“Dinner with a friend,” I say, like it’s no big thing. And it isn’t. It’s nothing—still. He even kissed me two weeks ago after we saw Casablanca. His lips were soft and his tongue was pure peppermint and his hands were in my hair and yet I felt … nada.
Not a single, sleepy butterfly emerging from its cocoon.
“What are you doing, Ritz?” Mel asks.
My brows narrow. “Going out for dinner. I told you.”
“No,” she says, expression fading. “I mean, what are you doing with this guy? You don’t even seem that excited to hang out with him.”
I rest a hand on my hip. “I don’t get where you’re going with this.”
“Are you waiting for yourself to like him? Because I can tell you, he doesn’t make you light up half as much as Corporal Douche Bag did.”
“Wow. Okay. You just went there …”
“I just … I don’t want you to settle for someone who doesn’t make you feel incredible,” she says. “And I also don’t want you to hold off on letting yourself feel incredible all because you’re waiting for some jackass from your past to come waltzing through the door.”
“Trust me. I haven’t placed my happiness on hold for anyone and even if Isaiah came waltzing through my door like nothing happened, I’d have no problem telling him to fuck off,” I say. “That train left the station a long time ago.”
“Mm hm.” Melrose gives me a side eye, which leads me to believe she doesn’t buy it. But I don’t care if she believes me or not. I know how I feel, and it’s not my job to sell her on that.
If Corporal Isaiah Torres walks back into my life tomorrow like nothing happened, I’ll waste no time telling him exactly what I think of him.
And it won’t be pretty.
Thirty
Maritza
* * *
“Um, Ritz?” Rachael stands in the doorway of the galley as I mix three kid-sized chocolate milks—extra Hershey’s syrup, her face white and looking like she’s just seen a ghost. “You have a new table.”
“Okay. Give me two secs.” I give the final cup of milk an extra squeeze of chocolate.
Rach stands there, staring, watching, which is odd because she’s always moving and we’re mid-morning rush and all the other staff are go, go, going all around us.
“You okay?” I ask, loading the cups onto a plastic serving tray.
“Ritz …”
I glance up at her only to find her staring out toward table ten where a dark-haired man sits with his back toward us. He turns for a second, but only slightly and only enough for me to recognize that chiseled jaw I’d remember anywhere.
The ground wobbles beneath my feet, I swear, and I suck in a deep breath before Rach grabs my wrist. My vision fades for a single, terrifying second. I’ve never had this kind of physical reaction to anything in my life.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” she says. “I know you want to let him have it—and he deserves it—but I don’t want you to get fired. I need you here. I can’t work here without you.”
She offers a smile that lets me know she’s half joking, half serious.
“I won’t make a scene,” I say, though I’m not sure if I’m trying to reassure her—or myself.
Clearing my throat and trying hard to deny the thrum and whoosh of my heartbeat in my ears, I deliver my chocolate milks with a smile before making my way to table ten.
Sliding my notepad from my apron and clicking the tip of my pen, I cock my head. “Good morning.”
Isaiah places his menu flat on his table, drawing in a deep breath before checking his watch. “Just a coffee and eggs today, please.”
My pen presses into my notepad with a slight tremble.
“Seriously?” I ask.
He glances up at me, his expression cold and distant. “I’m in a bit of a rush.”
Lingering and at a total loss for words at the fact that he’s treating me like a complete stranger, I clear my throat and let my notepad fall to my sides. My lips part as I try to say something, but the perfect words fail to find their way out of my jumbled brain.
A million thoughts spin around and there are a million things I probably should say to him right now, but I promised Rach I wouldn’t do anything stupid and at the end of the day, I’m not willing to sacrifice my job over this jackass.
God help him if I ever meet him outside these four walls though …
“No pancake today?” I ask, forcing a smile. If he wants to pretend we’re a couple of strangers, then two can play that game.
He shakes his head. “Coffee and two eggs over easy.”
“Really? Sure you don’t want two pancakes?” I offer an incredulous chuckle, wondering, for a split second, why I feel the insane need to try to jog his memory. He didn’t forget me. He couldn’t have.
Isaiah points to the sign above the register. “Heard you guys are sticklers on that one-pancake rule. Figured I’d stick to something simple today.”
The oceans and continents that once separated us have nothing on the distant gaze in his eyes when he looks at me.
Pressing my lips together and trying to stave off the stinging threat of tears, I take his menu. “I’ll put that in for you right away.”
Isaiah turns away from me, staring out the window to the sidewalk. His hair is a bit longer than it was before, which makes me think he’s been home from his deployment for a while. And he’s dressed in a navy suit with a white button down, a far departure from the fitted ripped jeans and v-neck t-shirts I only ever knew him to wear before.
“You okay?” Rachael asks when she bumps into me back at the kitchen window.
I hang his order on the line and turn to face her, squeezing my eyes tight until the burn subsides. “He looked right through me, Rach. Like he didn’t recognize me. Why would he come all the way here and pretend like we’re strangers? What’s he doing?”
Her nose wrinkles and her gaze skirts over my shoulder and lands on him. “That’s … really weird. Did you say anything to him?”
Shaking my head, I say, “What am I supposed to say? ‘Hey … do you remember me? We slept together earlier this year…’”
“You’ll think of the right thing to say. You’re just in shock right now.” She smooths her hand along my arm and offers a sympathetic head tilt before heading out to the floor.
Grabbing a full coffee carafe from a burner, I return to Isaiah’s table and flip over his empty coffee cup.
“Room for two creams, half sugar?” I ask, hating that I remember the way he takes his coffee.
His brows narrow as he gazes up at me. “Lucky guess.”
Lucky guess?
“Yeah, sometimes I think I’m psychic or something,” I say, not so much as attempting to hide the biting snark in my tone.
“Thanks.” He pulls his coffee closer and reaches for the sugar holder by the window.
“You look good,” I say. And I mean it. As much as I want to rip his hair out and smack him across his pretty boy face and tell him what an asshole he is, a part of me is glad he made it home safe and unscathed. “I like the suit. It’s a nice touch.”