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“Cool.”
Since my tiny table doesn’t allow for serving dishes, I stay at the stove and mete out appropriate amounts of spaghetti onto each plate. Both of my dinner companions are big guys, so I’m generous with portions. Embarrassingly, I have no sides to go along.
At the table, John spreads his napkin across his lap and lifts his fork. Jacob hesitates. No, we are not holding hands to pray. I think God will forgive. I nod for him to begin.
My stomach is in a slipknot—as in, the contents of my stomach may slip back out. This is the worst. Just the worst. The two males eyeball each other over every bite.
Jacob swallows a mouthful. “How do you guys know each other?”
John pivots to me—your turn.
“We met at work.”
Thoughtful, Jacob nods. “The dental office?”
I twist a noodle around my fork. “No, the diner.”
He blinks. “When?” This he directs at John.
“I’ve been coming in for a few months.”
“So you been hitting on my mom all that time?”
“Jacob!” I cough as a wayward rope of spaghetti snakes its way prematurely down my throat.
“Well they all do. I see every time I’m in there.”
John’s fork hangs over his plate, and obnoxious humor plays around his mouth. Everything about the man is counter to what is socially proper.
“What do you do for a living?” My son, typically quiet with strangers, is suddenly all talky-talky.
John slants his head. “Why do you ask?”
“Because that place is all truck drivers and construction workers and stuff. You don’t look like either one.”
John’s eyes meet mine meaningfully. I return a quick headshake I hope will escape Jacob’s notice.
“Well?” Jacob presses, puffed up in that way he gets lately when we’re out and about and people—men—get too close to me.
Ice cubes rattle as John swigs his water. “I’m in law enforcement.”
Oh no.
Jacob’s gaze hops between us. “Police department?”
John lifts his napkin, swiping it across his lips. “Drug enforcement. DEA.”
I’m an unvarnished truth kind of a guy.
He did warn me. My chin sags to my chest.
“He’s here for me, isn’t he?” Jacob’s tone is scary soft.
I lay down my fork.
“Mom?” He ratchets the tone up.
John rests his fists to either side of his plate. “I’m not here to arrest you, if that’s what you’re asking.”
