I know now that you don’t see me the same way.
It’s time that you learn who you belong to.
Margeaux Wild- you’re mine!
I throw all my clothes into my duffle bag and haul ass out of this city. Unwilling to wait for a flight in the morning, I rent a car and start the long drive back home. I chug an energy drink so I can drive the entire night without stopping. I watch the lights and high-rises of Paramount fade into the back of my rearview mirror.
19
JON
I’ve never brokenup with someone before. As a thirty-two year old adult, that probably makes me sound like such a dweeb. I’ve had casual girlfriends, but they ended things before I could. Or, the relationships just naturally fizzled out on their own. Nicolette is my first serious relationship. The few close friends I have call me a late bloomer. They’re not wrong. I had a pretty sheltered childhood and when I left home, I had to learn a lot of life lessons on my own, without anyone’s help or guidance.
Regardless of what happens between me and Margeaux, Nicolette and I can’t continue. Meeting Margeaux helped me see the writing on the wall that I turned a blind eye to. I ignored all the passive aggressiveness that Nicolette uses when we talk. She looks down on others who may not be as well-off as she is. She’s manipulative, and pushy. If she really cared about me, or my feelings, she wouldn’t have put a deposit on a million-dollar condo without talking with me about it. I’m not breaking up with Nicolette to prove anything to Margeaux. I’m doing this forme.
I didn’t choose to become a doctor because of the money. Maybe that’s something Nicolette doesn’t understand about me; status and money aren’t things I care about. I just want to help people.
Even listening to her order her breakfast is irritating. Have I always been so oblivious? Why am I just seeing therealNicolette now?
“The egg-white omelet. No tomatoes. Ugh, such disgusting and slimy things,” she says to me over her menu. She’s said this before, and I guess I just ignored it, too swept up by the idea that a woman as pretty as her was remotely interested in a guy like me. “And no tomatoes on his omelet either. I’ll be sick to my stomach if a tomato touches my plate.” The poor waiter is doing his best to ignore her pretentious attitude, but every new request she makes grates on his nerves.
I put myself through college and medical school by working in restaurants. I only had my GED from high school and no real skills. I was given a job as a dishwasher, which was the most humbling year of my life. I worked my way up to busboy, prep cook, food runner, barback. I did it all. When I finally became a waiter, I learned how fickle customers can be.
“Actually, I’m not having an omelet,” I cut Nicolette off. “Finish your order, and then I’ll tell Danny what I’d like,” I say sternly.
She gives me a puzzled look, almost glaring at me. Early in our relationship, I wanted her to feel comfortable with me, so I let her order for me one time, and she insisted on doing it every time after that. I never argued, and maybe that’s why I’m in this mess. I never pushed back. I worried more about her happiness and not rocking the boat. Well, if I’ve learned anything from my tatted badass wrestler, it’s that it’s okay to rock the boat and make a splash every once in a while.
“Oh. Are you sure, babe? I don’t want you to order something and be disappointed. You always like what I order for you,” Nicolette says under her breath, because how awful would it be if Danny hears us bickering.
“I’m sure. Finish your order so we can stop being a nuisance to Danny,” I say apologetically to the young kid.
Another habit I’ve picked up is always addressing wait staff by their names. They’re often ignored and disregarded. When I waited tables, one customer always used my name and it was so different. It made me feel like a person, rather than just a random figure in the background.
Nicolette’s eyes blink rapidly as she tries to compute my newfound attitude. “Fine. So, no tomatoes. I’d also like a side salad.No tomato.”
“We actually don’t serve salads for breakfast or brunch, miss,” Danny says politely. I can feel his patience waning by the second.
“But there’s spinach in my omelet. Could the chef not just take some extra spinach and make me a side salad as well?”
“I mean. I can ask,” he says, making a note on his note pad.
“Yes. Do ask. And, with my salad, I’d like a balsamic dressing, on the side. I also would like my salad before my omelet comes out.”
“Um. Sure,” Danny says, nodding in defeat.
“And another mimosa. This time, put some good champagne in it. This one tasted disgusting,” she says with a grimace. Thedisgustingchampagne didn’t stop her from almost finishing the entire glass.
“I’ll be sure to tell the bartender, miss.”
“Good.” Nicolette closes her menu and raises her eyebrows at me, letting me know she’s finished ordering. Not even a ‘thank you’ to Danny for being patient and accommodating.
“I’ll have the meat lover’s breakfast special, with an extra side of hashbrowns. I’m good with just water. Thanks so much, Danny.”
“You got it, boss.” He tosses me an appreciative smile for being easy-going and hurries away from our table before Nicolette can corner him again.
“The meat lover’s breakfast?! Jon! You’re going to be a sweaty, greasy mess after that,” she berates me.
Not as much of a mess as I was last night between Margeaux’s thighs.
