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I slump against the wall in the narrow hall between the main dining room and the kitchen. “Can you keep a secret?”
She nods, looking eager. That’s a bad sign. “Totally. Lips sealed. Spill it.”
“I’m marrying him.”
Her hands fly to her mouth. Her eyes go wide then she punches me in the arm. “You are not.”
“Ouch, relax,” I say, rubbing myself. “You’re freakishly strong.”
“I do CrossFit. Tell me you’re joking. You’re seriously marrying the underwear model?”
“Yes, and keep your voice down.” I lean my head back and let out a groan. “It’s a secret.”
That dampens some of her enthusiasm. “Secret marriage, huh?” She leans against the wall next to me, our shoulders touching. Another waitress named Cathy bustles past, pausing only to shoot an ugly frown in our direction. She works too damn hard. “That’s not a good sign.”
“I know. Things are just complicated.”
“Are you happy at least?”
“Like I said, they’re complicated.”
“Ouch. Okay. Should I call a women’s shelter for you or something? I’m not even kidding. Tell me right now and you can come stay with me.”
“Yeah, right, and sleep on your awful futon? No thanks. I have Vietnam War flashbacks about the one night I crashed on it. My spine’s still actively pissed at me.”
“Whatever, the offer is always open. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m good. Really, I’m good. It’s just a lot. But I’m good.”
“Yeah, you seem totally good.” She nudges me with a smile. Cathy comes hurrying past, this time staring daggers. “She’s not even trying to hide how annoyed she is. We’re on break, Cath! Relax a little bit.”
Cathy flips us off before turning the corner.
“Go on, get back to it. I’m going to hover over the toilet and pray I don’t hurl.”
“You’re sure I don’t have to be worried?”
“I’m positive.”
Except I’m obviously not, but the shift goes by easier without Marsha worrying over me more than she already does. Once I’m finished, I step out onto the sidewalk already mentally preparing myself for the bus ride back to the apartment, when I spot him standing near the curb, the engine of his Lexus already running.
I hesitate. I didn’t tell him my schedule, and I didn’t ask for a ride. But he’s here, and my feet hurt, and it’s convenient. He tilts his head in my direction as if inviting me over, and I sigh in resignation.
“You’re stalking me.”
“Only a little bit.” He opens the passenger side door. “Climb in, my pregnant fiancée.”
I roll my eyes, but it smells good in his car. It smells like him: minty, a little spicy, like very subtle cologne. He drives carefully across town and it takes me a minute to realize he’s headed north.
“You’re going the wrong way.” I crane my neck to look back the way we came. “Where are we going?”
“Home.”
“My apartment is—” Oh. Shit. He doesn’t mean my apartment.
He’s trying not to laugh and that pisses me off, so I cross my arms and let the subject drop.
His house is exactly the way I remembered it. Modern and beautiful, the sort of multi-million dollar place I’ve only ever seen online. He takes me upstairs and into the master bedroom, and I pause on the threshold.
