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My face heats up, and I wonder if he’s dismissive because of his guilt or if he really doesn’t care. “Do you know why her horse threw her?”
For a second, his face goes entirely blank, and then he laughs again. “Now, I don’t know if I’d risk eating the fish out here since it’s obvious they don’t have the most skilled staff, but I’m assuming you don’t want a lot of carbs since a body like yours probably won’t hold weight well.”
It takes me a second to realize he’s deflecting with shitty insults, which, for me, is as good as admitting his guilt. I stare at him so long he shifts uncomfortably, and then he clears his throat and holds his menu up high enough that I can’t see his face.
Before I can call him out, the lone bartender walks over. He’s on the younger side of his twenties, I think, and he’s giving me a look like he’s asking if I need help. I offer a smile and shake my head gently.
The guy nods, then clears his throat. “Ready to order?”
“Just trying to find something that won’t kill us both,” Monty says with a light laugh, dropping the menu down and winking at me like I’m in on his shitty joke.
I stare at him before handing my menu to the young man. “I’ll take the fish.”
The guy fights off a laugh. “Chef René will be thrilled. That’s his specialty.”
“Oh, I bet. Brave woman,” Monty says withanotherwink. I’m beginning to think he has a fucking facial spasm. “Just a Caesar salad for me. Hold the E. coli.”
“Oh my god,” I hiss at him, but he ignores me and smirks at the server before taking a drink.
“Also, keep these coming, sport.” He waves his glass in the air.
The guy looks like he wants to claw Monty’s eyes out, his spine stiff and jaw tight, and I certainly wouldn’t stop him. I can see the kid biting back words as he walks off.
Monty doesn’t seem to notice or care as he leans back and stretches his legs out even farther. “So, Flor says you were in some complicated situation and got dumped.”
I blink at yet another rapid subject change filled with quiet insults, and I bristle with annoyance at my best friend, who can’t keep her damn mouth shut. “I was casually seeing a guy, and it ended.” The truth is, John was just as big of an asshole as Monty; he just hid it better. For a while, at least. “It really wasn’t that complicated.”
“Hey, I’m just making conversation. No need to get defensive. Flor’s been going on about you since she and I met, and I wanted to see what the fuss was about.” He grins like I’m supposed to be flattered. “You aren’t half-bad to look at. Where are you from anyway?”
I know exactly what that question is supposed to mean, but I’m not going to give him my adoption sob story or what little I know from my DNA results. “Chicago,” I tell him, deadpan. “My parents moved here when I was a baby.”
He leans forward, elbow on the table and glass dangling from his fingers in a loose hold. He looks like he’d fit right into some eighteen-hundreds men’s club. “Yeah, but, like, where are youfrom?”
“I mean, my mom’s uterus, I guess, if you want to get technical about it,” I shoot back.
He blinks at me, then rolls his eyes and takes a large swig from his drink. “Cute.”
It doesn’t sound like he thought it was cute at all, and I feel a triumphant surge.
Before he can speak again, the bartender returns with a bread basket and a glass of white wine I definitely didn’t order but appreciate. I smile at him. “Thank you.”
He smiles and walks off, and I take a long drink before pulling the cloth napkin back to reveal the cut slices of what looks like fresh baguette. My mouth waters as the smell hits me, and I can’t remember the last time I ate.
“That’s a culture thing, right?” he asks.
I stare at him with a frown. “Culture thing?”
“Bread. I went to this joint downtown a few weeks ago where they make you take your shoes off and there were no forks.” He laughed again and sipped his drink. “They made you eat the soup by dipping bread into it. I don’t think it was really sanitary, but places like that probably get a pass for being…” I brace myself as his brow furrows in thought. “Ethnic.”
I want to sigh. I also kind of want to throw my wine in his face, but it seems like a waste of good alcohol on a shitty person.
“That’s your people’s sort of thing, isn’t it? That’s why your belly dancers are so fat.” He waves his hand like I’m supposed to agree, and I feel my frustration rise beyond my ability to control it.
“My people,” I say slowly, trying to wrap my head around how someone could be sovile.
He shrugs and chuckles. “You know what I mean.”
Something inside me snaps.
