“One customer down,” Sherrie murmured to her in passing. “Keep moving, hon. Daydream later. If things get too hairy, Glenn can help out on tables. But speaking of hairy...” She gestured with her chin. “I had to seat him on your side. But if things are a little weird between you, I’ll take that table.”
When she heard the wordhimGlory’s thoughts immediately leaped to Eli. It was interesting that the pronounhimnow seemed to be his alone. But Sherrie couldn’t possibly know anything about that.
She realized too late who the him in question was. She tried to turn around before he got a look at her face, but it was too late.
“Glory?”
And the fact that the braid was tugging her eyebrows up into arches probably made her look surprised to see him, too.
She sighed. “Hi, Mick.”
He was staring at her in frozen, wounded, puppy-eyed shock.
In high school, Mick had been considered quite the catch, what with the long hair and leather jacket and the GTO and arm tattoos, only one of which was misspelled. (It said “Piece.” He’d meant it to read “Peace.”) He was sweet and a little dim and while a pretty good kisser, he went at sex the same way he went at Dance Dance Revolution. Or reading the instructions for how to assemble an IKEA desk. As if he was following steps in order to get to the next level. The same ones. Every. Single. Time.
And he was no bad boy. Glory knew from real bad boys now thanks to her stint at the Plugged Nickel. She’d pass on those, thank you very much.
He’d wept when she’d kindly but firmly ended their on-again, off-again relationship for good. And then he’d asked for reasons. She’d demurred. And then he’d begged and whined and wept and insisted until she blurted out all of the reasons, with a lot more detail and less delicacy than she probably could have.
She’d just been socertainhe’d been just as bored as she was.
It wasn’t her first lesson in realizing that stasis was as good as it got for some people. That some people liked never changing at all. She supposed that explained a lot of her family.
And Mick didn’t grow, because he noticed nothing. He existed with the placidity of a potted plant. There was nothing fundamentally wrong with this. Once upon a time this hadn’t seemed important. But she now knew what a luxury being truly known was.
He was sitting with Megan Forster, whom she also knew from high school.
“Hey, Megan,” she said. “Good job on the eyeliner.”
Eight years out of high school and Megan was still Goth, at least from the neck up. She was wearing office attire from the neck down. Seems even Megan had a grown-up job now.
“Hey, Glory. Thanks. Um, Mick and I are together now.” She said this sympathetically, with a head tilt. As if Glory would understandably be torn up about the news, but that the feminine sisterhood would compel the two of them to be mature about it.
“Gosh. Congratulations, you two. Let me tell you about our speci—”
“I thought you were leaving for San Francisco, Glory. And that’s why you broke up with me.”
Mick’s voice was pitched about an octave higher than usual. Glory knew that pitch. Any second now his bottom lip would start trembling.
Glory’s eyes darted toward Sherrie, who was absorbed in conversation with another customer. She lowered her voice. “Come on, Mick. I had a list of reasons. Remember? Youmademe tell you. Don’t make me do it again,” she warned, with stern desperation. “Speaking of lists of things, have you looked at the menu? I recommend the pumpkin muffin.”
The pumpkin muffin was becoming her little go-to refuge. A little island in a stormy waitressing sea.
“But you said you wereleaving,” he repeated. The wordleavingwobbled a little.
She pushed a menu gently into his hands, and his fingers reflexively curled over it like a drowning spider offered a twig.
“He’ll have the pumpkin muffin,” Megan said patiently, clearly confident of her place in Mick’s life and obviously accustomed to his sensitivity. She knew how hard Glory had dumped him, and she liked having a project. “I’d like a pumpkin muffin, too.”
“Good choice.” Glory was relieved. A take-charge woman was just what Mick needed. “Anything to drink, Mick?”
“I’ve already swallowed a gallon of my own tears,” he said, an accusing throb in his voice. “I couldn’t drink another drop ever again.”
“I can get you a Sprite,” Glory said through gritted teeth.
“He’ll have decaf,” Megan said placidly. “I’ll have an Earl Grey.”
“Coming right up!” She spun about and all but sprinted to Giorgio with this order. That was it. The thrill officially gone from the newness of this job. And there were a lot more tables to go.
