Eggs at midnight

The surge of adrenaline hits me like a spark, sharp and electric, shooting straight to my fingertips. I unbuckle my seatbelt, a puff of hot breath escaping past my lips into the cold night air. My gloved hands—black, fleece-lined, and slightly worn at the fingertips—instinctively reach for the temperature gauge on the dashboard. The little digital screen reads 24 degrees, but I’m sweating, my pulse drumming in my ears, nerves tangling with something that feels dangerously close to excitement.

There’s a sharp buzz in my front pocket, and I fish out my phone from the deep folds of my Mount Olive Swimming Varsity jacket. The notification glows across the cracked glass.

Mom: “Let us know when you get back from studying at Melissa’s, we are going to bed soon.”

We. As if my dad wasn’t sprawled out on the family room couch right now, half-watching reruns of Survivor, the volume low but just loud enough to keep him awake until he hears the familiar creak of the mudroom door. He won’t fall asleep until I’m home safe, until he can finally let his guard down and let the weight of the day pull him under.

My thumbs hover over the keyboard, the cold biting at their edges even through the gloves. 

Me: “Okay, sounds good – probably no later than 11.” 

I hit send, and the words settle heavily in the pit of my stomach. It’s a Wednesday night, for Christ's sake. And I'm not even at Melissa’s right now.

The truth tastes metallic on the back of my tongue as I glance out the frosted windshield at the Randolph YMCA parking lot. My white Hyundai Elantra sits in a sea of empty cars, the soft hum of its cooling engine the only sound breaking the stillness. This is the second time I’ve parked here today, the second time I’ve turned the key, felt the shift of gears, and sat in this very spot, caught between decisions that feel heavier than they should.

My breath fogs up the glass as I exhale, long and slow, trying to push down the gnawing feeling in my chest. The glow from my phone screen fades, leaving me in darkness lit only by the faint orange of the dashboard lights.

30 minutes from Hackettstown. More like 30 minutes from home.

Now, as my white ASICS sneakers touch the wet asphalt from the storm, a parking lot light flickers to life above me. The beam hits my honey-brown eyes with a sharp glare, probably highlighting the water droplets still clinging to the ringlets of my tousled bun—a messy remnant from swim practice just over an hour ago. The chill from the ground creeps through the thin soles of my sneakers, but I press forward.

Tyler said he’d be on the second floor of the YMCA, told me I’d see him through the glass from outside. But I don’t. My eyes scan the building, taking in the familiar wide glass doors on the first floor. They invite me in with the usual view: the main lobby entrance, the glow from the security desk, the childcare center tucked behind glass partitions, and vending machines lined up next to the basketball court entrance.

My brow furrows as I step closer. My hands grasp the freezing metal railing of the entry pathway, and my chin tilts upward. Above the glass doors, where I expect to see windows revealing a second floor, I see…brown boards. Sloppily nailed, jagged edges visible in the faint light. Were those always there? Has there ever even been a second floor to this building? Confusion prickles at my skin as I fumble for my phone in my jacket pocket. The screen lights up as I scroll to Tyler's name, my thumb hovering over the call button for a brief second before I press it.

The dial tone hums in my ear. One ring. Two rings. Three.

My breath comes out in short, uneven puffs as I wait, my eyes still locked on the boarded-up windows. Something feels off. Very off.

“Come on, Tyler,” I mutter under my breath, gripping the phone tighter.

The voice is low, deep, quiet—it crackles in my ear. My hands tighten around the railing, knuckles turning white against the cold metal.  “Marissa?”

My heart feels like it’s pumping out of my chest. “Tyler.”

“Are you coming?”

My voice shakes slightly. “I’m… here. Where are you?”

“On the second floor.”

A sharp scoff escapes me, involuntary and bitter. My head turns left—an empty playground stretches out, the swings swaying slightly in the wind. Right—the after-school care facility stands dark and silent, its lights off, the street around it empty.

I shake my head, trying to push away the unease building in my chest. “This kinda feels like when seniors lie to the freshmen about having a pool on the roof. And they try to check, and…it doesn’t exist.”

Tyler chuckles softly, almost too softly. “Well, good thing the RANY pool is on the first floor. And we aren’t at your high school. Come to the back. Behind the building.” Silence settles between us as the call ends. I stare down at the dim screen before slipping my phone back into my pocket.

I really don’t know why I’m doing this. But my feet are already moving. 

I loop around the building, feeling like I’m navigating blind. The dim parking lot lights are my only guide as dusk settles heavy over the YMCA. My sneakers squelch against the damp asphalt, and I pause between two handicapped spots near a patch of grass that—probably hosted at least three dogs' afternoon bathroom breaks.

Gross.

A large window stretches across the top of the building. Through the glass, I spot two office chairs, a cluttered desk stacked with printer paper, and a bulletin board pinned with faded flyers. And then, there he is.

Tyler.

He leans forward, grips the window frame with broad hands, and puffs out his chest like he’s about to shout something earth-shattering. But instead, he leans closer, squints dramatically, and whispers with the softness of a bedtime story, “Hi.”

A visible puff of air escapes his lips in the cold night, floating between us. I can’t help it—I laugh. A real, unfiltered laugh that fogs up the space in front of me. I take two cautious steps closer.

“Hi,” I wave.

For a moment, there’s silence. Then Tyler cups his hands around his mouth like he’s about to announce breaking news to a stadium.

“WHAT’S UP!” he bellows.

The words ricochet off the YMCA building, echoing into the empty night sky. I burst into laughter, doubling over slightly as the absurdity of the moment sinks in. Tyler’s grin stretches ear to ear, like he just pulled off the greatest prank in history. For a split second, the night feels less cold, less uncertain.

“Nice range,” I call up to him. “Just finished practice!”

It’s a lie—a harmless one, but a lie nonetheless. I went home, had dinner with my family like we always do when my dad gets home at six, and then I drove back here. But Tyler doesn’t need to know that I like him enough to drive all the way back out here at 9 PM. And he definitely doesn’t need to know I lied to my parents about being at Melissa’s house. But still, my heart keeps thudding against my ribs.

“Nice. Meet me at the diner in 15. I’m almost done my shift.” 

“Which one?”

“The Randolph one.”

The corner of my mouth twitches into a smile, and I nod. “Okay.”

As he ducks back inside, I feel the chill bite harder at my cheeks. The diner. Fifteen minutes. My feet are already carrying me back to my car.

The diner smells like burnt coffee, syrup, and something fried beyond recognition. I slide into one of the cracked red vinyl booths, yanking off my black gloves and tossing them onto the faded green tabletop. Tyler practically throws himself into the seat across from me, his Morris Hills varsity jacket sliding off his shoulders and landing beside him like it had better things to do.

“Look at us,” he smirks, tossing a menu onto the table, “matching varsity jackets. Love that we both will peak in high school.”

I snort, peeling off my own varsity jacket and draping it across the booth behind me. “Some of us are still peaking, thank you very much.”

He grins like I just set him up for an easy joke, but instead, he picks up his water glass and swirls the ice dramatically. “How was your shift?” I ask, watching him like I’m waiting for the punchline.

“Oh, fantastic,” he leans back against the booth, stretching his arms out wide. “Scrubbed toilets, folded gym towels, got sent into the women’s locker room with a mop because I’m apparently the YMCA’s last line of defense against water on tile.”

I bite back a laugh. “Wait, you had to go in the women’s locker room?”

“Oh yeah,” he nods solemnly, his lips twitching into a smirk. “It was me, a mop, and three very startled women who acted like I was some kind of cryptid crawling out of the steam room. One of them said—and I quote—‘Why is he mopping like he’s mad at the floor?’”

I snort, clutching my water glass. “Were you mad at the floor?”

“Furious.”

We dissolve into laughter and I set my glass down. “You’ve been to the gym downstairs, right?” he asks, his tone a little more casual now.

“Yeah, sometimes we do dryland lifts after swim practice.”

His long lashes size me up, lips twitching upward. “Right, right. I see you sometimes. Walking out from the pool deck. Hair wet, in your cute little suit.”

I freeze, a laugh caught somewhere in my throat. “Oh yeah? Watching me leave, huh?”

He leans forward like he’s about to tell me a government secret. “Marissa, I’m a lifeguard and a janitor. My entire existence revolves around making sure people don’t slip, trip, or sink. You think I’m letting my favorite swimmer mess with that? Watching you is my responsibility.” 

I choke on a laugh. “Wow. You must sleep great at night knowing you’re single-handedly holding society together. Guess that makes me part of your little project.”

He raises his glass in a mock toast. “It’s exhausting, honestly. But someone’s gotta do it.”

I shake my head, biting back a smile. “Anyway. Go on, tell me more about your heroics tonight.”

Tyler opens his mouth, his crooked front teeth just barely peeking out as if he’s about to drop the most wildly ridiculous statement of the evening. But before he can speak, the faint shuffle of dress shoes on linoleum makes both of us glance sideways.

A waiter in dark trousers with a pen and pad tucked into his hand approaches, clearing his throat softly. “Hello, my name is Jeremy, I’ll be your server tonight. Can I start you off with something to drink?”

Tyler looks at me. I glance at the tall man with dark curly hair. “I’ll take a coffee, please.”

“Cream? Sugar?”

“No, just black. Thank you.”

Tyler raises his eyebrows and smiles—like he’s proud, like he noticed something about me that clicked into place. 

“I’ll do the same,” he says casually. 

I liked my coffee black, just like him. For some reason, that tiny, almost imperceptible smile makes my stomach flip.

Jeremy nods, tucking his pen behind his ear. “Anything to eat? Have you decided?”

I glance at my watch. Time: 9:45 PM. Jesus, it’s late for food. “No, I’m just good with coffee,” I say politely.

Tyler taps his fingers against the table. “I’ll get the eggs benedict.”

“Eggs benedict, okay,” Jeremy repeats. “Coming right up.”

Eggs benedict? What even is that? It sounds like something a cartoon character orders in a top hat and monocle. Is it…fancy scrambled eggs? Some kind of toast dish?  I swallow the question, nod, and let the words hang in the air as Jeremy walks away. Tyler unfolds his arms, leans forward, and picks up his story right where he left off.

“Okay so I’m mopping the gym floor now, and there’s this guy—bandana tied tight, gray hair, tattoos crawling up his forearms like they were hand-carved by Zeus. Dude’s benching 220 like it’s an iPhone he dropped and casually picked back up.”

My jaw drops. “I can’t even bench 65.”

Tyler smirks, tilting his head. “Yeah, because swimming mechanics are built for efficiency and endurance, not brute force. Your lats? Insane. Your pec activation for pressing weight? It’s cute.”

I roll my eyes.

 “Anyway, I start talking to the guy—real salt-of-the-earth dude. Next thing you know, I’m standing under the bar, ready to ruin my entire week in one rep. He goes, ‘You got this, kid.’ And Marissa, let me tell you, I did not have this.”

“How bad was it?”

Tyler’s expression goes flat. “I unrack the bar, it comes down, and I realize immediately that I’ve made a series of irreversible mistakes. Gravity bodied me. The guy had to deadlift the bar off my chest while I whispered, ‘Tell my mom I love her.’” I burst out laughing, clutching my stomach as Tyler smirks across the table.

“Listen,” he says, raising his water glass, “some people are built to bench press 220. I’m built to talk about how to bench press 220. Big difference.”

Jeremy returns, placing two mugs and a decanter between us. He pours coffee into both mugs and leaves the pot on the table. As he balances a tray loaded with plates nearby, the words tumble out of me like I’ve been holding my breath. “Okay, wait. I have to ask. What are eggs benedict?”

He gasps dramatically, his eyes wide.“Oh, Marissa.”  He shakes his head like I’ve personally offended him. “It’s like a breakfast tuxedo. Sophisticated. Delicious. It's only the best way to eat your eggs.”

The smell of butter and hollandaise hits before the plate even lands. Jeremy sets down Tyler's order: two English muffin halves topped with poached eggs, golden hollandaise sauce pooling at the edges, and a dusting of paprika. Tyler’s already gripping his fork and knife, practically salivating. Within seconds, he’s cutting through the eggs, yolk oozing onto the plate. After a few bites, he slices a neat corner, pushes it to the edge of his plate, and points at it with his knife.

“That’s for you to try.”

I grab my fork, stab the small bite, and bring it to my mouth. Tyler pauses mid-bite, eyes locked on me, waiting. I smile, covering my mouth. “It’s good. It’s creamy. Tangy almost.”

“That’s the lemon.” He grins, already cutting another bite for himself.

He finishes his plate, not a crumb left, leaning back into his seat and clutching his stomach with a satisfied sigh. A dark blue credit card drops onto the table with an easy flick of his wrist. Four bucks—yeah, I was a cheap date, let’s be real. Clearly, he hadn’t eaten before his shift.

“Alright,” he says, his grin lazy, his eyes catching the dull glow of the overhead lights trying to save himself from a food coma. “Wanna go for a drive?”

I check my watch. 10:30 PM. My heart skips a beat, my brain flickers through the options like a glitching slideshow. It’s late. You promised you’d be home. Mom’s expecting you. Dad’s waiting on the couch. But then there’s Tyler, his elbow propped on the table, coffee cup in hand, looking at me like I’m the most interesting thing in this dimly lit diner. It’s senior year. College applications are in. This year feels like sand slipping through my fingers, and for once, I want to stop trying to grip so tightly. He’s so casual, so unbothered by the ticking clock. It’s like the rules don’t apply to him—or maybe he’s just better at ignoring them.

“Yeah, sure.”

The words leave my mouth before I can second-guess them, and there’s something electric in the way his grin spreads wider. Like he knew I’d say yes. Like he was hoping I would. I feel my phone in my pocket, heavy with the weight of a dozen unsent texts: Hey, running late. Be home soon. But instead, I let myself exist in this one fleeting moment where time feels like it belongs to me—and no one else.

We parked at the edge of an empty lot, headlights off, the sky stretched wide above us in streaks of deep indigo and faint gold. The air smells like rain-soaked pavement, and the faint hum of Tyler’s classical music dances in the background. Tyler leans back in the driver’s seat, one arm slung over the steering wheel. “Alright, so—verdict on eggs benedict?”

I smirk, crossing my arms. “Fine… it was amazing.”

I let my head fall back against the seat, eyes tracing the pinpricks of stars scattered across the thinning clouds. Years from now, after every indoor college swim meet—after hours under fluorescent lights, chlorine tangled in my hair, and my parents sitting across from me at Wilson’s diner to celebrate my personal bests—I’ll scan the menu, find eggs benedict, and order it without thinking. Because of Tyler. Because of this night. Because some people don’t just set the bar—they become the memory you measure everything else against.

I glance down at my watch. 11:30 PM. Way past curfew. Way past when I said I’d be home. But sitting here, I didn’t care. Because time felt elastic with him—stretching and snapping back, infinite and fleeting all at once. And yet, time isn’t infinite, is it? You don’t realize it when you’re caught in moments like these—when laughter spills out easier than words, when silence feels comfortable, when every glance carries weight—but moments have edges. They end.

So maybe that’s why the eggs will never taste the same again. Because they’re tied to a night where time felt endless, but wasn’t. They’re tied to a boy who made minutes feel like hours and hours feel like seconds. And every bite will taste like nostalgia. Because sometimes, you’d do anything to freeze time, but eventually, you realize it’s the memories—and maybe a plate of eggs—that keep it alive.