“Well… that’s unfortunate. Since you’re so open to love and everything,” I snark back to my brother, who seems to spend more time hovering over me than living his own life.
I yank open the heavy glass entrance door with one arm, twisting my phone so the bottom is away from my mouth as my eyes meet the host’s.
“Just me,” I say, the door clanging closed behind me and sealing off the ice cold wind with it.
The man smiles, nods, grabs one laminated, folded menu, then gestures for me to follow him.
The lights are dim in here, everything in shades of yellow and orange. It’s not too crowded, and I won’t be the only person by myself. I see a few girls in booths alone, headphones on, eyes on laptops or notepads.
The scent of lemon and herbs hits my nose, grilled meat, too, and my stomach growls again as Nolan asks where I’m at now.
I slide into the booth at the back that the host extends his hand toward, asking me if it’s okay. From here, I can see the front door, but it’s far enough away I won’t feel it when people go in and out, and the kitchen is right at my back, and so is the staircase that leads down to the restrooms.
Perfect.
No one can sit behind me either, and on the wall opposite my booth, there’s a giant mural of what looks like the Mediterranean Sea, in deep blues and arched architecture. No doubt Cynthia would have better descriptors, but she’s out with Tylone so there’s that.
“Thank you,” I say with a smile to the host as he walks away, bowing slightly. I open up the menu and feel pangs in my lowbelly as my eyes skip over the feta fries, hummus and pita, and fried calamari.
All things I love. But I hate that full feeling that comes with them.
“I’m eating Greek,” I say to my brother as I unwind my arm from my bag, letting it sit beside me.
“Oh,” Nolan says, and I can already tell the next words out of his mouth are going to be snarky. “Maybe skip the pita and ask for carrots with the hummus.”
If he was sitting across from me, I’d throw up my middle finger. As it is, I simply blow out a breath and say, “Yeah, I’ll ask for carrots, but they’re not for hummus. I think I should take a few and shove them up your ass instead.”
“I’m just trying to help, Neve,” he says softly.
I swallow, my throat feeling tight. “Got it. Anyway. I’ll let you… get back to whatever important lawyer stuff you were doing.” My eyes settle on the salads. Grilled chicken, lemon vinaigrette. Perfect. I’ll eat half, save the other half for lunch tomorrow.
“Discovery,” Nolan says blandly. “Have a good night. Be safe walking back.”
My thoughts flicker to the guy who knocked into me. How Nolan guessed it was a man.
Shake that shit off, Neve. It wasn’t that serious.
Usually I’d say something sarcastic to my brother, keep his mind at ease, and play off any genuine concern he has for me because that feels easier and more comfortable than letting anybody care.
But I just say, “I will,” and after giving our goodnights, I end the call.
After the smiling waitress with a short red bob takes my order, I relax back into the booth and open up my phone.
There’s a text from Cynthia telling me she won’t be home tonight—I grin despite the fact I’ll hate sleeping without her in the apartment—another one from Karter trying to finalize weekend plans, and one more from someone else entirely.
S.C.
You should get the feta fries.
I pop my head up, scanning the restaurant, my heart thundering inside my chest as I clutch my phone. I haven’t heard from Sylvan at all since we last parted over the weekend.
I don’t see him, but I can’t really peer into the booths in front of me, so I get to my feet because fuck this.
Six rows of heads, one belonging to a woman who glares up at me like I’ve peed all over her falafel, but none of them are Sylvan.
I sink back down into my booth.
Stalker, huh?
