“That’s our oxymoron of the day. Well, of the week or whenever someone thinks of one and changes it. Feel free to contribute. Every week, I pick my favorite and the author gets a free entrée,” she says excitedly.
I pick up the chalk and scrawl “bittersweet” while she marks something down on her hostess stand.
“You want a booth or table?” she asks.
“Booth,” we say at the same time.
“Awesome, come this way. And I’m Angie. My husband, Jackson, and I are the managers.” Her soft brown eyes twinkle with pride. I can see why. It’s a wonderfully unique place. Nearly everyone we pass looks up to greet her and tips their heads at us as we make our way through the wide aisle between the tables in the front of the huge space.
“If you need anything, just shout. But your server will take real good care of you,” she says happily and puts the menus down on the stone tabletop of the booth she stops at.
“Actually, I need the ladies’,” Cass says.
“Just walk past the bar and down the corridor. You’ll see it on the left,” Angie says.
“Be right back. Will you get me some water, please?” Cass says and drops her bag on the floor.
“Thank you,” I say as I slide into the curved, butter yellow leather covered seats of the booth and smile up at her. The high-backed seats wrap around the table and we can’t see our neighbors on either side.
It gives us a view of the entire room. I admire how brightly decorated it is. The white brick walls are full of abstract artwork and broken up by large windows that face the picturesque strip of stores that line the street.
The artwork is all whites, blues, and yellows with splashes of red and purple that manage to look coordinated but somehow eclectic at the same time.
“It’s so private,” I say. Angie nods knowingly.
“You make yourselves comfortable and I’ll get your waters and your basket of bread right out.” She puts a hand on her pregnant belly and rubs it.
“Are you okay?” I ask, pointing with concern at her baby bump.
“Yeah, I’m fine, why?” she asks sharply, peering at me with intense anticipation on her face.
“Uh—” I eyeball and wonder why she’s acting like my answer is important. “Well, nothing … you keep rubbing you're belly. I was just thinking maybe you were having some pregnancy-related difficulty,” I explain cautiously.
She laughs at the joke she still hasn’t bothered to explain to me.
“Oh. Thank goodness. I was only rubbing it ‘cause I wanted to make sure you knew I was pregnant and didn’t think this was a beer gut or something,” she says and then gasps with embarrassment.
“I can’t believe I said that out loud,” she says apologetically. “Pregnancy has completely removed my already very porous filter. It’s my fourth time; you’d think I’d be over this part. But I hate that I can’t see my feet and this ass is as wide as the Houston Ship Channel,” she blurts, a pained expression on her pretty face.
I want to laugh but I don’t think she’s trying to be funny. I try to think of some sort of consolation to offer, but I have a feeling nothing I say would actually make her feel better.
“I’m sorry, you probably think I’m so vain,” she says and shakes her head deprecatingly.
“You are vain. And nobody is thinking anything except how to get you to stop talking so they can get some food,” a gruff but twangy woman’s voice comes from the booth next to ours.
“Oh, Lord, I’m sorry,” Angie smiles apologetically. “For talking and for Henny’s rudeness. Thank you for being nice.” She rolls her eyes at the booth. “Your server will be right over. Glad to have you. Hope you’ll come back.” She makes an exaggerated scowling face at the hidden booth occupant and waddles off toward the front of the restaurant.
“As if anyone could mistake that belly for anything other than another one of your giant babies,” the voice calls after Angie.
“Oh, Henny, be nice and introduce yourself,” Angie calls back without looking over her shoulder.
A gnarled, arthritic hand with perfectly, French-manicured nails comes to rest on the shared top of our booths. Right over the side where Cass would have been sitting.
“You should be thanking me,” the voice comes. I grin when a hand taps the top of our booth.
“Well, are you going to make me shift my ninety-year-old bones out of the chair, or are you going to get up and say hello?” she asks impatiently.
I giggle and slide out of the seat and step to her booth. The woman sitting there looks like she could be a fill-in for Sophia Petrillo on Golden Girls.
“Thank you,” I say cheerily.
“You’re welcome,” she says tersely and then looks up at me with a pair of dark brown eyes that are set deep in a face that’s got so many wrinkles, it’s impossible to tell what she really looks like.
“Yes, I know,” she says like she’s bored. “I look like a bleached prune. You don’t need to stare at me like you’ve never seen an old person,” she says.
“Oh, I’m not staring cause you’re old, I’m just waiting for you to tell me why I should be thanking you,” I say good-humoredly. I come from a town full of crotchety old people whose bark is all lie. And I’ve never lived anywhere else where your elders ‘spank you’ even if you’re not theirs to.
“That girl never stops talking,” Henny says. “She runs a tight ship, though. Once she gets out of the way.” She raises her eyebrows knowingly and draws out that last word. “You’ll enjoy every single meal you have here.”
“I’m Confidence,” I say and extend my hand.
She frowns and eyes me. “You look too young to have hippies for parents,” she muses.
“Yeah. My grandparents’ generation, I think,” I say.
“You think?” She scoffs and gives me a disapproving frown. “You kids don’t know your history. You should know what generation your elders belong to. Not just yours. I bet you’re a millennial. You will be remembered for your selfishness,” she chides. I throw my head back and laugh the first real laugh I’ve managed in a while. She’s awesome.
“Glad you think it’s funny,” she says dryly. “I’m here every day, if you want more.”
Cass walks up just then, looks between Henny and me and says, “Of course, you’ve already made a friend.”
I elbow her and say, “This is Henny.”
Henny shakes her head and says, “Sorry, I have a one-new-person-a-day rule. Come back tomorrow.” Then she picks up her fork and knife and digs into a huge baked potato that’s bursting with what looks like brisket, cheese, sour cream, chives, and butter.
I stand there and watch her for nearly a full minute before I realize she’s serious and isn’t going to respond. Cass doesn’t wait that long before she slides into her seat.
She’s gripping a menu when I sit down. “Oh, this place has the nicest public bathroom I’ve ever seen. It’s cleaner than mine. I wish I’d known about this neighborhood when I was moving back. It’s like living in the suburbs but in walking distance from all the action. I totally would have bought a unit here.”
“Yeah, it’s really convenient. And apparently my new boss’s family owns all of it,” I tell her. She squeals and clutches her menu to her chest excitedly.
“I’m the worst friend. I didn’t even ask how it went. I was so excited to see you! Tell me!” she exclaims and stares at me with goggly eyes.
“Oh my God, it was amazing, Cass,” I say dreamily.
“And you got the job!” she interjects excitedly.
I nod and let my grin have a moment of unfettered shine. “They want me to attend a meeting tomorrow before I leave for the case they’re hiring me for. I’ve got some of the publicly available court records to review. So, I’m going to hole up in my hotel and study up so I can be ready. I want to make sure when I get on my flight tomorrow, he’s not sorry he hired me,” I tell her.
“So, you’re going to leave here and not call Hayes?” she asks with surpri
se.
Hearing her say his name makes me flinch. Beneath the surface of my happiness for every amazing thing that has happened today has been the terrible sensation of how wrong it is that I’m here and not with him. How shallow my joy is without being able to celebrate it with him.
I forced myself to push him out of my thoughts whenever he entered them today.
“So, you’re not here because you have a huge boner for Hayes Rivers?”
“Of course not,” I snap and look around the restaurant. There’s a loud din. People speaking like they’re in their living rooms instead of in a public place where anyone could over hear.
Just like home. God, I think I love this place.
“Hello? Are you listening?” Cass snaps her fingers in front of my eyes.
I turn startled eyes back to Cass. “Yes, I am. And that’s not why,” I lie.
“Yeah, right. He’s worn you down, and you got a lucky break with this offer. Two weeks ago, you would have never accepted it,” she pushes.
“Two weeks ago, I had enough money to live on for another month. Now, I don’t. It’s also right up my alley. This is a developing area of law that I kind of pioneered,” I tell her. “But, I would have taken this job anywhere in the world.”
“Aww, you should see your face. I don’t know how the hell you managed it with him, of all people, after somehow avoiding it for so long.” She shakes her head at me incredulously.
“Avoiding what?” I ask just as our server approaches with the water and bread baskets.
“Being completely head over in heels in love. Wanting something more than your pride,” she says.
“Welcome to Twist,” our server interrupts as she bounces up to our table. Her wide mouth parts to reveal a perfectly straight smile that’s contagious. She’s slightly out of breath and leans on the table in mock exhaustion before she stands up again.
“I’m Kemi, I’ll be your server today,” she says and brushes a braid that’s falling over her eye out of the way before she pulls a small spiral notebook out of her apron pocket. “What are you ladies drinking?” she asks.
“I’m fine with water,” I tell her, wrinkling my nose at the menu. I hate having to decide what to eat.
“The hell she is. We’re having champagne with lunch,” Cass says giving me a fierce scroll that dares me to argue. I don’t. I want to be excited … I wish I didn’t feel so heartsick at the same time.
“Wonderful,” Kemi chirps and scribbles on her notepad. “What are we celebrating?” she asks as she writes.
“She got a job! A great one, and she’s moving to Houston,” she tells her and slides her eyes over to me and smiles proudly.
“Well, then, this calls for our special. It’s a grilled Tilapia on top of a bed of the most delicious rice you’ll ever have,” she says.
“That sounds a little heavy for lunch,” I say. I ignore how my mouth waters at the description. I’ve been eating my feelings, and it was not my imagination that my breasts are fighting with buttons in a battle for liberation that I think one more donut will tip in their favor.
“You should eat your heaviest meal for lunch, actually. So it’s perfect,” Cassie says.
I smile at her helplessly. “Well, my breakfast was pretty good, too,” I admit.
“We’ll have it,” Cassie says to Kemi.
“You’re in for such a treat. It’s so good. The owners pick the week’s special and announce it on Sunday night. It’s always an amazing fusion of cuisines. I can’t wait to hear what you think,” she says.
Her enthusiasm is catching, and I wiggle my shoulders in excitement. “Can’t wait, thanks.” I smile at her.
“Awesome! Shout or wave if you need anything. Your food will be out in about fifteen minutes,” she says and saunters off.
“You need to talk to Hayes,” she says, and my heart thumps in my chest. I shake my head and look down at my hands.
The sounds of the restaurant clang around us, scrapes of forks on cutlery, bursts of laughter from the tables, the scrape of chairs being pushed away from tables. The dining room is devoid of any food smells. It smells nice, almost like a spa, but subtler. I’m sure if my stomach wasn’t caught in my internal conflict, twisted by pangs of longing, churning from the fear that’s become my constant companion, the atmosphere would be soothing.
“You okay, TB?” she asks when I don’t respond and don’t look up.
“No,” I admit annoyed at myself. “I miss him. I hate him. I love him so much, I don’t know what to do,” I confess still looking at my hands.
“I have a feeling he feels the same way,” she says kindly.
“I know—” I whisper.
“Talk to him. Don’t leave town without seeing him,” she says.
“You don’t understand. I don’t want to forgive him because I miss him. I want to forgive him because I believe he sees my worth. And not just because we have great sex or he likes the way I look on his arm. I won’t be another man’s project or trophy. Or whatever I am to him,” I tell her.
She quirks her lips in sympathy. “Oh, honey. You’re the only one who doesn’t see your worth …” she says and I rear back in surprise and hurt.
“What does that mean?” I eye her.
Her eyes soften, and her smile turns a little sad.
“It means if you did, you’d know that the only way anyone would look at you and see anything less than the amazing woman you are is if they’re an idiot. And Hayes Rivers isn’t an idiot. Yeah, he said something stupid to his brother. But he didn’t know you from Sam when he said it,” she reminds me, again.
I chafe at her defense of Hayes, of how right she is and how wrong she is. I rub a finger over the spot on my temple where a small headache is suddenly blooming.
“I would never ever insult him like that. I wouldn’t look at him and see anything less than the human being he is. Yes, he’s handsome. He’s got a hot body. He’s got pots of money and he’s got power. I didn’t look at him and wonder if he got rich by ripping people off or assume that because he’s a big guy those things about him and his ex were true. I wondered if he would be tender and caring, constant, proud, honorable, determined, and convicted and smart. Those things have nothing to do with his money.”
“You’re deluding yourself,” she says dismissively.
“How?” I chafe at the words.
“The wealth he was born into has shaped all of those things. Just like the poverty you were born into has shaped yours.” She puts her hands up, palms facing me when I start to speak. “Hear me out, please.”
“As if I could stop you,” I grumble.
“I get it. You were raised to be proud of who you are. Not what you have. He was raised to believe the exact opposite. All of that honor, pride, conviction? They all fuel the need to protect the things—his name, his money, his position,” she says.
“Yeah, but at what cost?”
“Whatever it takes, is what I’m sure he’d say,” she shrugs. “You’re such a hypocrite,” she says.
“Excuse me? Is it Thursday or is it Shit on Confidence Day?” I ask.
“Isn’t your whole career based on you wanting to preserve a way of life? What have you done to protect it? What wouldn’t you do?” she asks.
I cradle my forehead in my hands and try to process what she’s saying through a different filter.
“It’s amazing that he’s who you’ve fallen like this for. I always thought you’d need a man who would let you have your way. You’re so stubborn. But you’ve met your match in him. I’m glad he’s making you think. And I’m glad he’s strong. I think it’ll be good for you to not have to carry the whole world on your shoulders, TB,” she says.
She covers my hand with hers to silence me.
“It’s okay to be vulnerable,” she says quietly. “It’s okay to let him close enough to hurt you again. But you have to want him more than you want your pride, TB,” she says.
“My pride?” I bristle at her characterization. “It�
�s not pride. It’s self-preservation. I didn’t have anyone to stand between me and the bad guy. I have always stood in the breech myself. And I love him so much that if I let him, he could really ruin me.” My confession pours out of me and I feel breathless having said it.
“I know ... And I didn’t mean to dismiss that. You just can’t let fear lead you.”
“What if he doesn’t want me the same way? What if when he gets to see all of me, he finds me lacking?” I ask and reveal the real source of my anxiety.
“Ask him. Call him before you go.”
“And say what? Can you help understand how I keep ending up with men who want me in bed, but don’t think I’m fit to be on their arm in public?” I ask quietly. Tears of shame burn my eyes.
“First of all, he’s nothing like Nigel. He respects you and he’s crazy about you. It was so obvious when you were here even with all the madness that happened. And you should have seen him driving that truck, through all that water. He did that for you.” She fans herself. “It was so … If you weren’t my friend …” I give her a warning look and she winks.
“Shiiit. You need to spend some time in those Tinder streets and you’ll know how lucky you are,” she says.
“How’s Tinder?” I ask. “I’m sorry I’m talking about myself non-stop,” I apologize.
“You don’t need to apologize, there’s nothing to tell. I thought I met my soul mate, again. He showed up to our date in scrubs, told me he was a doctor and hadn’t had time to get home before our date.” She takes a long sip of her water.
“What kind of doctor?” I ask.
“The kind that also works the popcorn machine behind concession stand at Edward’s Theatre in Greenway Plaza,” she deadpans. I choke on the water in my throat. I cough and blow my nose and she just shrugs.
“It’s a jungle out there and you’re over here hanging out with Remington Wilde, Hayes Rivers, and complaining.”
“I’m not complaining,” I croak out when I’ve recovered from my fit of laughter.
“I just hope you won’t lump them together. Nigel and Hayes. They’re not the same,” she reiterates. Her expression is serious again.
The Rivals Page 20