“Uh, yeah,” the kid says, shoving a small phone at me.
“Fine.” It isn’t his fault he’s being forced to do Satan’s work this morning. I slash my finger across the screen to make a straight line, pretty much the same motion my arm would make if I were to backhand the source of my annoyance.
My fiancée isn’t going to pay for her own ring. Horseshit. Jessica the store clerk looked at me and Noah with a shaky I-don’t-want-to-be-part-of-this smile, but ended up putting it on my account. His jaw dropped as though she’d backstabbed him. If she’d stabbed him for real, I’d have given her a nice tip.
“Uh… Okay. Now I have to take a picture,” the kid says, scratching his cheek, mottled with acne scars, then lifts his phone.
“Why?”
“Proof of delivery.”
“I just signed your thing.”
“You put a line on it.” He snaps a photo before I can stop him. “Thanks, though.”
Noah probably offered to pay him extra if he texted him this little trophy. “Tell your client I’m allergic…”
He looks at the flowers with athat’s-too-badexpression. “Okay. I’ll do that.”
“…to anything delivered from anasshole.”
The kid either doesn’t communicate well or Noah’s defective brain decides I’m happy with his flowers because he sends white calla lilies every day for the rest of the week. If he thinks it’s going to make up for him missing the opening of Bobbi’s Sweet Things…
Hope isn’t the only thing that springs eternal. Delusion’s up there, too.
By Friday, no Mr. Perfect has gone down on one knee, but on the other hand Floyd and the other creeps haven’t dropped by, so things are moving in a positive direction. My only worry is Señor Mittens, who has abruptly decided that he disdains the food I’ve been feeding him, but is gaining weight anyway. I google the symptoms wondering if he’s sick, and it says he is likely suffering from heart, lung or liver malfunction and advises me to take him to the vet. But my cat seems alert and displays his usual contempt for humanity. I make a mental note to observe him for a couple more days. He could be stealing food from other felines that he considers lesser than him—which would be all of them—as a flex on his superiority and territory. He’s done it before.
On Saturday, I head to the steakhouse where I’m meeting Yuna’s older brother. He’s visiting from Korea, and Yuna and her husband are planning to join us for a four-way dinner.
As I stop at a red light, I get a call from Yuna. “Hey, I hate to do this, but Declan and I can’t make it. Lilian and Liam have both come down with some kind of stomach bug, so they have to stay home.”
“Oh, no. Are they okay?”
“I think so. Just feverish, fussy and pukey.” She sighs.
The light changes. “Thank goodness. We can always reschedule, no problem.” I check my mirror and change lanes.
“No, no. You should go ahead and enjoy the meal. Jin said he’d love to treat you for being so good to the kids.”
I raise an eyebrow. Jin, or Eugene to most people who aren’t familiar enough to use his Korean nickname, has never given me an impression he has a favorable opinion of me. The man isn’t easy to read, being overly serious and tragically divorced. Can’t imagine the anguish of learning that the son he thought was his was actually another man’s. I hope his ex falls into a ditch and breaks all her nails and her scheming, cheating vagina.
Yuna adds, “He’s already on his way to the restaurant.”
“Okay. Give the little angels hugs from me. Sending them good vibes.”
Half an hour later, I’m at the steakhouse. Some jazzy sax tune swirls around along with the amazing aroma of perfectly grilled beef and freshly baked bread. This is exactly the kind of place my former clients loved to frequent when they wanted to splurge, especially since selfies taken here look fantastic with the moneyed backdrop. It’s exactly the kind of place Yuna likes to visit when she’s in the mood—lots of dark wood, class and gloss…and, of course, excellent food.
“Too bad about Yuna and Declan,” I say to Eugene as our server leaves with our order.
“They’ll be fine,” Eugene says in great English, his voice a low baritone. “Part of raising little kids.”
Since I was to dine with Yuna and Eugene, I dressed more formally than usual in a red dress with a side slit and my favorite stilettos. Declan wears whatever—but then he is a model and looks like a god in even rags—but Yuna always wears beautiful designer dresses, and I’ve never seen Eugene in anything but bespoke three-piece suits. Even when he’s playing with his nephew and niece, he’s in a suit that must have cost tens of thousands of dollars.
And this evening is no different. His black hair is perfectly coiffed, his suit dark-navy and formal with a burgundy tie that manages to add a splash of color without being flashy. A platinum diamond tie-pin blinks on his chest, expensive and classy. His outfit adds to his serious vibe. And the fact that his dark eyes and full lips rarely betray his emotions adds to the solemn air he carries. Whatever emotion he shows to the world, it’s only what he wants to reveal.
“You’re like the auntie they don’t have. I’m grateful that you’re so kind to them. I wish I were closer and could spend more time with them.”
The server appears with our wine and food. He lays out the steaks and the sides of mashed potatoes, sauteed mushrooms and grilled veggies. Eugene tastes the Bordeaux and approves it with a nod, then raises his glass. “To friends and family.”
