He’s dressed nicer today, probably on his way to the airport to get flown somewhere to do business for BnB. The top two buttons on his starched white shirt are undone, showing more collarbone than is decent at six p.m. on a Monday. He wears a leather jacket over the shirt, as if the diner is too cold, which is ridiculous because I’ve sat smashed up against him multiple times and know the guy radiates warmth like an outdoor patio heater people set up when the weather turns chilly.
Maybe he’s keeping his jacket on because he plans to leave soon. I hope so, although I dread what quick message he might have to share with me.
“Hey, Beth. Seeing your father’s disdain for your existence reminded me that you’re a skid mark on the BBN tighty-whities. Therefore, I can no longer associate with you, and I hope you never try flying planes again because, let’s be honest, you’re terrible at it.”
The thought makes it impossible for me to keep up my perky waitress persona. Luckily, my back is facing Sally, so she doesn’t see my surly face or hear the way I greet her beloved hero.
“Bunsen.” Flat. Unenthused. Unaffected by whatever shit he’s ready to shovel my way. “Coffee?” There, I’m still doing my job.
He frowns. “Beth—”
“Beth!” another familiar voice calls out as the entrance bell rings.
Every muscle in my body stiffens, but then I turn to find Marge, grinning and offering a wave. My mother isn’t at her side.
Thank the universe.
Charlotte Lundberg tolerates Shawn, I think because he’s so enthusiastic about being my brother and he’s all around a difficult person to dislike.
I can’t guarantee she’d show the same grace to George Bunsen, son of one of her nemesis’s business partners, who has most recently been a dismissive, hurtful ass. She’d sense the malcontent and eviscerate him.
My mother and Darla are similar in that way.
Marge, meanwhile, can often be sweetly oblivious, and she enjoys making friends rather than enemies.
“Hey, Marge.” I wave toward the empty seats in my section—far away from George. “I’ll grab your order in a second.”
Instead of plopping down on her favorite counter stool, she meanders our way, her smile open and friendly, her eyes curious when they take in my customer. “You look familiar. Where might I have seen you before?”
He rises from his seat and holds out his hand for a shake, the new position showing off a set of navy slacks that fit his legs too well in my opinion.
“I’m George Bunsen. Nice to meet you.”
Because I know Marge so well, I spy the slight pause before she reaches for his hand. Other than that, she shows no indication that this might be an awkward encounter.
“George. Yes. Good to meet you. I’m Marge. Beth’s stepmom.” That became official a year into my Mom’s cancer treatment, when they tied the knot to get her on some decent health insurance. But that was just paper. They’ve been partners for almost as long as I can remember.
I narrow my eyes, waiting for George to say something about my mom. If he does, I will chuck a full dozen eggs straight at his head.
But George doesn’t react other than to smile softly. And to wave toward the other side of his booth.
“I’m eating alone. If you’d like to join.”
“What?” I snap.
Marge is already slipping into the booth, an intrigued sparkle in her eye.
Oh no. This can’t be good.
“I’ll have orange juice,” she says to me. “Take your time grabbing it.”
I barely stifle a groan as I stalk away from them. I don’t see how any good could come of those two chatting.
When I return tableside with a glass of orange juice, George has already revealed one of my secrets.
“She’s learning fast. Steady on her landings, which are always the hard part.”
“Beth. You didn’t tell meGeorgewas your flight instructor.”
