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“Let me guess.”I squint in thought.“The Godfather, right?OrFight Club?John Wickif you go modern classics, orA Clockwork Orangeif you prefer classic classics.You know, the go-to woman-repellants.”
His smile vanishes.“How the hell did you?—”
I wave a dismissive hand.“Please.I dated you all through my twenties.NoFight Clubposter guy in the history of time has ever thought twice about holiday decorations.”
“Guilty.”He’s smiling again and his tone is light, but something about it feels forced.“Guys like me don’t decorate for Christmas, and our hideous homes drive away quality women who should really know better.”
The ending of that sentence veered into truth-telling territory, and I immediately regret teasing him.“Hey, I was just kiddi?—”
“Pssht,” he says.“I know I’m awesome.But don’t blame my decor for the lack of quality women in my life.I drive them away all on my own.”
“You do?”I ask skeptically.
He gives a mock bow.“Unreliable and irresponsible, at your service.”
The words fall from his lips like a warning, but they don’t sit quite right.
“Really.”
“Really,” he says.“Ask me how many restaurants I left before I landed here.”
My raised brows are the only encouragement he needs.
“Eleven,” he says.“That’s a fairly major percentage of Beaucoeur restaurants.”
My brows are definitely still up.“Quit or fired?”
“Both.”He shrugs in faux modesty.“I have a gift for fighting with my managers.And unwisely dating coworkers.And just not showing up.”
I glance around the restaurant at the employees I’ve seen flocking to him all day, clamoring for his attention or hoping to make him laugh.Verdant also has customers who are obvious Jonesy regulars too.
“And how many years have you worked here?”
His smile slowly fades.“Almost four.”
“No fights with your managers?And you were somehow able to show up for your shifts?”
He shrugs, his expression almost pained.“Mostly, yeah.”
I don’t have the heart to ask about dating coworkers because I don’t want to risk the potential jealousy.“And you were how old at those other restaurants?”
“I see what you’re doing.”He scowls, but he answers.“Late teens, early twenties mostly.”
I pat his hand and try not to linger too long.“That’s actually pretty good evidence of developing maturity, my friend.Because everyone here seems to count on you now.”
His jaw bunches like he’s about to argue when June, a server of indeterminate age with weather-beaten skin and a long blond-fading-to-gray braid rushes up to us.
“Hey, Jonesy, can you help me split the bill for that table of ten?I always screw it up.”
He straightens immediately.“Three seconds and I’m all yours.”
“Okay!”
Once she’s gone, I wave my hands in a magician’s flourish.“Look at that!Someone relying on you!”
He rolls his eyes.“Being a good server isn’t the same as being a good brother or a good son or a good boyfriend.”
Before I can ask about those extremely specific examples, he saunters away, whistling.
