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Sounds super Jerry Springer? Why, I think so, too.
Which meant that, technically, I had to play nice with both of these uppity gassholes. But while Cruz made a deliberate effort not to acknowledge my existence in any way, I was perfectly happy to show him what I thought about him.
“Do you think that kind of attitude will help you get a tip?” Gabriella asked incredulously, folding her arms over her chest. Some best friend to my sister she was, treating me like I was a dry horse turd on the bottom of her stiletto shoe.
“I don’t think I should be given attitude over a diner burger’s origin story,” I supplied.
“Maybe if you were nicer and more conscientious, your poor son could have more opportunities.”
Yup. She went there. She actually mentioned Bear.
A bullet of anger pierced my gut.
“Well, if you were just a little bit prettier, maybe you wouldn’t have come in third on Miss America.”
I smiled sweetly.
Clearly, I was willing to go there, too.
Gabriella’s eyes watered and her chin wrinkled and danced like Jell-O as she fumed.
“I would like to speak to management!” she cried out.
“Oh, you mean the big boss?” I asked. “The one in charge of this entire culinary empire?” I made a show of moving half an inch to turn to Jerry. “Management! Table three wants to speak to you.”
Jerry rounded the counter, spitting his tobacco into a nearby trash can, already looking alert while I turned back to the happy couple.
“Anything else I can do for y’all?” My silky smile was as big and fake as Gabriella’s breasts. “Maybe offer you some complimentary white truffle oil while you wait? Perhaps some foie gras?” I made sure to pronounce the ‘s’, to keep that uneducated bimbo label alive.
I definitely wasn’t doing myself any favors. But dang, getting sexually harassed by a kid my son’s age and patronized by my baby sister’s friend just about hurled me to the breaking point.
“Yes, actually. I can’t believe Trinity—”
Gabriella’s scathing remark was cut off when a choking sound came from booth number five, the one occupied by Grabby McHandson himself.
“Oh my gosh!”
“Jesus! No!”
“He’s choking! He is choking on the straw!”
Karma must’ve heard my prayers and decided to intervene, because the guy who’d pinched my ass was now lying on the floor, clutching his neck, his eyes wide and red as he kicked his legs about, trying to breathe.
The whole diner was in a frenzy. People ran back and forth, chairs toppled, women screeched. Someone called 911. Another suggested we flip him on his stomach. And one of his friends was recording the entire thing on his phone, as if we needed more reason not to put our trust in Gen Z.
And there he was.
Dr. Cruz Costello, running in slow-mo to the kid, his sandy hair swooshing about like a Baywatch montage.
He performed the Heimlich maneuver on my assailant and made him cough out the piece of straw he was choking on, saving the day once again.
The jukebox, on cue, started belting out Kid Rock’s “All Summer Long”.
It wasn’t like I genuinely wanted the kid to die.
Being a gasshole was not a sin punishable by death. But the fact that the entire diner glossed over the overt sexual assault I’d been subjected to was jarring, if not completely depressing.
And then there was the fact that Cruz Costello was standing there, tall and muscular and alive, bathing in the compliments everyone around us showered upon him.
