She makes a show of putting her bookmark into the crease of her book and closing it. “Did it ever occur to you that some peopleliketo be alone?”
She’s not Libby.
Embarrassment washes over me as I realize the mistake I’ve made. I start to respond but realize I have nothing to say.
But she does. “Some people spend all morning at work just counting down the hours until they get one free hour—just sixty pathetic minutes—of alone time. Uninterrupted. Undisturbed. No kids pulling at you. Nobody asking where the report is. I figured the book was enough of a sign, but apparently not.”
“Okay, I understand. I’ll just—”
“A bit of free time. I have zero, and it’s all I ask. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” She looks me up and down. “You’re probablybathingin free time.”
Are people really this rude?
The words hit me and tears spring to my eyes. “I’m really sorry. I—”
“Don’t you dare apologize.” I hear a woman’s voice from behind me loud enough to make me turn around. She’s tall and blonde, probably mid-thirties, wearing a gray pencil skirt, white blouse with the top three buttons undone, and pointy black heels. I didn’t see her before, but I notice she’s sitting two tables over.
She makes her way to my side, and wow. She’s tall. She looks like an actual model. And not a catalog model—a runway model.
“If anyone should apologize, it’s her,” she says to me, nodding at the woman with the book. She looks at the woman. “You didn’t have to be so rude. What is wrong with you?”
The woman, clearly outmatched, slowly looks down at her book.
“You could’ve just politely declined.” The blonde motions tome. “This woman asked you to share a meal with her, and you practically spat in her face.”
“I didn’t want to share a meal with her,” the woman retorts. “I don’t even know her.”
“Well, I want to share a meal with her.” The blonde loops her arm through mine. “Come sit with me.”
My heart sputters, aware that the mahjong players have stopped playing, the man on the laptop has stopped typing, and the two men in deep conversation have stopped talking. They’re all watching this scene play out.
What is it about me being vaulted into publicly awkward situations? The country club stage, the fountain, Roger, the French diplomat, and now this.
“I’m Lennon,” the woman says once we’re back at her table.
“Like John Lennon?” I ask.
She smiles, probably used to that question. “Yes. My mom was a fan.”
There’s a cheeseburger and a big bowl of fries, along with what I think is a chocolate milkshake, at her place setting. She sits down and nods at the chair across from her. “Go ahead. Sit.”
I slide into the chair as Lennon picks up her burger and takes a huge bite. “Ooh, you got the Aloha Bowl.” She nods to my tray. “It’s really good.”
“It is?”
She nods, mouth full of food.
“I’m Claire, by the way,” I say, still sort of dumbfounded. “Thank you for that.”
She picks up a french fry and drags it through her ketchup. “No thanks necessary. That woman is awful. Last week she yelled at a young mom because her baby started crying.” She shoots a glare at the woman, who seems to be pretending to read her book but is actually watching us. “Who does that?”
“Yeah, I don’t know,” I think out loud. “Maybe she’s having a rough day.”
“Still no excuse,” Lennon says. “When I’m on my period, I’m miserable, but I’m only mean to the people who have to love me.” She picks up her milkshake and takes a long sip. “So. Claire. What do you say... do you want to be friends?”
Chapter 13
“So, let me get this straight. He calls you. Criticizes you. Then asks you to help him do his work? Who the heck is this guy?”
