CHAPTER THREE
I don’t think I’ve ever met a beautiful man in person before. I’ve met handsome men, and the new customer at table 14 is definitely that. But in addition to being handsome, with his firm jawline, deep, soulful eyes, and strong-looking forearms, this man is actually beautiful. He has soft, baby-blue eyes. He’s wearing a few days’ stubble. His cheekbones are perfectly shaped, a sculpture of perfection. His lips are wide and soft. His eyebrows are strong and make his whole face seem serious. A mess of brown hair hangs across his forehead — only it doesn’t look messy; it looks like he’s just come from a day at the beach and his hair has taken on an infusion of salt air.
“I … I’m Abigail,” I stammer. The pause between my first and second attempt at “I’m” is slight but obvious. I want to slap myself. “I’ll be taking care of you today.”
“Abigail?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t go to restaurants often. I have a question.”
“Sure.” I shuffle through my mental filing cabinet, looking for food to recommend. I’m good at organization — supereasy since I moved here, seeing as I have little to organize.
But his question isn’t what I assumed. He’s not asking about food yet.
“Whenever I do go to a restaurant, everyone says the same thing. About how they’ll be taking care of me.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I’m wondering how this man’s perfect cheekbones would look on my pillow. It’s a scandalous thought, but it’s been a long time for me. I’m reserved most of the time — shy, even. But that doesn’t mean I can’t think what I want in the privacy of my mind.
“Sure.”
“But they always just bring me food.”
“Okay.”
“Well, that’s not really taking care of me. My mother? She took care of me.”
“Oh. Sure.”
He smirks as if realizing he’s being bizarre. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“I’ve just always wondered.”
“I bring you water and other drinks. Get you napkins and anything else you need. That’s taking care of you.”
“That’s bringing me stuff.” He puts one elbow on the table then rests his face on the upturned palm as if settling in and getting comfortable.
I consider making some joke about taking care of him, but despite his easy, forward manner, I’m already having to remind myself that I know literally nothing about this man, let alone know him well. I only know that he’s pretty. And that I’m curious if his lips are as soft as they seem.
Besides, making a joke like that? That’s the kind of thing Roxanne would do. Probably is dying to do. I saw the way she batted her eyes at him up there, and I won’t pretend I didn’t laugh inside when he requested my section instead of hers.
The thought makes me glance toward the restaurant’s front — and sure as anything, Roxanne is staring right at me.
“What’s good here, Abigail? Or do you like Abby?”
“Abigail.” To my own ears, I sound nervous. Not like a competent server at all. I don’t love this job, but I’m usually decent at it. I should be playing along, milking this beautiful man for a good tip, but for some reason I’ve reverted to several-syllable responses, like I’m afraid.
He closes the menu, which he’d laid on the table when adopting his casual, wistful face-on-palm posture. Then he folds his hands over it, straightens, and looks up at me. I realize that I didn’t even answer his question about the food. Instead, I chose to answer his question about me.
“Tell you what,” he says. “Bring me your favorite thing off the menu.”
“Oh, I like the — ”
He waves it away. “No, don’t tell me. Just bring it.” Then, voice lower, so I can’t tell if he’s serious or kidding, he says, “Just tell me if it’s more than fifteen bucks.”
I don’t know what to bring him. We’re a diner. Only the steak is pricey, and I don’t think it belongs on the menu.
“No, it’s not.”
“Good.”
But I don’t move. I just stand there.
“Anything I can do for you?” he asks.
Oh, God. I feel like such an idiot. I’m still a little dreamy about finally landing a Friday shift at the Overlook, but I can’t imagine my one-minute chat with Danny is the reason I’m so foggy right now. Maybe it’s my earlier malaise. The malaise I have no right to feel, seeing as I’ve got it pretty good and come from rich parents who have it even better. So what if I’m a waitress and seem destined to stay one forever? This guy might be a garbageman.
Or a surfer. Or a fireman who works with his shirt off. Or a model.
“Sorry,” I say, turning.
“Hey, Abigail,” he says.
I turn back, too fast. I’m suddenly sure he has a complaint of some sort, maybe about my standoffishness.
“It doesn’t have cottage cheese on it, does it? What you’re picking for my lunch? I figure no, but maybe it’s better safe than sorry.”
“No. No cottage cheese.”
“Good. And no coconut.”
“No.” I have no idea what I’ll pick for him, but he’s not exactly picking common ingredients. I don’t think we even have cottage cheese or coconut.
“I probably shouldn’t have pasta. I make a lot of pasta for dinner.”
“It’s not pasta,” I say.
“And not — ”
“Do you just want me to tell you?”
“No, no. I want to be surprised.” He seems to think. “But no chicken, okay? And no beef. Oh, and no bread, please.”
“Um … ”
“Abigail?”
“Yes?”
“I’m just messing with you.”
“Oh. Good.”
“I used to wait tables. I hated when people were demanding. Seriously. Just bring me whatever, and I promise to like it.”
I finally find my voice. My brow bunches together, and I say, “Why don’t you just let me tell you?”
“Okay. What is it?”
“I have no idea.”
I didn’t say it to be funny, but the man in the booth laughs. “Okay. Fine. But I’m serious about the pasta. It’s all I eat at home. Maybe a burger. How are the Nosh Pit’s burgers?”
“They’re good. Get the sunrise.”
“Does it have an egg on it? Is that why it’s called ‘sunrise’?”
“Ew, no.” I make a face. I’d never have egg on a burger. “It’s just a normal cheeseburger. I don’t know why it’s called sunrise.”
“Okay. Bring me that.”
“How do you want it cooked?”
“On a stove.”
I don’t know why that’s what does it, but I burst out laughing. Roxanne stares daggers at me. She looks around after she’s done, probably looking for Ed to complain about me. I escaped her suggestions this time, but I’ll bet she has plenty at shift’s end. Like not spending so much time at one table, with one customer, whom I’ll bet Roxanne wants to spend some time with. Never mind that I just came off break and it’s slow, and he’s my only customer.
He’s watching my face, seeming to enjoy my laughter, and for a moment I’m sure he’ll make a comment. It would be forward, but he strikes me as confident. About some things. There’s a depth to his eyes, though, and I’ll bet plenty scares him silly. My ex, come to think of it, was a lot like him. I wonder how far the similarities extend. I hope not far. I’d hate to think I’m attracted to a type — especially that type.
We’re in public. Even though this feels private, others are hearing it.
My ex was great in public, and terrible in private. He needed an audience to be intimate.
“Okay,” I say, unable to drop my new smile. “One sunrise burger. Cooked ‘on a stove.’”
“That’ll do,” he says.
I head back to the kitchen, thinking that even though I’ll probably never see this guy again, my day has definitely begun to look up.