“Okay, frenemies. Since we’re breaking bread and whatever.”
Jack grins. “I didn’t realize it was you texting at first. I…don’t have you in my phone under your name.”
“Oooh, what am I listed as?”
He fiddles with his phone and holds it out: “Grinch” is written in the First Name field. I laugh out loud. There’s a picture of the green monster in the contact file as well.
I pull up his contact in my phone, taking a sip of water and holding the phone up for his review.
“Demon? Could’ve been worse.”
Our food arrives, and I look down with dismay. It’s some minced beige meat on top of a bed of greens. It looks like someone dropped cat food on a plate. There’s a small roll to the side of the mess.
“Sorry, can you tell me what this is?” I ask the waiter.
“It’s the chicken you ordered.”
When it becomes apparent that I’m not going to say anything further, Jack says, “She ordered a chicken sandwich.”
The waiter blinks. He’s young, looks stoned, and I’m supremely uncomfortable about the whole situation.
“No, no, this is fine. It’s okay. I can have this,” I say, desperate for the topic to be over.
Jack eyes my plate dubiously.
“Seriously, it’s fine.”
“No. It’s not. You ordered a chicken sandwich. That’s what you’re getting.” To the waiter, he says, “Can you get her a grilled chicken sandwich, please? No mayo. I’m going to need you to write that down.” The waiter scrambles to pull out a pad and jots it down, forgetting the chicken mess in his haste to get back to the kitchen.
I’m simultaneously envious of Jack’s ability to calmly demand what he wants and also mortified by the whole thing.
“Can’t wait for my spit sandwich,” I say, because I feel like I have to say something.
“It’ll pair nicely with the spit Bolognese I made for you.”
Jack pushes his plate into the center of the table and gestures for me to eat. He takes a bite of salad. “So, what made you ask me out? I’ve been waiting for this day for ages and ages, just glued to my phone.”
“Dumb.” I huff out a chuckle, pushing some salad around. “I didn’t ask you out. You’re a distant third in my affections behind Margie and Avery, but they’re all tied up. I needed an ear to bend.”
“Bend away. I’ll just be here licking my wounds.”
I sigh. “A lady I can’t stand just got promoted, and I’ve been waiting for even a tiny raise for ages, and…nothing. It justsucks. I’ve been killing myself, nights, weekends—”
“Fuck ’em. If someone doesn’t recognize your worth, you either force them to recognize it or you walk.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to take up vacuuming and pancakes?”
“No. Vacuuming and pancakes are for closers.”
I let out a wholly attractive grunt-laugh and tear apart the tiny roll the waiter left behind. I can’t bring myself to eat Jack’s salad. My stomach hates me right now.
“Speaking of work, is your schedule going to let us get cracking on the wall again tomorrow?” he asks.
I nod, my mouth full of stale bread.
My chicken sandwich arrives, and I give the waiter a weak smile, overly effusive with my thank-yous.
We finish up, Jack insisting on paying and leaving a respectable tip despite Chicken SlopGate, and we walk outside. I thank him, blushing for God knows what reason as I stare up at him.
