6
Katrina
Damn that smug man and his smug grin. Damn his smug eyes that drop to my boobs every three seconds, and his smug words that outsmart me every time we talk. Damn him for being sexy and tempting when I have no business wanting more than I already have.
Damn him, damn him,damn himfor stepping in front of Zeke last night.
I don’t need a knight in shining armor. I don’t need a hero to come in and make me wonder about more. I don’t need anything that’ll add more to my already overburdened life and overpacked baggage.
I walk away from the smug jerk before I say something along the lines ofgo to hell, but take me to bed first! and put his order in at the kitchen, only to turn around again when Stefan slides a bowl of piping hot soup on the counter with a knowing smile and a wink.
He’s smug too.
With the bowl burning my left hand, a plate of bread resting on my forearm, and my ever-present coffee pot in my right, I walk toward Mac’s booth as he sits with his homework spread out before him, with the Space Jam ballcap I’ve owned since the limited edition VHS came out in the nineties pulled on backwards, and his too-long hair dangling in his eyes while he chews on the end of his pencil and works on his most loathed subject.
“Here, babe.” I slide the bowl onto the table and shake the burn from my hand. “Be careful; it’s still hot.”
He continues scowling at the book in front of him. “Thanks, Mom. Can you help me for a sec?”
“Of course.” Placing the coffee pot down and sliding into the booth across from him, I sigh with relief as I take a load off my aching feet for just a moment. My tables are taken care of, and my boss would never tear me apart for taking a moment with my son, so I sit, then I let out a long groan that embarrasses me when I look up and remember who’s sitting in the very next booth. Eric’s back is to me, so all I see are his broad shoulders, a peek of red and black flannel, and a little ink that stretches along the side of his neck and tempts me to lean in and read.
I’m the cat, and curiosity is going to fuck me up.
“Mom?”
“Yeah.” My eyes snap back to my son, and heat fills my cheeks. “What’s the problem?”
“Algebra.” Thankfully, he still hasn’t looked up. “Who was the wanker that thought this shit up? Who cares where the friggin’xis?”
“Mac!” I’m forever surprised by his crassness, though I know I shouldn’t be. I lean across the table and slam his hand down when he doesn’t stop tapping the friggin’ pencil. “Can you watch your potty mouth? Jesus. At least pretend I tried to raise you right.”
“But, Mom…” he whines. “It’s algebra. Why does it even matter?”
“Because it just does.” I tug his workbook closer andfeelmy eyes cross at the triangle surrounding Mac’s graffiti art. “We’re told to learn algebra, so we learn algebra.”
“Have youeverneeded to find a triangle’sxin your entire adult life? Seriously, ever? It’s a load of horseshit.”
“Well, not a triangle,” I hedge. “But everybody uses algebra every day without even knowing. If you didn’t, it’d take forever to count shit.”
“Mom!” The dimples beneath his lip pop as he mock hisses. “Potty mouth.”
“Oh, shut up.” I push the book under his nose and nod toward my elderly customers who sit in the booth behind me. “If Ray and Gloria’s dinner costs forty-three dollars, and they gave me a fifty to pay for it, how much change would I give them?”
Finally, my son lifts his eyes… but the look on his face implies I’ve grown three heads. “You’d give them none, because that’s your damn tip. You earned that, woman!”
“Macallistar Blair!” I growl when Gloria chuckles into her coffee. “Answer the damn question. Forty-three from fifty?”
“Seven,” he huffs. “You’ve got seven bucks left over.”
“Exactly. You just found thex, now eat your dinner and finish your damn homework.”
Sliding back out of the booth, I fix my apron and top and snag my coffee pot. I love my son more than anything else in the whole world. There’s nothing that would ever change that, but homework… seriously, I’d trade an organ to never have to do homework again.
Algebradoessuck. I know that! Mac knows that. But I signed a contract at some point in the last decade and a half that promised I’d give my son the best chance at being a grown up, which means school, homework, and social skills.
I walk away from his booth with a shake of my head and a plan to work on his lack of social filters. It’s soanti-me, trying to beat this out of him, because really, I hate algebra and people too. Blairs don’t much care about other people’s feelings. It’s not that we’re unfeeling jerks, but more that we lack the ability to pat asses that don’t deserve patting.
It’s why I don’t have many friends.