Page 70 of The Irresistible Distraction

“My problem is you treating this job”—I glance around, but it’s just Brody and Reuben witnessing this, there’s no one in the parking lot—“like some chore you can’t be bothered to complete, that I have to nag you to complete.” I take a deep breath, proud that I haven’t actually cursed or even raised my voice, even though my hands are digging into my own waist. I lower my arms and try again. “We’re short-staffed right now because none of the high schoolers stuck around. Maggie’s finally on her delayed leave, meaning if you want to keep this job, I really need you to come in on time and have a better attitude.”

Walter takes a deep breath, and I think, for a moment, that he’s going to apologize, or at least give me some kind of explanation for why he was late today, to demonstrate he understands why I’m annoyed. But all he says is, “All right.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Walter repeats, with just a tiny bit of attitude—not enough for me to call him out again, but not the tone I was going for either. He goes back to distributing the condiments, and I pick up my useless rag, not even remembering what, exactly, I thought I was wiping down.

“Do you miss me yet? I have a few appointments here and there, but if you want me . . . I’m sure we could negotiate some kind of agreement.”

Brody hands me the Yeti cup, and I find that I can’t really look at him either, not when my ex-husband just almost-maybe-lips-made-contact kissed me, and certainly not with all of Jesse’s words fueling my already omnipresent insecurities.

“Thank you.”

“You okay?”

I shake my head and watch as the Williamses pull into the parking lot. “Nope. And that’s about to get worse.”

My former in-laws rarely come to the diner together. Arthur prefers to have breakfast at the Lake Arrowhead Country Club, where the staff knows not only their names, but their preferred tables, that Adeline likes to have her avocado on the side, and Arthur wants a cup of extra gravy with his biscuits. Even though I’ve only gone there a few times, and always with Adeline and Arthur, each experience has been seared into my memory, helping me understand the type of obsequence they not only are accustomed to but seem to actively prefer.

It’s been years since they’ve visited Keep Calm and Toast On to eat, which, from the moment they enter, is clearly what they’re signaling. They stand at the entryway, waiting to be seated, even though that’s not how we do it. The Shepards, the Gioias, and the Amons—and even our regular seasonal tourists, like the Frombys and Richardsons—know to seat themselves.

But because Adeline and Arthur are clearly waiting for me to show them to a table, I greet them near the door and gesture to a corner booth, because the less I need to look at them directly, the better.

Brody stands there, a bemused expression on his face communicating that he is ready to buy tickets for this show. Even though I suspected he only stopped by to deliver my drink, Brody now seats himself at the main counter, picking up a menu and studying the contents as if he’s never been here before, as if it’s the Cheesecake Factory and he couldn’t possibly remember all of our one-sided menu’s worth of options.

I blow out a breath to fan my bangs out and compose my face before turning to see that Arthur has settled himself, but Adeline has put her hand on the banquette and gives it a little shake. It’s steadier than it appears, mostly because Brody just fixed it the other day, so she tries another tack, running a finger along the table I re-wiped this morning (albeit very quickly, because Walter wasn’t here and I was rushing).

“It’s a little greasy, dear,” Adeline remarks, her high voice pitched louder than strictly necessary, optimizing the number of people she can belittle me in front of. “Is there anywhere else we might sit?”

My smile is tight.

“Of course,” I murmur, attempting to lead them to the opposite end of the diner, except Adeline stops me partway. She looks down at the center booth, the one that will forever be associated with not-brown-recluses and the phrase climb him like Edmund Hillary. She sighs. “Let’s just sit here, where we’ll at least be able to converse with you more easily.”

And I know this lady taught first grade, which means there’s no way she can’t say normal phrases like Let’s talk, or Let’s chat, but I incline my head a little, as if I’m some Regency-era servant.

Brody, being completely unhelpful and clearly on maximum chaos mode, turns and grins. “That’s my favorite booth.”

I turn away from my former in-laws and head toward the counter, realizing, belatedly, that I was so flustered by what Brody said I didn’t do my normal baseline duty as a waitress. “I’ll grab your coffees and give you a moment.”

“Black,” Arthur reminds me, unnecessarily, because I lived with them for almost the entirety of the year Jesse and I were married. When it becomes clear Adeline isn’t going to deign to respond, I leave to prepare her two-creams-one-sugar and Arthur’s black in new mugs I rinse with hot water, because I know from experience that’s a detail they prefer.

I watch from the corner of my eye as Brody chats with Walter about the specials, wishing I could task Walter with serving Adeline and Arthur.

As Adeline continues to look down at her menu, I take my time to study them. They’re the type of people who dress up even if it’s to come to the local diner. She’s wearing a long-sleeved linen shirt with a matching skirt, a single strand of pearls resting on top of her fully buttoned shirt. Her outfit is fitted to show off the fact that at almost sixty she’s still maintained her figure, and her face, as always, is made up. Even in the almost twelve months I lived with them, I don’t remember ever seeing Adeline without her “face on,” as my mother referred to it. Arthur is in his perpetual vest and bow tie, a style he’s been rocking since his lawyer days, and his pants look pressed, and he’s got on nice patent leather shoes that somehow look both luxe and comfortable at the same time.

Studying them, it’s easy to see the slightly patrician turn of nose Sebastian inherited, the tiniest gap in the front teeth that Arthur has, which Jesse fixed through years of braces. They are an attractive couple, even if they look a bit out of place here.

“The menu really doesn’t seem to have changed much, has it?” Even if her tone hadn’t been demeaning, there’s really no way those words could be perceived as anything other than denigrating.

I count in my head while Adeline debates options out loud, turning down things in a nearly stream-of-consciousness diatribe.

To interrupt her, I try, “I’ve tried to keep all the puns, the way Dad would have liked.”

“Yes, dear, but then people are forced to say they’d like You Broc My World Soup, when they could just order the broccoli and cheddar.”

I smile at the Atkinsons, who come in with a friendly wave and head toward a side booth. A moment later, the Richardsons (all six of them), who come every summer for at least a few weeks, let themselves in with a friendly wave.

Walter bustles over, a broad smile on his face, because even though the Atkinsons are regulars who are modest tippers, the Richardsons will more than make up for that. They’re my favorite type of out-of-towners—they’re gracious, always buy a little extra takeout to go, and tip 25–30 percent, whatever they feel like rounding up to that day.