“Dad always says if you aren’t five minutes early, then you’re five minutes late.” I squirm in my seat.
“Dad also buys forty-year-old cans of Coke and unverified sports memorabilia for obscene prices.”
“The Coke wasn’t that obscene.” I fidget with my collar and the strange neck of this blouse. I don’t like it. I can’t believe I let Lindy talk me into it.
“Will you stop?” she says, tugging down my hand. “You look great.”
“I look like Grandma.”
“You do not—that tie neck style is back in fashion.”
“It’s not,” I grunt, tugging on the tie without success. I think I’ve only strengthened the knot. I will be buried in this shirt. It’s never coming off now.
Lindy sighs, her gaze dragging over to the entrance.
I shut my eyes and take a breath—because I am determined to not freak out tonight. “I’m sorry. I don’t even know this guy. This date isn’t for me. Who cares what I’m wearing?”
“Maybe he’ll be perfect for you. Maybe it’ll be your love match.” Lindy puckers her lips, her eyes shut tight as she makes one smacking, kissy-noise.
“Stop that. Or I’m leaving.”
She shrugs, glancing at the door—again.
“And you’re coming with me.”
Sighing out a laugh, she peeks at her watch this time. 7:01. “I’m twenty-five, remember? I don’t have to listen to you.”
I tap my toe beneath the table. “So,” I say, trying to keep my tone even. “You and Brent?—”
“Yep,” she says with a pop.
“You’ve been talking a lot.”
“We have.” My sister’s eyes don’t stray from my face. She’s not afraid of me at all. In fact, maybe she wants me here to prove to me that Brent is worthy of her, of Wyatt.
My watch reads 7:02, and I am not convinced yet. “Does he know?—”
“That I’m in recovery?” She rolls her eyes. “No, Mags. Wehaven’t even met in person yet. I thought I’d save the ‘I’m a recovering alcoholic’ conversation until the second date.”
I clear my throat and stir a little more in my hard restaurant seat. “Right. That makes sense. Does he know about Wyatt?”
“Yes,Mags.” She says my name as if I’m a scolding parent and she’s a snarky teen, home after curfew. “He knows about Wyatt.”
My tapping toe quickens. We wait another minute before I say, “Do you want to call him?”
Lindy sits a little straighter, her eyes bright. “There he is,” she says under her breath.
I peek at the doorway where two men have stepped inside the restaurant. One tall, broad, and sane-looking. The other short, scruffy, and giving off “main suspect” kind of energy. I’m not trying to be judgy. But that beard and those brows are out of control, and the black cap on his head isn’t helping. With sprigs of gray in their hair and wrinkles around their eyes, both men look years older than Lindy, but I’m trying not to dwell on that. Or the suspect’s eyebrows.
No freaking out.I can freak out later—when I’m alone in my bedroom and Lindy’s home and safe.
For Lindy’s sake, I sure hope Brent is the tall, non-suspect-looking man, or there won’t be a second date. I’ll make sure of it.
I realize tall and sane-looking doesn’t make for a decent human, but it’s a start. And, for the record, I know I sound like a mama bear. But Lindy sort of turned me into a mama bear when she fell for an addict who got her using and pregnant.
Lindy stands as they approach, and I follow her lead.
“Belinda,” the tall one says with a beaming grin. He leans in, a hand on her back, and kisses my baby sister’s cheek. What’s with the formality?
