“Of course not.” I was meaning to, but I just hated having to admit she was on to me, and so I forced myself to put the money in the register. This was so me, by the way. I was an expert when it came to cutting my nose to spite my face.
I’m not going to think about him anymore,I remember telling myself that time while wiping his table with more force than necessary.
Come tomorrow, I’d completely forget his face, his accent, and everything about him.
That was what I promised myself.
But...then he came back the next morning, and...argh.
I found myself staring at him again as he entered the cafe at the exact same time and chose the exact same booth.
This time he didn't need the menu. This time he ordered the mushroom and gruyère omelet and black coffee, and when I brought it to him, he said"thank you"in that low, unhurried voice, and I said"you're welcome"like a functional human being.
I begged myself not to look back.
But of course I failed spectacularly with that, too.
I stole a quick little look at him over my shoulder and felt absurdly heartbroken when I saw him already focused on his phone.
Stop being so silly, Thea! Do you really think a man like him would notice you?
Real life was no rom-com movie. Real life was me working as a waitress to make ends meet while I finish school and do my best to overcome the traumas of my past.
Real life was about me taking life one day at a time...never mind if that same customer with the beautiful accent came back the next day.
And the day after that.
And the day after that.
By the end of the first week, I knew his schedule. Seven-fifteen to seven-thirty, always that window. The corner booth, always that spot. And I knew his orders: omelet on Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Smoked trout hash on Tuesday and Thursday. Saturday he ordered nothing, just black coffee, and he sat there for an hour reading his phone with that
beautifully brooding expression, and I wanted to ask what he was reading that made him look like that, but of course I didn't, because you don't ask customers personal questions.
You definitely don't spend your Saturday evenings wondering what happens to him on Sundays when the café is closed.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Jolie declared over dinner with the Foxes, and when I looked up, it was to find our married hosts looking at me with interest.
“She’s seriously into him. The only guy she’s ever been into, but she refuses to even say ‘hi’ to him.”
Argh.
I glared at Jolie. “How can you ever be a good psychologist if you don’t understand what patient confidentiality means?”
“A: you’re not my patient, and B: I never said I was going to be a psychologist.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Then why study whatever it is that you’re studying if you’re not going to be one?”
Jolie’s smile was impish. “That’s a secret...and totally beside the point.” She turned to Sarah, saying, “The Bible doesn’t say anything about the girl being forbidden to make the first move, does it?”
I rolled my eyes. Even I knew the answer to that, and especially when we just finished studying the Book of Ruth last week.
“My wife would be the first one to tell you there’s nothing wrong about making the first move,” Damian drawled, and when we saw Sarah turn red...
Ooooooh.
The tables were instantly turned, with Jolie and I immediately teaming up to pester Sarah for details, and this had her billionaire husband’s eyes gleaming in amusement even as Sarah kicked him under the table while telling us very firmly that some things were only for couples to know.
Ha! Talk about a cop out!
