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Her husband shrugged dismissively. “He probably already made the rounds before we got here.”
“I guess.” She glanced at the children, busy with their own conversation. Said low, “I didn’t like how he fixed her strap. It was—strange.”
Her husband bristled, and she instantly wished she could take the words back.
“What are you talking about?”
“He put her tank top strap back in place. On her shoulder.”
She plucked a phantom strap, placed it on her own shoulder to demonstrate.
Her husband crossed his arms and cocked his head. “Come on. That didn’t happen.”
“Maybe you didn’t notice, but he did it.”
Her husband’s lip twisted and his eyebrows lifted, the skeptical expression he always gave when he thought she was incorrectly perceiving the world. This look told her they were teetering at the edge of the argument. The one she knew she’d lose, easy-pleasy-bread-and-cheesy, because the manager had only said excusable things. Because he’d repulsed her, frightened her, in a way illogical enough, visceral enough, that she knew she couldn’t explain it.
She attempted to shift into a different argument. “I mean…I don’t get why this bugs you. You get to yell at the UPS guy, but I have to be all friendly with this guy? I’m allowed to be, like, fractionally rude when I happen to think someone is creepy or annoying or whatever.”
“The UPS guy’s an idiot,” her husband grumbled.
She gave a snorting laugh. “True! Very true. And this guy was overly familiar. It was irritating.”
Her husband’s eyes widened. He lifted his chin to gesture behind her.
The manager walked toward them carrying the largest wedge of vanilla cake she’d ever seen. He set the plate down dramatically on their table, nearly upending the little numbered flag on its metal pole. The cake was a beautiful shade of cream. It was so soft, the waves of icing so deep, its sheen so matte, it looked too perfect to be real. The children stared as though they were witnessing an apparition of the Virgin Mary.
“On the house!” The manager put his hands on his hips. “For the best-behaved kids, of course.”
Their little girl reached toward the cake as if she was going to touch it, make sure it was actually there. Pulled her hand back. She beamed up at the manager.
“Thank you!”
“Cake for a cupcake,” he said.
Her daughter’s smile faltered.
“You didn’t need to do that,” she told the manager. Her voice came out as clipped and cold as she’d meant it to.
“My pleasure! You’ve got to be a gentleman when you’ve got a princess in the house.”
“Thank you.” Her husband seemed as mesmerized as the children. “That is quite a piece of cake!”
The manager set down extra plates and utensils. He picked up the numbered flag, sending the receipt the server had tucked under it skittering across the table. He stopped the paper from blowing away with a heavy slap of his palm.
“I’ll get this out of your way,” he said, lifting up the flag. “Want me to toss this for you?” He waved her husband’s copy of the receipt, held between two fingers.
“Sure, thanks,” her husband said.
The manager shoved the receipt in a back pocket. “All right. Enjoy!”
His whole self glowed triumphant. His eyes connected with hers, and behind his mask she was sure there was a sneering smile, one that whispered, “I win.”
The manager gave an obsequious bowing motion, then went back into the café.
“That’s, like, a quarter of a four-layer cake,” she grumbled. “And he didn’t even ask if it was okay to bring it?”
“You’re seriously taking issue with free food? Freedessert?” Her husband grinned and shook his head, well aware of her sweet tooth. “Never thought I’d see the day.”
