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“Well, then, this calls for our special. It’s a grilled Tilapia on top of a bed of the most delicious rice you’ll ever have,” she says.
“That sounds a little heavy for lunch,” I say. I ignore how my mouth waters at the description. I’ve been eating my feelings, and it was not my imagination that my breasts are fighting with buttons in a battle for liberation that I think one more donut will tip in their favor.
“You should eat your heaviest meal for lunch, actually. So it’s perfect,” Cassie says.
I smile at her helplessly. “Well, my breakfast was pretty good, too,” I admit.
“We’ll have it,” Cassie says to Kemi.
“You’re in for such a treat. It’s so good. The owners pick the week’s special and announce it on Sunday night. It’s always an amazing fusion of cuisines. I can’t wait to hear what you think,” she says.
Her enthusiasm is catching, and I wiggle my shoulders in excitement. “Can’t wait, thanks.” I smile at her.
“Awesome! Shout or wave if you need anything. Your food will be out in about fifteen minutes,” she says and saunters off.
“You need to talk to Hayes,” she says, and my heart thumps in my chest. I shake my head and look down at my hands.
The sounds of the restaurant clang around us, scrapes of forks on cutlery, bursts of laughter from the tables, the scrape of chairs being pushed away from tables. The dining room is devoid of any food smells. It smells nice, almost like a spa, but subtler. I’m sure if my stomach wasn’t caught in my internal conflict, twisted by pangs of longing, churning from the fear that’s become my constant companion, the atmosphere would be soothing.
“You okay, TB?” she asks when I don’t respond and don’t look up.
“No,” I admit annoyed at myself. “I miss him. I hate him. I love him so much, I don’t know what to do,” I confess still looking at my hands.
“I have a feeling he feels the same way,” she says kindly.
“I know—” I whisper.
“Talk to him. Don’t leave town without seeing him,” she says.
“You don’t understand. I don’t want to forgive him because I miss him. I want to forgive him because I believe he sees my worth. And not just because we have great sex or he likes the way I look on his arm. I won’t be another man’s project or trophy. Or whatever I am to him,” I tell her.
She quirks her lips in sympathy. “Oh, honey. You’re the only one who doesn’t see your worth …” she says and I rear back in surprise and hurt.
“What does that mean?” I eye her.
Her eyes soften, and her smile turns a little sad.
“It means if you did, you’d know that the only way anyone would look at you and see anything less than the amazing woman you are is if they’re an idiot. And Hayes Rivers isn’t an idiot. Yeah, he said something stupid to his brother. But he didn’t know you from Sam when he said it,” she reminds me, again.
I chafe at her defense of Hayes, of how right she is and how wrong she is. I rub a finger over the spot on my temple where a small headache is suddenly blooming.
“I would never ever insult him like that. I wouldn’t look at him and see anything less than the human being he is. Yes, he’s handsome. He’s got a hot body. He’s got pots of money and he’s got power. I didn’t look at him and wonder if he got rich by ripping people off or assume that because he’s a big guy those things about him and his ex were true. I wondered if he would be tender and caring, constant, proud, honorable, determined, and convicted and smart. Those things have nothing to do with his money.”
“You’re deluding yourself,” she says dismissively.
“How?” I chafe at the words.
“The wealth he was born into has shaped all of those things. Just like the poverty you were born into has shaped yours.” She puts her hands up, palms facing me when I start to speak. “Hear me out, please.”
“As if I could stop you,” I grumble.
“I get it. You were raised to be proud of who you are. Not what you have. He was raised to believe the exact opposite. All of that honor, pride, conviction? They all fuel the need to protect the things—his name, his money, his position,” she says.
“Yeah, but at what cost?”
“Whatever it takes, is what I’m sure he’d say,” she shrugs. “You’re such a hypocrite,” she says.
“Excuse me? Is it Thursday or is it Shit on Confidence Day?” I ask.
