Page 4 of By A Thread
“He’ll have water. Tap is fine,” my mother cut in.
“Absolutely. Now, how about dinner?” Sex Hair flashed my mother a genuine grin.
“I’ve heard rumors of your pizza crusts far and wide,” Mom said coyly.
Sex Hair leaned in, a friend sharing secrets. “Every word is true,” she said. “It’s perfection.”
I smelled lemons again.
“In that case, I’ll have the personal with green onions and black olives.”
“You are a woman of excellent taste,” the mouthy server announced. “How about for you, Prince Charming?” she asked.
“Pepperoni. Personal.” I closed the menu and held it out without looking at her.
“Very creative,” she quipped.
So maybe it wasn’t fair of me. She obviously didn’t know she was pushing a button. That I still wasn’t confident in my ability tobecreative, to be good at the job my mother needed me to do. But she said it. And I reacted.
“Shouldn’t someone your age have a real job by now, Maleficent? Because obviously you’re not good at this one.”
The entire place went silent. The other patrons froze, gazes fixed on our table. Sex Hair met my eyes for one long beat. God, it felt good to let out some of the fight I’d been bottling up for so long.
“Since you askedsonicely, I’ll be sure to give your orderextraspecial attention,” she promised. The wink she gave me was so insolent, I almost got out of the booth to chase her into the kitchen.
“Don’t you dare,” Mom said, grabbing my hand before I bolted.
“She can’t get away with that. We’re paying customers,” I told her.
“You are to sit there. Be polite. And eat whatever she sees fit to bring you,” Mom ordered.
“Fine. But if she poisons me, I’ll sue her and her entire family. Her great-grandchildren will feel my wrath.”
My mother sighed theatrically. “Who hurt you, darling?”
It was a joke. But we both knew the answer wasn’t funny.
2
Ally
Decorating Charming’s pizza was the most fun I’d had in… Ugh. Never mind.
Let’s just say life had been a shit show lately. And messing with a grumpy guy—what was it with assholes today anyway?—who looked like he’d waltzed right off the pages of some men’s magazine was definitely a highlight. Which said a lot about my current situation.
I didn’t have time to worry about the consequences of being stretched too thin. This was the kind of life crisis that you muscled through.
When it was all over, I would book myself a vacation on a beach where the only thing I had to worry about was if my straw was long enough to reach the bottom of my frozen cocktail.
“Table Twelve wants their check, Ollie.” George, my boss and the grumpiest Italian grandpa I’d ever met in my life, announced brusquely as if I’d spent the last four hours ignoring diners instead of waiting on them. He hadn’t bothered to learn my name when I started three weeks ago. I hadn’t bothered to teach him. The guy went through servers like new parents went through baby wipes.
At least the checks were made out correctly by Mrs. George. That’s what mattered.
“On it,” I told him.
A mango margarita, I decided, hefting the plates and pushing through the swinging kitchen doors.
By the time I had that mango margarita in hand, I might be in my sixties instead of a ripe old thirty-nine—thanks for pointing that out, Charming—but I would fix what needed fixing. There was no other option.
