Page 11 of The Unfluencer

“Would you care to take this home with you? Maybe a late-evening snack?” he probes, voice shaky as all get-out, already reaching, anticipating my needs. “And you’re sure I can’t offer you another beverage? Water, espresso… I’ve got a lovely assortment of teas, champagne, whatever you⁠—”

“Thanks, just the to-go container, please,” I say, partly for his sake, sparing him the waterworks in his place of business.

I’m tempted to slide him my tele-therapist’s phone number and tell him how my sessions are clearly doing wonders for me. Can’t he see how cathartic it is, sitting here, utterly uncomfortable with phones aimed at me, gossip circulating, all in the name of creating healing “rituals of remembrance,” an idea Dr. Bellamy swears by?

He sniffles again.

Really, I’m tickled at the comedy of it all.

There’s no manual to teach people how to handle a person dealing with grief. Obviously, they mean well. But they either treat you like you’re contagious or fragile, like my employees and my family. Or like it’s just a hump, a minor pit stop on life’s journey to brave my way through, like Dad and my buddy Cord. In most cases, though, I don’t know what it is, but they want to overfeed you, like Mom. They keep offering me random banana-nut loaves and casseroles. Just endless, hardy, carb-heavy stuff. Like weighing down my gut will somehow make me smile and consequently make them feel better that they’ve made me happy.

“You know what, I’ll bring a few teas over for you,” the server says, putting himself firmly in the third category.

I guess now I’m adding “lovely” teas to the list of overabundant offerings.

I avert my gaze, shifting my focus toward the bar, unable to look at him directly without laughing.

“Just the one to-go container,” I repeat, nearly choking on my laugh because other than sparing this poor man, I’m distracted.

It’s a little hard to hold on to my train of thought when there’s a beautiful woman at the bar, and…

Why am I staring at her?

“Of course…” The server trails off, surprising me when a smile breaks over his splotchy face as he follows my line of vision. It’s almost like he too noticed me noticing her when I’ve got no business noticing any woman. Especially not with legs like that when I’m here in remembrance of the vows I exchanged with my late wife.

Shit.

“Please, let me know”—his lips twitch—“if there’s anything else I can get for you.”

Now he’s laughing at me?

His suddenly vibrant gaze flits from the woman to me, before he practically skips away. Except he doesn’t fall back in line with the rest of the pristinely dressed waitstaff. No, he cheerfully veers off toward the back of the house, ducking into the kitchen, knowing good and well he’s about to throw dirt on my name.

Wow.

“Uh, glad I could help?” I murmur, amazed and exhausted at the quick turn of events.

I can already see the headlines:

HEARTLESS LUXE HUSBAND AND RECLUSIVE TECH CEO SPENDS WEDDING ANNIVERSARY OGLING ENCHANTING WOMAN AT ELLSWOOD COUNTRY CLUB.

DETAILS TO FOLLOW.

Jesus.

The wildest part is, I hardly noticed her earlier.

She was sitting with some clown in acid-washed denim overalls and a blue beret who looked like he was confused between Paris, France and Paris, Texas. I laughed, thinking about what must’ve gone through that man’s head to pair those two closet staples together and walk out feeling on top of the world. Then she abruptly stood. Her back was to me, so I couldn’t see her face. But there was something about the way she moved with a sense of purpose.

It caught me off guard.

I was more than intrigued.

In Ellswood. In this country club, specifically. People don’t move with urgency. Everything’s about leisure and liaising. Luxuriating over a four-hour lunch conversation about the next gala and cotillion, like this environment alone isn’t the most stale, predictable setting in the city. Same impeccable but—mostly—uninspired menu. Same “high society,” high-tea, holier-than-thou folks.

I don’t know this woman from Eve, and suddenly, I’m that guy who’s captivated by a woman’s walk?

But there she was, moving against the current.