“Ready whenever you are,” I said, all traces of tremor gone from my voice.
Ranger lifted half a lip. “That a girl.” After this brief flash of approval, he was off and running: “I’ll begin with the Cobb salad, no iceberg lettuce just romaine, hold the tomatoes, oil and vinegar on the side. Serve it with a quarter lemon wedge on each side, followed by the chicken fried steak . . .”
At this, Baseball Cap slanted him a look.
“When in Rome . . .” Ranger explained before continuing his rapid-fire order: “No mashed potatoes, unless it’s made with real butter, which I highly doubt, so then baked potato, plain, hold the mushy green beans. And for desert I’ll have some peach pie, no whipped cream, vanilla ice cream, instead, on the side, in an ice-cold serving bowl.”
Ranger smirk-smiled. “I have a feeling Ms. Norma will want me to indulge in one of her ‘famous pies,’” he air-quoted, sliding a sly look across to Baseball Cap. “Unfortunately, I think Glasses here is impervious to my charms. However, she may be”—he winked at me—“a bit sweet on you, pardon the pun.”
To my complete horror, my cheeks began burning to the degree in which I could feel actual heat emanating from them.
Ranger jeered, “It looks like her face is about to burst into flames!”
Baseball Cap rolled his eyes but otherwise made no indication that he’d heard the embarrassing comment.
Is it that obvious? I waited for the pagan god of pride to take pity on me and open up a hole in the floor to swallow me up. “Will that be all?”
“Will that be all, sir?” Ranger corrected before removing another one from the dwindling supply.
“Will that be all, sir,” I ground out before spinning away.
“Oh, one more thing, Glasses . . .” Ranger’s tone stiffened my back like a sharp pebble pelted it. “I like cherries . . . add one on top, will you?”
I nodded before continuing on to the kitchen, a defiant spring in my step. What Mr. Superior didn’t know was that I actually had a Herculean memory. The notepad and pen were mere props, one of Ms. Norma’s requirements for the wait staff, but I didn’t really need it. After turning in their order and giving Carlos the heads-up on the rush job, I grabbed the pitcher of tea to refill their cups. I was going to prove what a model waitress I actually was. Not that it matters what those two think, I sniffed to myself. I was just going for the tip—I deserved that tip.
On my way back out, a familiar face popped up and comically grinned at me through the glass door. I mentally cringed. Aw man! Not now. Half-heartedly, I returned Mr. Tatum’s smile and picked up the pace when I saw him start my way. Mr. Tatum was a “regular” and often made a nuisance of himself. Not only was he a shoddy tipper, but his unwanted attention was becoming a big problem.
As soon as I hit table, Ranger rattled his ice at me. “About time,” he said. “I was running on empty, so that’s gonna cost you.” He waved a dollar at me, a grin splitting his face, which created two slight indentions in his cheeks that would’ve been immensely endearing on anybody else.
Did he, like, guzzle the whole thing down? I glanced at Baseball Cap’s glass—still half full. I topped his off before refilling the guzzler with an eye-roll. You know what? This was just so not worth the six, seven bucks left, especially when you factored in splitting it with Bee.
“Did you just roll your eyes at me?” Ranger called me out. “That’s gonna cost you two more dollars—one for each eye,” he explained cheerily.
“Your order will be up in a minute,” I bit out.
“You giving me attitude again, Glasses?”
Before I could respond, Baseball Cap slid out of the booth and stood, towering over me and my pitcher. He penetrated me with a look that caused my mouth to come unhinged. “Where’s the restroom?” he inquired in a low voice.
I was so taken aback it took me a moment to find my voice. “Umm . . . right over there.” I gestured vaguely to the back of the dining room, where the restrooms were clearly marked, then started to turn back to the taskmaster. But Baseball Cap body-blocked me, thereby moving me a little farther away from Ranger and his hostility.
“Excuse me,” I said to his blue shirt. It was about the same color as Daddy’s overalls but didn’t seem to have the same fading effect on him or his hair, which was the same color as honey. I got a sudden, preposterous urge to lean in . . . and smell him.
“Can I get another lemon wedge for my tea?” he asked.
I tipped my head up to see if he was actually serious. “Ah—sure?”
“Now.” Baseball Cap left me with another meaningful look before heading off in the direction I pointed.
I just nodded after him while I watched him walk away in those khaki shorts. Sheesh! Am I staring at his butt? I patted my heated cheeks and headed to the kitchen for their order and more lemons. What is with these guys and lemons?
I could feel Ranger’s eyes boring a hole into my back but focused my attention on his intriguing friend, pondering what he might have been trying to convey to me. But I couldn’t ruminate long because their order was up. After grabbing the plates and the required lemons, I took a moment to arrange them on a cold plate. Then added a few more, just for good measure, and was making good time, until Mr. Tatum accosted me in the aisle with an aggressive hug.
“Katie!” he thundered, breathing all over the tray of food in my hand.
“Hi, Mr. Tatum.” I gave him the stiff arm, sure there was some kind of food code violation going on. Undoubtedly, Ranger would dock me another couple of dollars. “Excuse me while I drop off their food. Then I’ll be right with you,” I dismissed.
He slid his flannel arm around my shoulders, arresting my escape. “Now how many times do I gotta tell ya to call me Frank?—Mr. Tatum’s my daddy’s name,” he said, releasing me the same time I yanked away. The sudden, jerky movement upended the tray holding their food and artfully arranged lemons so that it all fell to the floor with a clatter and a fat splat.
Dag friggin’nabit!—I’d end up owing Ranger by the end of this.
“Oh, honey! Golly. I’m real sorry ‘bout that.” Clumsy hands reached to help.
Laughter (meant to convey what a pathetic loser I was) blasted from the granddaddy booth. I didn’t even look, just let out an exasperated sigh. “Please wait for Ms. Norma to seat you, Mr. Tatum.” My cold tone must’ve finally registered, because Mr. Tatum slunk off like a weasel.
Humiliation clung to me, along with a thin film of sweat that just broke out. I removed my glasses, swiped my hand across my chin, and bent down, awkwardly, in my skirt to pick up the mess. Was busy scooping handfuls of vomity-looking splatters when navy sneakers appeared in my line of vision. I actually had a wad of the stuff in my hands when the owners of the sneakers said, “Need a hand?”
Could I not just die now? Too embarrassed to actually look him in the eye, I concentrated on having a conversation with his shoes instead. They were ones I’d never seen before, and I realized they were identical to his cohort’s.
“No thanks, I got it!” I said way more chipper than the situation required, then proceeded to scoop more goop. I was living proof that one could not, in fact, die from embarrassment.