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But then I return to my section to find that Ethan Thomas is seated at the table in their place.
He’s alone and wearing a gaudy Hawaiian shirt with a vibrant plastic lei, and when I approach the table, mouth agape, I realize that he’s brought his own glass: a plastic fluted cocktail cup with a giant $1.99 sticker on it.
“What in God’s name am I seeing?” I ask, aware that at least half of the diners and much of the restaurant staff is watching us.
It’s almost like they all knew he’d be here.
“Hi, Olive,” he says quietly. “I, um . . .” He laughs, and seeing him nervous does wiggly, protective things to me. “I was wondering whether you served mai tais here?”
I say the first thing that comes to mind: “Are you drunk?”
“I’m trying to grand-gesture. For the right person. Remember when we had delicious mai tais?” He nods to the cup.
“Of course I remember.”
“That day, I believe, was the day I fell in love with you.”
I turn and glare at Shellie, but she won’t meet my eyes. The kitchen staff scurries back into the kitchen. David pretends to be engrossed in something on an iPad near the water pitchers, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think that was Ami’s flash of dark hair darting down the hall to the bathroom.
“You fell in love with me?” I whisper, handing him a menu in a pathetic attempt to make it look like there’s nothing to see here.
“I did,” he says. “And I miss you, so much. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am.”
“Here?” I ask.
“Here.”
“While I’m working?”
“While you’re working.”
“Are you just going to repeat everything I say?”
He tries to wrestle his smile under control but I can see how much this exchange lights him up inside.
I try to pretend it doesn’t do the same to me. Ethan is here. Ethan Thomas is grand-gesturing in an ugly shirt, with a fake mai tai glass. It’s taking my brain a little time to catch up to my heart, which is currently jackhammering away beneath my breastbone.
It’s beating so hard, in fact, that my voice shakes. “Did you coordinate with the Hamiltons for maximum effect here?”
“The Hamiltons?” he asks, and turns to follow my eyes over to their table. “Oh!” Ducking, he glances up at me, eyes comically wide. As if there’s anywhere to hide in that shirt? Oh, Ethan. “Wow,” he whispers. “They’re here? That is . . . a coincidence. And awkward.”
“That’s awkward?” I look with meaning at his bright shirt and his Day-Glo green cup in the middle of the classy, muted dining room of Camelia.
But instead of looking embarrassed, Ethan straightens, growling a quiet “Oh, you’re ready for awkward?” He reaches up to begin unbuttoning his shirt.
“What are you doing?” I hiss. “Ethan! Keep your clothes—”
He shrugs out of it, grinning, and words immediately fall away. Because beneath his Hawaiian shirt he’s wearing a shiny green tank top that strongly resembles . . .
“Tell me that’s not,” I say, biting back a laugh that is so enormous, I’m not sure I’m big enough to contain it.
“It was Julieta’s,” Ethan confirms, and looks down at his chest. “We had it made out of her dress. Yours is, presumably, still intact in your closet.”
“I burned it,” I tell him, and he looks like he’s going to vehemently protest this decision. “Okay, fine, I didn’t. I planned to.” I can’t help but reach out and touch the slippery satin. “I didn’t realize you were attached to it.”
“Of course I am. The only thing better than you in that dress was you out of it.” Ethan stands, and now everyone is really looking at him. He’s tall, hot, and wearing a shiny green tank top that leaves nothing to the imagination. Ethan is in great shape, but still . . .
“That really is a terrible color,” I say.
