Fast-Food Flirtation

Maren Caldwell had her phone propped against the steering wheel like it was a tiny, glowing altar. The screen read “Tonight’s Plan” in the same smug font her contacts app used for everything important - meaning it looked like she’d labeled it “Tonight’s Plan” and not “Please don’t ruin my life.” Rain ticked against the windshield in quick little drummers, and the neon drive-thru sign ahead made the wet highway look like it was underwater.

The speaker crackled. “Can I get you started?”

Maren cleared her throat, suddenly aware of the cold air blasting through the vents, the smell of wet asphalt and fryer oil, and the way her hands were damp from either rain or nerves. She pressed the talk button again anyway. “Hi. Yes. I’d like to - ” She glanced at the order on her phone, the one she’d typed earlier like she was planning a covert operation. “Two… uh. Two of the spicy chicken sandwiches. And - ”

“Name?”

Maren smiled at the window like the person behind it could somehow see her grin through the glass. “Talia.”

The rain slapped harder, like it wanted in on the joke. The drive-thru menu board flickered, then steadied. A car behind her honked once, long and offended, and Maren tried to ignore the tiny panic doing cartwheels in her ribs.

“Okay,” the voice said, muffled through static and goodness-knows-what. “Pull forward to the next window.”

She did. The tires hissed on the slick pavement. Neon reflections slid across her dashboard as she inched forward, phone still in her hand, thumb hovering like she might tap the contact name and send a message that screamed, I’m totally normal about this. She didn’t. Not yet.

The next window popped open with the cheerful violence of fast food technology. A teenager with a visor and the energy of someone who’d been awake since the dawn of time leaned out and stared at Maren’s face for half a second too long.

“Order for - ” he began, then squinted down at the screen. “Uh. Talia?”

Maren’s smile returned with extra confidence, as if it could bully the universe into behaving. “Yes!”

He turned his head like he was asking the kitchen for confirmation. “Cool. That’s… actually for the other car.”

Maren blinked. “What?”

He held out a bag anyway, then paused, bag dangling like a question mark. “Look, it says… two spicy chicken sandwiches. But the receipt says - ” He glanced again, eyebrows knitting. “It says Maren Caldwell.”

Her whole body went cold in a way the rain couldn’t explain.

“That’s me,” she said, though she didn’t know why she said it like a defense attorney. “I’m Maren.”

The teenager’s visor squeaked as he shifted. “Right. But the name on the order was Talia.”

Maren’s mouth opened and closed. Somewhere between her brain and her tongue, her plan scrambled into new shapes. “Maybe… you printed the wrong receipt?”

He gave her a look that said he’d heard that sentence from at least three different people tonight, and none of them were correct. “I can check.”

He reached for something behind the counter - paper, plastic, chaos - and the whole window area smelled suddenly stronger: greasy chicken, sweet ketchup, and the hot metallic tang of rain-soaked equipment. A stack of receipts sat by the register like a deck of cards someone had been shuffling all evening.

Maren stared at the bag. She stared at the receipts. She stared at her phone, which still had “Tonight’s Plan” glowing like a promise she hadn’t earned yet.

The teenager tore a receipt off and slid it halfway out through the gap. “Here. This one - this one’s for you.”

Maren leaned forward, reaching for it. “Great. Thank you.”

The receipt fluttered in the draft from the kitchen vent. It landed on her fingers like it was trying to escape.

The print was sharp, black letters on pale thermal paper. She scanned it fast, because scanning was better than thinking. Her name was there - Maren Caldwell - along with the order. Two spicy chicken sandwiches. A medium fry. A drink.

And then, in the corner, the line that mattered most tonight: the card name. The payment name.

TALIA JENSEN.

Maren’s stomach performed an awkward backflip. She could almost hear her own thoughts tripping over each other like they were running late.

Okay. Okay. If the order was for Talia’s card name, then - then maybe this was… a sign. A weird, greasy, neon-lit sign, but still a sign. Her crush’s name was on the receipt. The bag was handed to her. She could still do this. She could still get the moment.

She took the bag and receipt and held them up like evidence. “So you gave me the right order.”

The teenager looked relieved, like she’d just ended a trial. “Yes. It’s right. It’s just… confusing.”

“Confusing is my brand,” Maren said before she could stop herself.

His mouth twitched. “Uh-huh.”

Maren pulled forward again, heart starting to sprint. She didn’t move far - just enough to park at the little curbside spot where the window had a view of the highway....