“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
She’d already made it to the second step, but her progress was slow. It took effort to lift each foot up enough for the next step, and she clung to the railing. Was she hurt, or did she have arthritis?
“Staring at me won’t make me go any faster.” Her voice might’ve been sweet, but her intent was clear.
Pride was an emotion I recognized. No matter how much I wanted to reassure Mrs. Quattlebaum that I only cared about her safety, I retreated to my apartment to will the clock to move faster so I could see why Havisham had requested my presence at the Waffle House.
Chapter 6
Ah, those black letters on yellow squares, that beacon in the night: the Waffle House.
A glance at the car clock told me I’d arrived ten minutes early, and I weighed whether I wanted to enter a clean, well-lit place or wait in my car.
Well, Ken’s car, if I couldn’t come up with a way to get the title from him.
Studying every law reference my paralegal course allowed had led me to the conclusion that I was in another situation where what was legal and what was just were two very different things. Legally, the car was his. His name was on the title. If life were fair, the car would be mine because I’d paid for it. There was, of course, the possibility I could persuade a judge of my point of view, but that would require even more money I didn’t have to take the matter to court, and I couldn’t be guaranteed that I would win.
It was all so exhausting.
To date, every man in my life had been exhausting.
I’d heard that good men existed, but I was beginning to suspect they spent their free time with Bigfoot, the Easter Bunny, and chupacabras, because I’d never met one.
In the meantime, I would leavemycar and enter the Waffle House, a place Ken hated but I loved. Unlike him, the Waffle House had never let me down.
Out of habit, I chose a booth in the far corner, my back to the plate glass window so I could surveil the entire restaurant, empty though it was.
“Couldn’t you just sit at the bar?” huffed the waitress as she limped toward me.
“Sorry,” I said. “Habit.”
“My feet are killing me,” she said as she reached my table. Her face was a road map of experience, and her name tag declared her to be Betty.
“Plantar fasciitis?”
“What’s that?”
“Deep, soul-sucking ache in your heels?”
“Sounds about right.”
I was showing Betty some calf stretches while talking about proper orthotics when Havisham and Salcedo walked through the door. Everyone settled into the corner booth and made their orders before I finally asked, “What’s this all about?”
Havisham nudged Salcedo.
“I, uh, I feel bad about what happened, but I’ve thought of a way to get the money you need,” she said.
“Oh, hon, you don’t have to feel bad about anything. Your glitter-bomb idea was hilarious. Unfortunately, Ken doesn’t have a sense of humor.”
“Still, I want to help.” Salcedo reached into her satchel for a folder and slid a piece of paper across the table. At the top was a grinning blob of a cartoon character who resembled the Mr. Men / Little Miss stories Nana used to read to me when I was little. The design was obviously meant as a parody of those books. Below the cartoon it read:
Let Me Be Your Little Miss Petty!
Is karma not working fast enough for you?
The patriarchy got you down?
Need some payback?
