Marco is sprawled in a plush booth along the far wall, a curvy redhead practically draped over him.Brenda, I assume. I don’t think Hannah notices how the woman’s hands are under the table, moving in a rather suggestive way. No, Hannah completely misses that little detail. She rushes up to the table.
A flushed and slightly breathless Marco, who I recognize from the photos he sent Hannah, lifts his head as she approaches.
“I need another martini, dry,” he tells her distractedly, then drops his eyes to whatever is going on in his lap.
“Excuse me?” Hannah asks, her voice high and tight. “I’m not the waitress.”
That gets his attention.
Marco looks up at her, his eyes widening. “Hannah?”
“Oh, nice of you to remember my name,Marco,” she fires back, hands clenched at her sides. “Since you apparently forgot we were supposed to have dinner here tonight. You know,Valentine’s Day?”
“Babe,” Brenda says, not looking at Hannah. She’s looking at Marco. “What’s going on?”
“Well,babe,” Hannah answers sweetly, dangerously, “what’s happening is this piece of shit you’re giving a hand job to—”
Shedidnotice.
“—double-booked us,” Hannah continues without missing a beat. “He toldbothof us he was taking us here for a special Valentine’s dinner. So congrats. He picked you.”
Brenda jerks back, confusion flashing across her face as she looks at Marco, then Hannah, then back to Marco again.
“Is this true?” she asks him.
Marco doesn’t answer.
That’s when I step closer, just enough that Marco finally notices me.
For the first time tonight, he looks afraid.
Good.
“Well?” Brenda demands, staring at Marco, who opens his mouth but nothing comes out.
That silence is all Brenda needs.
She laughs once, sharp, disbelieving. “Wow,” she says, pulling her hand fully into view and wiping it on a napkin like she’s touched something sticky. “You didn’t even deny it.”
“Honey, I can explain—” Marco starts.
“Oh, please,” Brenda snaps, standing so fast the table rattles. Glasses clink. Heads turn. A nearby couple pauses mid-bite.
“You told me I wasspecial,” she says, loudly now. “You said you don’t usually do Valentine’s Day. That you hated howcommercialit was.”
Hannah crosses her arms, watching with something close to glee written on her face.
“You told me,” Brenda continues, her voice climbing, “that you were tired of games. That you were looking for somethingreal.”
Marco reaches for her wrist. “Brenda, keep your voice down—”
She yanks her arm away like he burned her. “Don’t touch me.”
The restaurant has gone quiet. Forks hover. A waiter freezes near the bar.
“Let me get this straight,” Brenda says, turning in a slow circle, making sureeveryonecan hear her. “You invited two women to the same restaurant. On the same night. For Valentine’s Day.”
“That’s not what happened,” Marco insists weakly.
