I change into a pair of jeans, keep on the white t-shirt I had on under my dress shirt, and step into some running shoes. I hang my blazer over my arm, fold my pants neatly, and stick them in my bag with my shirt and shoes.
When I go back out, Evie glares at me. I look from her to the waitress, who is just walking away from the table after having left the food.
“I’m not sure if I can eat this,” Evie says. She stares dubiously at her plate.
“Why not?” I shove my bag into the booth and then slide in next to it. “What’s wrong with it?”
“What did you do to the waitress?” She leans closer to me. “Did you fuck her and then forget to call?” Her voice is little more than a hiss.
“No, I didn’t fuck her!”
She shushes me, and I realize how loud my voice was.
“I didn’t fuck her,” I whisper-hiss at her. “What are you talking about?”
“She obviously hates your guts.” She stares down at her food again. “I’m actually worried that she spit in my food or something.”
I lay my hand on my chest. “Why would she hate me?”
Evie throws up her hands. “I have no idea. You tell me.”
“I don’t know!” I look down at my food. “This looks so good.”
“Before I can eat it, you have to tell me what you did to her.” She lays her fork down and stares at me.
I lay my fork down too. “I didn’t do anything to her. I don’t even know her.” I look toward where she’s standing shooting daggers at me with her eyes from behind the counter. “I quoted her on some grass cutting one time. She didn’t hire me. That’s all I know.” I look over again, but she’s not looking at me. Instead, her fellow waitress is now the one shooting daggers. “It was weird,” I say, scratching my head. “When you were gone, she said she’d expected me to call. I’ve got enough business that I don’t need to follow up on quotes. You either hire me or you don’t. But she seemed upset that I never called her. What do you think that means?”
Evie covers her mouth, holding in a snort. “It means she has a crush on you,” she explains, her eyes twinkling. “Unrequited love is the worst, particularly when you’re that age.”
“She’s young enough to be my daughter!” I hiss.
“I know.” She laughs. “Isn’t it just shit when you get to the age where you see a pretty girl and you realize you’re old enough to be her daddy? Just two days ago, I was at the library and a fine-looking man walked by. I kind of licked my lips as he walked past, and he turned and said, ‘Hey, Ms. Allen.’ And I realized he was the boy who lived two doors down from Grandma. He’s twenty-six now. Jesus, I felt old. Two minutes before that, I’d imagined him naked.” She lets out a dramatic shiver, and I stare at her, totally lost.
“Wait…” I hold up a finger. “You were crushing on little Darnell Timmons?”
“Well, from the back, yeah. Then he turned around and I realized who he was and I wasn’t crushing anymore. And he’s not little now.” She points to the food. “Do you think this is safe to eat? Because I’m starving.”
I look it over. “It’s fine.” Mine, on the other hand, I’m not so sure about. “So she said she thought I was going to call her…”
“Did you want to call her?” Evie asks crisply. She pauses her fork as she waits for me to respond. She looks slightly nauseated.
“I prefer to date women old enough to have at least finished college!” I hiss. I pick up my napkin and throw it at her. “You suck so bad, Clifford.”
She chuckles and sticks the forkful in her mouth, then covers her mouth with her palm so she can talk around it. “Getting old sucks,” she says.
I take a bite of my food. “It’s not so bad,” I reply. “I kind of like the enlightenment that age brings you. You notice more of the injustices and embrace the good in people the older you get. I like that part. The part where you fall asleep in the recliner at eight o’clock at night? I could do without that part.”
“So, you were going to tell me about your life,” she says. She looks down at her plate and kind of ducks her head a little as her cheeks turn a bit pink. “Do you have a girlfriend, Grady?” she asks quietly, a little hesitation, a little shyness in her voice. And then she ruins it by adding, “Except the waitress, I mean.”
I treat her to a stink-eye glare. “Would I be here with you if I did?” I swear, sometimes I could throttle her.
“This is just lunch,” she says.
“Dinner,” I correct.
“Dinner. Fine. It’s just food.”
It’s not just food. It’s not even close to just food. “This is not just food and you fucking well know it,” I say quietly.