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Jack’s mostly a gentleman, and drags his eyes back up to mine.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a couple of my girlfriends come in the door and head to the bar. I feel a tiny stab of regret that I had to say no to the invitation to girls’ night. Ivy’s call didn’t come through until after I’d already confirmed with Jack. But truth? I’d rather be catching up with the girls than doing this awkward how-are-you with Jack.
Not a good sign.
I force my attention back to my ex and tell myself to be more open-minded. We do a quick catch-up on the basics. Weather. Holiday plans. My parents, his brother. Both our careers.
It’s a nice conversation. Friendly, civil, pleasant. This could work. Yes indeed…
A shadow appears over us. “Drinks?”
I glance up to order a glass of white wine but blink in surprise when I see that it’s not one of the usual servers taking our order. It’s Mark.
“Hey!” I say.
“Hey, man,” Jack says distractedly, glancing around Mark toward the bar. “Got anything good on tap these days?”
“No. Nothing good. Went out of my way to stock the shittiest beer I could find.”
I give my best friend a warning look. Clearly his feelings about my plan haven’t improved since this morning.
The conversation in Starbucks went something like this:
Me: Hey, so Jack and I are going to dinner tonight at Cedar and Salt.
Him: Why?
Me: Why do you think? I’ve already told you my plan. Get on board, or be quiet about it.
Him: How’m I supposed to be quiet when you won’t shut up about it?
Me: Hey, would you mind if I hung some mistletoe in that little archway between the bar and restaurant? It’s sort of part of my plan…
Him: [Walks away]
Unsurprisingly, there’s no mistletoe hanging in the bar. I expected this, and I came up with a backup plan.
“I’ll have a pinot grigio, please.”
Jack orders one of the local IPAs, and Mark stalks away without a word.
Jack raises his eyebrows. “What’s up with your guy?”
I wave a hand. “Oh, you know. Probably worried we’re going to start fighting again.”
Jack’s smile is slow and familiar. “We really did have the best fights. Best makeup times, too.”
I smile back. “We totally did.”
It’s true—being with Jack kept me on my toes. But it’s a little bit hard not to feel tired at the thought of going through all of that.
A glass of wine appears in front of me, a beer in front of Jack, set down with just enough force to slosh slightly.
I sigh and glance up at Mark. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the kitchen?”
He’s wearing his usual jeans, paired with a dark green flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows and the old watch he inherited from his grandfather. No sign of the apron he usually wears when he cooks.
Mark’s not only the owner of the place, he’s the head chef. Lately he’s been transferring more responsibility to Katie, his sous-chef, who he’s hoping will take over the kitchen most nights, but it’s unlike him to work tables.
