“You’re, like, what…twenty-one?”
“Try twenty-six.”
“Big whoop. I’m still legal.”
“I’m recently divorced,” I tell her.
The table shakes and I automatically reach for my beer, trying to save the alcohol I desperately need after this disastrous encounter. Whatever moron used the red pepper flake shaker last must have unscrewed the lid to mess with people because spicy flakes go soaring across the white acrylic, coating everything, including my lap.
“What is your damage?” Natasha screeches at the offender as I brush off my jeans.
Wren stares down at me, mouth dropped open and eyes twice their size. “You’re what?”
“Yeah, you’re what?” my soon-to-be ex-date echoes.
“Recently divorced,” I say again, not looking away from Wren.
She has a lot of questions—I can see it in her eyes—but before I can explain anything, she tosses down the basket of breadsticks and scurries away.
I stare after her for a moment, silently begging her to come back because that wasnotthe way I wanted to break the news of the divorce.
“I’m fine with it.”
I swing back toward Natasha. “Huh?”
“You being divorced. And old.” She lifts a shoulder, her red curls bouncing. “I’m fine with it.”
I shift around in my chair. “I’m, uh, I’m really not.”
“Trust me, we can work around it.”
The fuck…
Is she really that dense? I’m trying to let her down easy and it’s not working. Time to bring out the big guns.
“Our age difference and my divorce are just two things among the plethora of other reasons why we can’t do this. We—”
“Ple-what?”
I groan, scrubbing a hand down my face. “Look, Natasha—”
“Here’s that chocolate milk you ordered. I even put it in a to-go cup for you.”
Wren slides the child-sized cup—complete with a crazy straw—across the table.
Natasha’s mouth drops open, her face reddening a little more with every second she stares at the offending beverage.
“Fine. I get it—I’m achildto you.” She stands abruptly, her chair stuttering against the carpet just enough to topple over and bring the scrutiny of half the restaurant our way.
“She’s doing it again, Blythe,” an older man speaks up. “Let’s watch the show.”
“Oh, Randy,” the woman he’s with titters, busying herself with her slice of macaroni pizza and shaking her head at her husband—or Wren. I can’t tell which.
“Well, I have news for you,Foster—I know how to use my mouth in ways your sad, old dick couldn’t even dream about.”
She turns on her heel and marches out of the restaurant.
“Damn, boy.” The old man whistles. “She told you.”