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My eyes subtly rake over her body, from her brightly colored hair down to her black boots. She’s not wearing much, exposing her belly, back, and limbs all covered in ink. Various tattoos are stamped across her body like someone was bored in class and spent their time doodling on her sun-kissed skin.
The black crop top she’s in stops somewhere along the middle of her back, and those blue jean cutoffs leave a gap in the high waistline like she bought a size too big.
Wincing, I curse myself for staring at the woman’s ass like some perverted gawker. Biting my bottom lip, I turn my attention back to my phone. I’m watching the broadcast from last year, a sermon about morality playing in the AirPod stuffed in my left ear.
A blur of pink enters my periphery as the tattooed girl takes a seat on the bench next to me. I glance her way, shooting her a polite smile before staring back at my phone.
The girl lets out a sigh, followed by a soft moan as she rubs her forehead. I catch sight of her bloodred nail polish and the tiny tattooed symbols on each of her delicate, long fingers.
“Mr. Goode,” the hostess calls sweetly from the stand. My eyes widen as I glance around to see who might have heard her call me by my last name, but the only ones who pause are an elderly couple sitting on the opposite bench.
I smile at them before moving to the front.
“Your seat is ready,” the hostess says, clutching the menu to her chest. But as she steps toward the empty seat, waiting for me to follow her, my feet don’t move. There’s a right and a wrong in this scenario, and even as my stomach growls with hunger, I know what I have to do.
With an internal grimace, I turn back toward the pink-haired girl on the bench. Her eyes are closed as her head rests against her fist, but I step back toward her, tapping her gently on the arm to wake her.
As her eyes pop open, she stares at me in shock.
“Take my seat,” I say with a huff.
“What?”
“A seat at the bar just came open. Take it.”
“Seriously?” she asks, scrutinizing me like this is some sort of scam.
“Yes, seriously.” I step back and hold out a hand, showing her the waiting hostess, whose smile has turned tense.
The pink-haired girl stands up hesitantly before moving toward the empty stool. “Thank you,” she calls back, her eyes meeting mine for a brief second before she sits down and turns her attention to the menu.
I take my place back in the corner, watching my phone as crowds of people come and go in front of me.
When the sermon comes to an end, the app immediately loads the next video. Our services are nationally televised and recorded, available to the whole country on nearly any streaming platform they prefer—satellite radio, TV broadcast, or online. For all I know, people in this very restaurant are tuning in to their own personal AirPod sermons.
The theme of this week is virtue, and I need inspiration from sermons in the past because, at the moment, nothing clever is coming to me. But some of these old speeches of his were written by his staff, and they lack appeal. They’re dull. That’s why my father passed the sermon writing baton over to me. He says I phrase it all differently and in a way everyone can understand. He’s a bit old-fashioned, so he grew up on flowery prose and, frankly, boring-as-hell metaphors. But he wants to relate Leviticus to the Dallas Cowboys’ last big trade, and that’s what I’m here for.
“Mr. Goode,” a sweet voice calls, and I look up to find the hostess grinning at me. “Another seat at the bar is open.”
I smile at her, my stomach growling with the promise of hash browns and bacon, thankful that my wait wasn’t too much longer. Quickly following behind, my grin turns to a frown when I realize the empty barstool is just to the left of Miss Pink Hair herself.
Taking the seat next to her, I glance her way just as she looks up at me. There’s a nearly empty plate in front of her and a half-filled cup of coffee. There’s also more color to her cheeks now and a much livelier expression.
“Oh my god, it’s you,” she proclaims as I take my seat. With a cordial grin on my face, I nod to her. I’m a little surprised she recognized me, if I’m being honest. She doesn’t seem like the kind to—
“You’re the one who gave me your seat. You are literally a fucking lifesaver. I was so hungry, I thought I was going to die.”
I look downward, momentarily humbled as I realize she recognizes me as the Good Samaritan who gave up his seat…and not the son of Austin’s most prominent pastor.
“You’re feeling better, then?” I ask, without looking at her. My eyes are still glued to my phone while I silently pray that she’s not the kind of person to indulge in too much small talk just because I was polite.
“Much. The biscuits and gravy here are good enough to bring someone back from the dead.”
“I agree. It was my pleasure. I’m glad you had a good breakfast.”
As I glance toward her, getting a good look at her up close, I notice she has her left nostril pierced, not once, but twice. And a gold hoop hanging from the middle of her nose as well. Then there’s another on the right side of her bottom lip. It’s a pity, really. She has a very nice nose.
And very nice lips. And very nice piercing blue eyes.
