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I peek through the blinds of my living room and out to the square patch of lawn that meets up with the sidewalk. He’s not there. He’s not anywhere in sight. Looking around, I search for some indication that he was here, or even that he remembered last night fondly. A note on a piece of paper. A scribbled message on the teeny whiteboard I have attached to my fridge. But no.
Yet I haven’t checked my phone.
Hurrying to find my discarded uniform pants, I discover them tossed with zerosavoir-faireover the back of my couch.
Upon unlocking my screen, however, there are no notifications from him. Not a call. Not a text. Not even a stupid email.
How dare he?
Landon and I have been friends for a long time, and we talk at my restaurant probably at least twice a week. But after having this—lets be frank—wild night of passion, he decides to ghost me?
Oh, hell, no.
Three
Landon
Come Monday, I saunter up the walkway leading to The Blue Heron’s entrance with a spring in my step. Violet and I had such a fabulous time Saturday night, and I’m looking forward to popping by to see her again.
There’s a line waiting to be seated, and Harper’s absent, so I glance down at my cell. Harrison has sent me several text messages in a row.
Harrison: Dad’s going to be here this Friday.
Harrison: You’re going to be here, too, right?
Harrison: You said you would.
Harrison: You’d better not wuss out on me.
Huffing out, I text him back.
Landon: If anyone’s a wuss, it’s you.
Landon: Of course, I’ll be there, dipshit. I said I would.
“Oh, hey Landon,” Harper says, and I jerk my head up to meet her gaze. “We are super swamped today.”
“Worse than Saturday?”
“Yes. It’s all sorts of crazy up in here, but I do have the same table available I gave you last week.”
I nod enthusiastically, having some exceedingly pleasant memories associated with sitting there. “Sounds fantastic.”
Again, Jeremy waits on me, but from the moment I sit down, I sense that something is off. This kid is about the most unflappable server I’ve ever seen, but he seems jumpy. Then, since I’m right next to the kitchen door, I hear the not-so-dulcet tones of Violet’s voice. Well, it sounds more like a shout.
“Get the hell out! You’refired.”
What the actual…
Before I can finish my thought, I catch a red-faced Brooklyn storming from the kitchen, her hairnet half askew as she rips off her protective gloves and throws them right in the floor between my table and an elderly couple’s. She doesn’t look at anyone as she thunders out, but if her expression means anything, she might just murder anyone who crosses her path.
Violet suddenly appears as she marches to the threshold, pinpoints Jeremy, and yells, “Order up.”
I think she’s going to vanish without noticing me, but at the last moment, her eyes lock onto mine. Now, I’ve known Violet Dean for quite a while, and though there’s been some recent developments in our interactions with one another, I’ve never seen her like this. Not only did she sound venomous as she screamed her ex-employee stupid, but the way she’s looking into my face makes my testicles start to shrivel.
I’m pretty sure that if laser beams could shoot out of her irises, I’d be dead.
Thing is, I don’t know why. Is this just some overflow of whatever went down between her and Brooklyn? Or is it something else? Our extracurriculars from the other night were awesome if I do say so myself, so it can’t be that.
