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I stare at him with intense, piercing focus, waiting for a sign.
Y’know. For a sign that his sign was a sign.
The minutes crawl by. Bobby never once looks my way to give any indication, nor even acknowledges the fallen napkin. Then a totally different server walks by and picks it right up off the floor, sets a new one on the table for him with a smile, and is on his way. Malcolm and Bobby are talking on like they don’t even notice.
I sigh and lean back in my seat.
“You want a to-go box for that, Jimmy Strong?”
I glance up. It’s the pretty server with the boobs and the wavy blonde hair. Apparently she learned my name since performing my requested task, likely after having gathered intel from the rest of the staff who know me quite well.
I barely give the poor girl an acknowledgement other than a tiny sigh and a lazy gesture at my plate.
She folds her hands over her front. “So, did you get done what you needed to get done? With your best friend over there?”
I give him a tortured look from across the room. He’s fully involved with the stuffy moron now, chatting away. “Don’t matter much, apparently.”
“Why’s that?”
I shrug. “He doesn’t need the help I thought he needed.”
“Hmm. Shame.” She peers at them herself for a second, then faces me again. “Well, I think you’re a sweet guy, Jimmy, to go all out for your best friend. It’s just the sweetest, nicest thing.”
“Is it?” I ask lamely, not really caring for an answer, still raw and staring at their table.
“Oh, yes! The sweetest!” she answers chirpily. “I mean, that kind of friendship y’all got, that’s a real special thing, I can feel it. A real lifelong thing … a forever thing.”
My eyes meet hers at those words, struck.
She leans down, her boobs nearly spilling from that tight top of hers, and lowers her voice to a whisper. “My name’s Cindy. Cindy Anne Thorpe.”
I peer into her pretty, glistening eyes. Maybe there’s a silver lining in all this after all, even if I’m feeling nothing but pain about my best friend across the room. “Cindy,” I murmur thoughtfully.
“Yeah. Y’know.” She shrugs, then nods at me. “For when you talk to your mama and put in a good word about me.”
My heart sinks.
“Oh,” I grunt. “Uh … right.” I nod slowly, then glance down at my plate. “That thing.”
She makes a tiny scoff of disbelief. “You done already forgot your deal with me?”
“No, no. I got it. I’ll …” I’m the master of keeping deals, apparently. “I’ll put in a good word for you. Trust me, it’ll make a difference.”
The smile returns instantly to her face. She takes my plate. “I’ll put this in a to-go box for you, Mr. Strong. Thanks.” She leans in again. “I could really use that good word. My last job sucked, and I do not want to go back there. The staff here is so much kinder.”
And off she goes with my unfinished meal.
And there I sit, alone again, and feeling the sting of regret for suggesting this whole thing was a good idea.
What a cruddy night this has turned out to be.
Another couple of minutes, and I’ve got a fancy container in my hand I’ve seen only a hundred thousand times, as it’s been the same exact branding ever since the place opened however many odd years ago. Armed with it, I leave a tip for Cindy—or whoever claims it—and make my limping, roundabout, behind-Malcolm’s-unsuspecting-back escape from the restaurant.
I don’t bother to look at Bobby, figuring he’d rather keep up the illusion that he’s all on his own, that this is a real date, that he might actually be able to feel like he’s got a boyfriend in Malcolm.
Or whatever other crazy delusions he’s telling himself.
Just let me pretend, he said.
If only he could hear himself sometimes.
I pop open my ma’s car, toss my leftovers into the backseat, then pull shut the door and prop my feet up on the dash, just like they were before I felt so inspired to enter the place. I pull out my phone to play a game, remind myself it’s one-hundred-percent dead, and toss it onto the passenger seat with a huff. I yank down my hat over my face, cross my arms, and drift off.
Except there isn’t any way I’m possibly drifting off to sleep when my heart’s pounding this madly.
And when I can feel my pulse in my ears like anxious fingers drumming on a tabletop—Bobby’s annoying habit.
And when all my thoughts are on wanting to protect my best friend, and my best friend denying me even that right.
And when I want to punch a certain kid in the nostrils.
The passenger seat door flies open.
I jerk my feet right off the dash—causing my bad one to bump against my good one—and yank my hat off my face, alarmed.
