The Truck Stop Temptation

Ruby's Roadside has been feeding truckers since 1993.

Right off exit 87 in Tennessee, halfway between Memphis and Nashville. I'm Ruby—fifty-nine years old, queen of the night shift, maker of the best chicken fried steak in three counties.

"The usual?" I ask the big man settling onto stool seven.

"You know it, Ruby."

Terrence Johnson. Been running routes past my diner for eight years. Always orders the same thing. Always tips too much. Always makes my heart do something it shouldn't.

"Truck's making noises," he says over coffee.

"What kind of noises?"

"The expensive kind." He sighs. "Might have to stay the night. Wait for the mechanic in the morning."

"There's a motel down the road—"

"Full up. Some convention in Nashville."

I should let it go. Should let him figure it out. Instead, I hear myself say:

"I've got a couch."

My apartment is above the diner.

Small but mine—converted storage space that's been home for twenty years. Terrence fills it the moment he walks in.

"Cozy," he says.

"It's not much—"

"It's yours." He looks around with genuine interest. "You never talk about your life, Ruby. Just serve and smile and disappear."

"Not much to tell."

"I doubt that."

We talk until midnight.

His life on the road. My marriage that ended young, no kids, just the diner. The loneliness that comes with living in a place everyone passes through.

"Why'd you stay?" he asks.

"Where else would I go?"

"Anywhere." He sets down his mug. "You could go anywhere."

"This is my place. My people. My—"

"Your cage." He says it gently. "A beautiful cage, but still."

"What about you?" I deflect. "Why do you keep driving through?"

"At first, for the routes." He's quiet for a moment. "Now? For you."

"Terrence—"

"Eight years, Ruby. Eight years of watching you light up this diner, never asking for anything, never letting anyone too close." He stands, moves toward me. "Eight years of wanting you."

"We're too old for this."

"We're too old for games." He stops in front of me. "I know what I want. The question is, do you?"

I look at this man—solid, patient, the only person who's ever really seen me—

"Yes," I whisper. "I know what I want."

He kisses me like I'm precious cargo.

Careful but confident. His hands find my waist, pull me against a body that's spent forty years hauling freight.

"Eight years," he murmurs against my mouth. "Worth every mile."

"You're sentimental."

"I'm honest." He lifts me easily. "Where's the bedroom?"

The bedroom is small, bed barely big enough for two.

He doesn't notice. Too busy undressing me, appreciating every reveal.

"God, Ruby." His hands trace my curves. "Better than I imagined."

"You imagined this?"

"Every single trip."

His mouth explores me thoroughly.

Down my neck, my breasts, the soft abundance of my body. He doesn't hesitate at the imperfections—seems to seek them out.

"So beautiful," he keeps saying. "So damn beautiful."

"Terrence—"

"Let me show you."

He settles between my thighs and worships.

Big hands holding my hips while his mouth works magic. I grip the headboard and try not to scream—thin walls, diner below.

"Don't hold back," he says. "Let me hear you."

"The customers—"

"Are asleep. Give me this."

I give him everything.

Come crying his name, years of loneliness releasing at once. He doesn't stop until I'm begging.

"Inside me," I gasp. "Need you inside me."

He strips quickly, covers my body with his, pushes inside.

"Home," he breathes. "This is what home feels like."

We make love in my small bed.

Slow and deep, like we're making up for eight years of missed opportunities. He knows my rhythms before I can teach them.

"Close," I whisper.

"Together?"

"Together."

Afterward, in the too-small bed, he holds me close.

"Come with me," he says.

"On the road?"

"On the next chapter." He props himself up. "I've got a house in Little Rock. Nothing fancy, but it's mine. And I want to share it."

"I have the diner—"

"Sell it. Or keep it. Hire someone." He touches my face. "You've been stuck at exit 87 for thirty years. Take a different route."

The mechanic fixes his truck the next morning.

He leaves for his route, but not before kissing me in full view of the breakfast crowd.

"Three weeks," he says. "Then I'm back. We'll figure it out."

"Terrence—"

"Three weeks." He smiles. "Don't disappear on me, Ruby."

Three weeks feels like forever.

I start making calls. Contacting my cousin who always wanted the diner. Looking up Little Rock like it's a foreign country.

When Terrence's truck pulls into the lot, I'm waiting with bags.

"Ruby—"

"You said anywhere." I climb into his cab. "Let's go anywhere."

The road opens up before us.

I-40 to I-30 to somewhere I've never been. Terrence holds my hand on the console, eyes on the road, smile on his face.

"No regrets?"

"Ask me in Little Rock."

"And if you hate it?"

"Then we'll find somewhere else." I squeeze his hand. "Together."

Ruby's Roadside has a new owner now.

She kept the name—says it brings good luck.

I visit sometimes, when Terrence's routes bring us through Tennessee. The chicken fried steak is almost as good as mine.

But the road is better.

And the man beside me is worth every mile.

Exit 87 was home for thirty years.

Now home is wherever his truck is parked.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.