’m assuming is supposed to be a discreet way, but somehow manages to call even more attention to himself. I’m thinking that this is the happiest I’ve ever seen him, and it’s because of a dog in a ridiculous sweater. Meanwhile I’ve been spewing comedic gold since the moment we met and what do I get? A shake of the head and a disapproving stare. Pft. Maybe I should wear a sweater that says BITCH on it, too.

The woman, finally catching on to Manny’s laughter, tugs at her dog’s leash and stomps away, making it crystal clear she knows we’re laughing at her. Like, as if we couldn’t.

“Wonder if that sweater comes in human sizes,” I say, thinking out loud.

Manny, because he’s a predictable man, shakes his head at me, still laughing. His dark curls brush over his forehead in a very distracting way. “I’ll buy you one for your birthday,” he says.

“I’ll accept nothing less.”

“You were saying something about quality assurance,” Manny points out. Again, I search the grass for a weapon.

“

Was I? Doesn’t sound like me.”

“Sounds exactly like you.”

“Fine. Quality assurance, yes, hm. What I meant was . . . You need to taste your food before serving it, Manny. It’s Chef 101,” is what I settle on.

“Huh.” The sole syllable comes out with equal amounts of shock and— Wait, is he impressed? “You’re actually right.”

“Try not to look so shocked. I watch Chopped.”

Now he looks even more surprised. “Is that what you do in your spare time?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“I do,” Manny says gently. “That’s why I’m asking.”

I think that if I sat here for the next three hours rambling on about myself, Manny would listen the entire way through. More than listen. He’d commit everything to memory. He’d take mental notes and color coordinate them. Maybe he’d even help me. But then this facade would crack. Eden, the silver-tongued girl who takes nothing seriously, would crumble into Eden, the soppy little mess who can’t seem to get her life back on track.

I’m not even sure I’m capable of opening up to someone anymore after spending months building up barricades around my heart like a wild animal. Twigs, shards of glass, dried-up leaves. Whatever I could get my hands on is plastered to my chest like the world’s worst armor. It will have to do. It keeps all the darkness in and any trace of light away.

And Manny is turning out to be the source of much light.

“I mostly sleep,” is what I say. Maybe I can bore him enough with the realities of my life that he’ll stop asking.

To be fair, the easier course would have been to not hang out with him after work at all. But something in that article about the comatose woman made me want to step outside that restaurant, step outside my mind. Maybe because, if I dwell on it too much, I worry I’ll never feel the relief the woman’s family was lucky enough to feel.

I worry that Katie will never be here again. Not like she used to be.

“I don’t believe you.” Manny’s words are a sharp tug back to reality.

“What?”

“That all you do is sleep,” he says slowly. His eyes search my face like he noticed my mind slip away for a minute.

“Oh. Well, too bad.” My conversation skills are unmatched. Or I guess it’s difficult to hold a conversation with someone when you’re trying to have them learn the least possible amount about you.

“Seriously, Eden,” Manny says. “We’ve been working together every day for, what, two months now? And the only thing I know about you is your name and that you’re a terrible waitress.” He says the last part with the cutest smile, and I can barely even muster the energy to dispute it.

“My life is boring. You’re not missing out on much.” Except for all the sad shit no one wants to hear about.

“Try me.” He speaks those two words like a gentle caress. Like I’m made of glass and anything sharper would break me in two. Or scare me away. It’s so earnest that it makes me consider telling him everything.

Since Katie’s accident, there hasn’t been a single person I’ve wanted to pour my heart out to. Not my parents. Not my roommate. Not a therapist or any other stranger. Manny is the first—and even then, I still refuse to.

There’s one other person who knows what I’m going through. One other person who can relate. Sadly, I have no clue where he currently is.

A heavy sadness settles over me. I push it off like a blanket. I cross my legs and stare down at the patch of grass between my thighs. My fingers pick at the green strands, plucking them up, then shredding them whole.

“No, thank you,” I say.

“For what it’s worth, you can ask me anything about myself,” he says. I look up to find Manny staring into me with a level of eagerness I wasn’t prepared for. This guy—this nice, great guy—is just waiting, waiting for me to take the bait. Waiting for me to give him the pieces of myself I lost months ago.

I should let him down gently. I should say something nice. But niceness and compassion don’t come too easily to me.

“And why would I want to do that?” I say with a smile this time. I can give him that.

“Because it’s what people do, Eden. Talk to each other.”

“I don’t like talking.”

He shoves his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. “Unless it’s sarcastic comments. Right?”

“Bingo.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible, Manny,” I say with another smile. I’m too generous tonight.

“That’s what I’m hoping for.” Something in his face changes when he says that. He gets wistful, thoughtful. It reminds me of the night he kissed me. Tenderly. Softly. Like he was about to admit to something I didn’t want to hear.

“Anyway,” I begin, throwing a bucket of cold water over whatever this moment was turning into. “Back to the hiring stuff. I’m just looking out for you. You’re only twenty, with the work ethic of a middle-aged man. You should be out having fun. Doing whatever weird shit guys do on Friday nights.” Although I’m nearly positive that whatever normal guys do, Manny does the opposite. He must spend his Friday nights volunteering at a food bank or wearing red-and-white spandex as he saves the city by anonymously fighting crime. ...