Forty minutes later, the photographer has seemingly gotten everything he needs and shakes both Moskins’s and my hand before leaving us. I stepped into the serving line twenty minutes in to make conversation with some of the locals I’ve spoken with before. Asking how their days are. Asking about their kids. Little things that seem to brighten their days.
One thing I learned a long time ago is that you never know how far kindness can go. One smile can make somebody’s day. One compliment can save somebody’s life. So no matter how badly I want to let my inner demons win, I smile anyway.
Moskins watches me contentedly throughout each interaction, sometimes chipping in and even offering his own greetings once he warms up to those walking in. I’m sure he’s not used to conversing with the people that Our Open Table brings, but he seems like a natural as time goes on.
“This one,” Ridley, a sixty-something man who frequents Our Open Table, says to Moskins while pointing to me, “is a troublemaker. Best watch out for her.”
I gasp dramatically at his playful accusation. “I thought we were friends, Ridley.”
“You beat me at cards last week,” he harrumphs, accepting the roll I pass him with my tongs. “Haven’t forgiven you yet.”
I laugh at his theatrics. “It was a no-stakes game of Go Fish. If it makes you feel better, we can have a rematch soon.”
His eyes light up. “Today?”
I smile sadly at him. “I can’t today. But I’ll swing by next weekend. How’s that?”
Ridley is a kind soul who lost his fortune to addiction. He’s been clean for years, but never quite got his life back in order. It’s better than it was, but something is holding him back from truly putting the pieces together permanently.
He hefts out a sigh. “Fine. I’ll see you next week then.”
I wave him off and frown when I see the skeptical stare Moskins gives me. “What?”
“How often do you come here?” he asks.
I lift a shoulder. “Every week if I can. Sometimes every two. It depends on how busy I am. Janel usually offers me overtime if I come into the office on weekends to help her, and the money is decent.”
He blinks.
Blinks again.
The line is pretty much gone now because everybody is eating, with a few stragglers coming in here and there.
His weighted stare makes me shift on my feet uncomfortably. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I’m trying to figure you out,” he says casually.
I make a face. “Why?”
“Because you intrigue me.”
Despite the tingling in my stomach, I don’t like the sound of that. “I’m not that hard to figure out, Moskins.”
He huffs out a laugh. “On the contrary.”
We serve a few more people, making idle greetings and small talk with them before we’re alone again.
That’s when I quietly say, “I never got to thank you for the food. You didn’t have to do that.”
He doesn’t deny what he did, which I’m grateful for. In fact, he doesn’t say anything in response.
I lick my lips. “Why did you do that?”
I’ve been wondering ever since I realized what he’d done. It hasn’t bothered me, even though I don’t like feeling as though I owe somebody. He’d pissed me off too much to say anything about it during our last meeting, but he’s been surprisingly great today. Humble. Kind. It could all be an act, but I don’t think it is.
That is, until he replies, “Didn’t want you to have to go on any more dates. You clearly don’t have a great radar for decent men.”
I glare at him.
