Page 23
“Yes.” He sighs and goes back to his book. “I’ve seen them.”
Tired or not, I’m fully aware I’m staring. “They’re just like David Bowie’s.”
“No. They’re not.” He flips to the next page, obviously not reading. “I was born with heterochromia. David Bowie got punched in the eye when he was a kid and it blew out his pupil.”
I cock my head to the side, studying him. “How do you know that?”
He shrugs. “Everyone knows that.”
“I didn’t.”
A devilish smile curves his perfect lips. “Everyone but you, then.”
The dig doesn’t bother me as much as it should. “My grandma would probably know that.”
No response.
“My mom loved Bowie.” I barely get the words out, the simple sentence nearly gutting me in the process. I turn to the window and take several short, steady breaths to keep from crumbling.
Across from me, the beautiful troublemaker lifts his head and studies me, a furrow forming between his dark brows. “Mine, too. She cried the day he died.”
Tears clog my throat, and I manage a weak nod, barely holding myself together.
Unaware of my fragile emotional state, T. J. bounds to the table and flicks his gaze toward Travis before dialing up his smile. “You ready?”
“Almost. I need to pay my check.” I pull three crumpled dollar bills from my pocket.
T. J. raises his hand, his grin wolfish. “I got you covered.”
“No, really. I have money.” Against my will, my eyes are drawn to Travis as I reach under the table for my tote. I place Mom’s ashes on the seat next to me while I dig for my wallet.
“Oh, hey. Nice, uh . . . martini shaker?” With a nervous laugh, T. J. juts his chin toward the urn.
Travis shakes his head. “It’s an urn, dumbass.”
My blind search comes up empty, so I lay Mom’s diary beside her ashes and tip the bag upside down, spilling the contents onto the table. “It has to be here.”
Fear blooms in the pit of my stomach as I dig through the assorted candy wrappers and juice boxes, tubes of cherry lip gloss and blackest black mascara, several stray M & M’S, a travel-size deodorant, toothbrush and toothpaste, a bunch of loose change, the keys to the Betty, Jeanie’s AAA card and her handwritten list of safe places to stay, a hairbrush, three tampons, and G-Lo’s striped anti-rape panties.
But no wallet.
My cheeks burn as I shove the underwear and tampons back into the tote and pick through the rest as if my wallet will suddenly appear out of nowhere. “I know I grabbed it before I left.” Did I leave it in the car? God, maybe something living in the Betty’s back seat ate it.
“T. J.! You forgot to clock out, again,” the guy from the kitchen shouts.
“Hold on to your hat, Rob!”
Rob pokes his head out of the back. “Becky’s here.”
T. J. groans. “Aw, shit.”
An older woman with faded red-orange hair strolls out of the kitchen wearing a crisp white apron over her pink uniform and a pair of green rubber gloves up to her elbows. “Travis James Masterson, I don’t pay you to flirt. Get in here and clock out before I call your mama and tell her I fired you again!”
The breath in my lungs freezes, and I lift my head in slow motion. Missing wallet momentarily forgotten, I gape from one Travis to the other and clear my throat. Instead of words, incoherent nonsense sputters past my lips. I try again, this time focusing my attention on my waiter. “You’re Travis? I-I thought you were . . . and he . . .” I dart my eyes toward the man I thought was Travis.
“My friends call me T. J.” He shrugs, oblivious to the gears frantically turning in my head as he backs toward the kitchen. “Be right back. And don’t worry about your food. I got it covered.”
While the real Travis disappears behind the counter, the fake one throws back his head and explodes with laughter.
