Page 82 of The Wife Situation

We ride across town in a limo and are let out in front of a small building with a faded burger on the sign hanging crooked from the brick. I think it saysFrankie’s, but I’m unsure because the sign isn’t illuminated and the paint is faded. It has character. I like it.

I turn to him, and he smiles.

“We’re here.”

“Great. I’m starving,” I admit, walking to the door.

When I’m close, he opens it and follows behind me.

Inside, there’s only enough room for five two-person tables. It’s cramped, and the menu is handwritten in Sharpie on faded poster board, but I can still see the three combos they offer.

A tabletop fan blows toward the cash register, fluttering pink ribbons from the center. It reminds me of my childhood and growing up in the Texas heat.

“Easton,” an older man says from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel before coming up front.

He has a Buddy Holly vibe with dark-framed glasses and a clean-cut haircut, but his mustache sets him apart. I wouldn’t besurprised if he’s Easton’s age with a dash of salt and pepper in his hair.

“Hey, man, long time no see.”

Easton smiles, looking like a diamond in the rough, like he doesn’t belong. “Frankie. I want you to meet Lexi.”

He holds his hand out to me. “Hi, Lexi. Short for Alexis?”

“Actually, yes.” I take his firm grip. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Where ya from?” he asks, and I wonder how Easton knows him. “Catching a hint of Southern.”

“Texas,” I explain with a smile. “West Texas.”

“Ahh, yes. I can hear it now. So, what’re you two lovebirds having?”

Easton looks at me as I stare at the menu one last time before I order. “I’ll have a cheeseburger with onions, lettuce, and mayo. Seasoned fries. Bottled Coke.”

Frankie looks at Easton. “You told her your order?”

“No,” he says. “Pure coincidence.”

“Hope you enjoy your meals,” Frankie tells us, returning to the kitchen. “Two patties down,” he yells over his shoulder.

As soon as the hamburger meat hits the grill, I hear the sizzle.

Easton pays with a hundred and tells him to keep the change. We move to one of the small tables with mismatched chairs.

He pulls mine out for me and I sit. Afterward, he grabs our sodas and pops off the caps, using the bottle opener bolted to the counter’s edge, before joining me.

“Another place you frequented with your grandfather?” I ask as he hands me the icy-cold bottle.

He stops before placing the bottle to his perfect lips. “Not this place. Frankfort—or Frankie, as he likes to be called—and I attended Harvard together.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “Some dream of being CEO; others dream of owning a hamburger stand. But the Italian place, yes, I frequented it with my grandfather. How’d you know?”

“The menu had a history section that mentioned what your family did to save their business.”

He grins. “Ahh, so youdopay attention.”

“More than you realize.”

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