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The waiter hovered nearby anxiously for a moment. I’d caught sight of him a few moments before, watching in wide-eyed horror at the scene we’d been putting on. Well, Brooke had; I’d just been the intended humiliation victim.
Except I wasn’t humiliated.
I was jubilant.
He cleared his throat as he approached the table. Impeccably dressed, but I could see the slight nervousness in his eyes as he swallowed. “Excuse me, sir?”
“Yes?”
“Shall I...” He motioned to the empty chair somewhat nervously.
“I’ll take her order to go, but I’ll have mine here. You can clear her spot if you need to, thank you.”
If I'd felt up to it, I would have ordered a bottle of champagne to celebrate. Instead, I'd probably opt for a second beer. I’d taken an Uber from the office.
I unbuttoned another top button on my shirt and rolled up my sleeves, getting comfortable.
I reached for my beer, propping my phone up against the flower vase so I could watch the rest of my game in peace, then pulled my ear buds from my suit pocket and slipped one in so I could actually hear the game, not just watch it.
Who would have guessed the Christmas party would be the final straw?
Had I known that, I would have tried to skip her painfully boring Halloween party and saved us both some trouble.
Note to self,try that sooner next time.
And clearly, knowing me as well as I did, therewouldbe a next time.
I’d been trying to expedite the end of our relationship since before Halloween. I’d realized it was going nowhere quick, and the closer it got to Christmas, the more women tended to expect things. Gifts, jewelry, another level to the relationship.
I wasn’t ready to settle.
Or settle down.
I had aspirations. Junior partner. Senior partner. I was working my ass off to get there. Women could wait. I didn’t have a clock ticking. Unless you counted my mother. She seemed to think I was running on some sort of biological clock, her main train of conversation lately being her lack of grandchildren.
It wasn’t my fault I was an only child.
I needed to find the woman a hobby that would take the pressure off of me.
An hour later, my team had won. My steak had been perfect. I tipped the waiter what the meal was worth for his having to witness the embarrassment of the breakup and took my carry-out home for lunch tomorrow.
I stuffed it in the fridge, poured myself one last beer for the night, checked the time on my phone. It was late, but worth texting.
Guess who’s single again?
I hit send while dropping into the oversized leather chair in my living room, a cold beer in hand. It was the weekend, thankfully, and I could sleep in.
I leaned my head back against the soft leather and closed my eyes, waiting for the familiar ringtone.
No response.
I checked the time.
She was either still working, or she’d fallen into bed as soon as she came home. Either was likely. I’d try her again in the morning, and if not, I’d swing by the diner on the weekend. She worked nights—Jimmy had pretty much let her dictate her own schedule the last few years. He and Marnie had a definite soft spot for her. They had pretty much adopted her when she started working at the diner.
Sometimes, I wondered if that was what kept her there longer than she should have stayed.
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