He’s late.
Honestly, who gets mustard and mayonnaise mixed up in a list of allergens?
“You sure you don’t want something to eat? I could cook you up something.” Vee comes to stand at my table.
“Have you ever heard of someone making deep-fried pickles with mayonnaise?” I ask, though the last three syllables are mangled with a cough. It’s hard to get a full breath.
She wasn’t expecting that question. “No? It would make the batter greasy. Unless you mean in the dipping sauce?”
The door bangs open and Jasper rushes in, his face etched with concern.
“We’ll have two ice waters and a basket of chips and salsa,” I say, mostly to get Vee to go away.
“Friend of yours?” she asks, watching Jasper make a beeline to our table.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
Her lips quirk up in a smile, but she has to get out of the way as Jasper more or less throws himself into the chair next to me, and the distraction is enough to send her off to the kitchen.
“Are you okay?” Jasper asks. He’s also breathing hard, and even his green hat looks a little more disheveled than usual.
“Never been better,” I wheeze.
“That was super scary,” he gasps. “She was really apologetic. I don’t think she’s ever had someone die in her restaurant before.”
“Imagine that.” I close my eyes, trying to focus on breathing instead of telling Jasper to shut up. It’s nervous chatter born of adrenaline, but I have to take care of myself. Being the dying party means I’m not responsible for his feelings in the immediate aftermath.
“She said they put mustard powder in the breading,” he continues when I open my eyes again, though the flush on his cheeks is subsiding. “Gives it a bite.”
“Gives it more than that.” I cough some more. Each breath rattles in my chest like a nest of tap-dancing spiders.
“You okay?” Vee asks, bringing our water and chips.
“Is there mustard in that?” Jasper asks, pointing at the salsa. He slings a protective arm around me, and that helps as much as anything.
She frowns in confusion. “What? No. Morgan’s allergic to mustard.” As I let loose another volley of chest-shattering coughs, her confusion changes to alarm. “Are you okay?”
“Peachy,” I say. “Never felt better.” Though, to contradict my point, my lungs constrict violently and I double over. Goddammit, the aftereffects of dying are the worst. Why does my body remember what happened but won’t stay dead?
“We’ll take this to go,” Jasper says.
“You should eat something,” I gasp.
“What? No, it’s fine.” He pats my back a few times. My eyes are watering, and I have to blot them with a napkin.
“You’re only going to whine about it later.” I blow my nose in the napkin. “Eat it, or order some soup or something so we can get to work.”
Vee is watching us, pen poised over her notepad, eyes ping-ponging back and forth, and her shoulders finally relax when Jasper says, “Fine. We’ll eat these and I’ll have the burger. Extra tomatoes, no lettuce, pickle on the side.”
Vee glances at me.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“You need to eat,” Jasper says.
“The plain chips are fine.” Being under both their scrutiny is uncomfortable, though I’m finally starting to breathe easier.
“Morgan.” He doesn’t seem as reassured as I am.
