Page 120 of Best Served Cold

Dottie leads us to the booth directly next to their table, then hurries back moments later with two partially full cups of milky tea. “Now, drink those down, my dears, and I’ll read your fortunes.”

She stays glued to her spot, and it’s obvious she has no intention of walking away to give us a private moment. Fair enough. I glance across the table at Sophie, who looks confused but a little excited. Like she knows something’s up but sees the glass as half full.

Sophie finishes her tea first and then gasps as she sees what’s written at the bottom of her cup. She turns to me. “Rob?”

Like clockwork, Ann brings over a bouquet of flowers, and Constance turns on ABBA’s “I Have a Dream” on her phone, most likely suppressing an eyeroll.

I offer the flowers to Sophie with a flourish. “Will you go to the prom with me, Sophie Ginnis?”

That’s what’s written in the bottom of her teacup, more or less, space permitting.

Sophie laughs. “Are you asking me to crash the high school prom with you next spring?”

“We could try, if you insist. But that’s not what this is about. I’m playing at the Orange Peel a week from Thursday. It’s an eighties’ cover party, and our set is short. I figured maybe we could treat it like the prom. Give you the experience you never had. We can rent a limo, bring your friends. We’ll dance, Sophie.”

She’s gaping at me, looking mostly pleased, thank God, and then she says, “But that’s your birthday.”

“Did Jonah tell you?” I ask, shocked by the thought. It definitely doesn’t seem like something he’d say or even remember.

“Idid,” Dottie says, still beside our table, overseeing the promposal like she’s our conductor. “I’ve always made a point of knowing when you young people have your special days.”

I smile at her. “Thanks, Dottie. I think I’ve got this from here.”

I half expect her to sit down next to me, but she joins her friends while I turn to face Sophie. “Yeah, it’s my birthday, and this is the way I want to spend it.”

She beams at me, then leans across the table to kiss me. Which causes the older women next to us to cheer, although I hear Ann shouting, “Did she say yes?”

The three of them invite us to eat with them. They pull up an extra chair, and we have breakfast at their table, while everyone but Constance fusses over us. When it’s time to go, Dottie gives us a to-go container stuffed with treats for Emil. Despite never having met him, she’s adamant that “great things” are in store for him. I can’t say I don’t like hearing it.

Then Sophie and I meet Emil at the park. He’s feeling confident about our chances that I’ll be approved to foster, and so am I. Right now it doesn’t feel like anything could pull me down from this cloud.

Emil and I serenade Sophie. I’ve come to appreciate the wholesome kind of fun she likes to engage in almost as much as her dirty side. So when she suggests that the three of us put on the temporary tattoos I’ve had in my glove box for the last couple of days, I don’t say no. I just ask who has a bottle of water so we can apply them.

Before Emil leaves with the dog, he asks me if we can have a talk, man to man. So I walk a ways away with him while Sophie sits under the tree with a paperback she had in her purse.

“It’s not fake anymore, is it?” he asks when we’re far enough that she probably can’t hear.

“No,” I admit. “Doesn’t feel fake at all.”

“You should do something nice for her,” he says, drumming a fist over his heart.

“You’re right about that.” I glance back at the tree, at Sophie with the breeze ruffling her hair. I turn back and we continue walking. “I gave her a promposal.”

He laughs. “Aren’t you kind of old for that?”

“Absolutely. But if I can’t handle making a fool of myself for her, then I don’t deserve her.”

I explain what I did while he regards me with serious eyes. Then he nods. “All right. I’ll remember that. You’ve got some moves, man.”

A little later, I drop Sophie off at her car. I spend a couple of hours working on my new songs in the park, and then I meet Travis and Bix at the Beat to practice. They share a few knowing headshakes over the tonal change in the new songs, but they like them.

I sense something’s still off with Travis, though. He has that hollow-eyed look he gets when he hasn’t been sleeping right. I ask him about it when Bixby is in the bathroom, but he just shakes his head.

“It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t seem like nothing.”

He shrugs, glancing out the window at the parking lot beneath us like he’s thinking of pulling a runner. Then he looks back at me with worried eyes. “I’m going to sound like one of the old geezers in a prison movie, but I think a storm’s coming.”

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