Page 21 of Brat Baby
Before I can open my mouth and ask the driver to take me home, the vehicle pulls to a stop, double parking in front of the restaurant. My heart beats erratically as I reach into my borrowed clutch and withdraw a few notes from the last of Oakley’s borrowed cash.
As soon as I’m out of the cab, I smooth my hands down the skirt of my pink floral dress from the Saturday shopping spree and stare at the single-story all-black-and-glass building sandwiched between two taller brick buildings.
A cool breeze wraps around my bare legs as I watch one particular couple, seated at a table among the other full tables on the sidewalk, get served food on a sizzling platter. Actually sizzling, like it’s cooking right there in front of them.
This was a fucking stupid idea.
I have no idea what Thai food I evenlike. The closest I have come to Asian food of any kind is two-minute ramen.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I glance around in the hope that I can see a bus stop or, even better, another vacant taxi, but nope. Nothing.
Okay, no. This is fine. It’s totally fine. I can do this. And if he does come and he does yell at me, then I can leave. I don’t need to sit there and take it. He can’t force me to stay. I’m an adult now and I can choose to leave.
With only a minor tremor in my hands, I force my feet to carry me toward the talking people. The ladies are all dressed in pretty outfits, and the men are wearing button-up shirts. Not a single hoodie or pair of sweats to be seen.
I fight the urge to glance down and check that I’m still wearingmypretty dress and not my ratty jeans and tank top as I approach the little lectern thingy outside of the roped-off eating area, where a man stands tapping away at a tablet and occasionally glancing at the tables.
The man sees me coming and smiles as I approach. “Did you have a reservation for tonight, miss?”
“Oh, uh, yeah. I mean, yes. I do. I’m meeting a f-friend,” I stutter, thrown by the polite way he spoke to me. I eye his uniform. All black, except for some gold trim down one lapel and around his waist. A glance at the logo above the restaurant shows that he matches the branding.
“Name?”
My eyes widen. Fuck. “Um, Darcy…” Shit, shit, shit. Oh wait, that student forum thing. “Sorry, let me check something.”
“Of course,” he replies and goes back to tapping at the tablet in front of him.
I quickly bring up the forum and find the intro post. Reign. Darcy Reign. I look up with a smile. “Darcy Reign. Sorry, this is our first date.”
He smiles, taps something on the screen, then gestures for me to walk through the ropes. “Thai Orchid is honored to be the location of your first date, hopefully you will be back for many more.”
I’m led to the door and ushered through. Immediately, a flood of sounds hit me—laughter, music, sizzling food, silverware clinking. I catch a flare of fire from the corner of my eye as we pass the kitchen and flinch away before I realize it’s one of those wok tossing things.
Jesus.
The Italian place had been bad enough. I literally have no idea what I am going to eat here.
“Here you are, miss. I’ll come back to take your order when your dining partner arrives. But for now, can I get you anything to drink?” The man—head server?—asks as he pulls out my seat for me.
I spot the vase-like bottle of chilled water already on the table and shake my head. “No, thank you. I’ll just have the water.”
Without a word, he pours me a glass before leaving me to sit there in silence. Well, as much silence as I can get in a packed restaurant.
The palms of my hands are sweaty as I reach for the water and take a sip, hoping the cool drink will soothe the stress that is rushing through my body. When that doesn’t work, I reach into my bag and pull out my phone, its notification screen frustratingly blank.
It also shows me that I’m several minutes early. Darcy has plenty of time to get here.
I take a deep breath and look around the room. Everyone is smiling and laughing. Everyone is having an amazing time. And why wouldn’t they? They are surrounded by friends and probably family, eating good food, drinking great drinks, and aren’t worried about how the next hour will go, let alone the next day, week, or month.
They are living in the moment.
After declining to order anything when the waitress stops by, I keep the people watching going, only checking the time everyfew minutes. My heart leaps into my throat every time the front door opens, and lucky me, I have a direct visual of the door above the heads of the other diners. And every single time, it drops back into my stomach, falling harder with every non-Darcy person entering.
That I really do need to forget about them.
Seven o’clock comes and goes, and when it’s twenty past, the waitress reappears at my table, little black order pad in hand.
