Page 47 of Story of My Life
I spied Cam and his unnamed brother at the bar. They already had beers sitting in front of them.
“She seems niiice,” Zoey said as we pounced on the menus.
“Is it just me or is it kind of stink eye-y in here?” I asked, glancing up from the pizza selection.
“Definitely not just you. But don’t worry, I have pepper spray in my purse,” she assured me.
“I thought small towns were supposed to be friendly.”
She shrugged. “Maybe they heard about our grand entrance today. Or maybe you bought the house out from under some deserving townsperson who had been saving for years for a down payment.”
“I think you’ve been spending too much time with authors,” I observed.
“You and me both,” she said pointedly.
I smacked her playfully on the head with my menu.
“Here comes Hangry Hazel,” she teased. “Split a pizza and a salad?”
“Perfect.”
“So,” she said, sliding her menu to the edge of the table. “What’s the inspiration meter at after half a day of chaos in your new hometown?”
I stacked my menu on top of hers and hazarded a glance at the bar. Cam’s eyes locked with mine briefly before looking away again. “Things are definitely percolating.”
She sagged dramatically against the booth cushion. “Thank God, because if this hellish day didn’t start those creative wheels turning in your beautiful head, I’d be giving up, hitchhiking back to the city, and looking for a job as a personal shopper.”
“I have a good feeling about this place,” I said, accidentally making eye contact with the family of four at the table across the aisle. They returned my neighborly smile with a dead-eyed “you’re not welcome here” stare. My good feeling was on shaky ground.
“At least one of us does. This is just like that time I was dating that guy who wore an Eagles jersey to the Giants home game. I’m gonna say something.”
I reached across the table and grabbed her arm. “Absolutely not,” I hissed. “This isn’t Manhattan. You can’t just call someone out and never have to see them again.”
“Well, you can’t spend the rest of your life in a town hiding from people with fuckingattitude problems,” Zoey said, raising her voice on the last two words.
“Should I come back, ladies?” Our server was a tall teen with bronze skin, a mop of curly black hair, and not one but two dimples, which were on display as he grinned down at us.
I was so relieved to see a friendly face that I released Zoey’s arm and grabbed his.
“I’m sorry for all my sins since entering town limits. Please don’t leave us without taking our order or we’ll die of starvation and then the dining room will become a crime scene with our bodies outlined in tape, which will be really hard to do since we’lldie sitting up. Our tragic deaths will make for a shitty night for you since we’ll be too dead to tip,” I pleaded.
Both dimples deepened.
“Sorry for my friend’s extensive word vomit and my f-bomb. We’re delirious with hunger,” Zoey explained.
“My uncles made sureshitwas my first word just to make my mom mad. But enough small talk. I don’t want you two wasting away before I take your order and bring you breadsticks.”
“Breadsticks,” I repeated in a hallowed whisper.
Zoey gave him our dinner order. Conscious of the fact that I still smelled like a case of cabernet, I stuck with a Pepsi.
“I’ll put a rush on this and be back with your drinks and breadsticks. I’m Wesley, by the way.”
“Thank you, Wesley,” Zoey said with a flirtatious finger wave.
The parents at the table across from us looked like they wanted to squirt their ketchup bottle in our direction.
“Don’t flirt with teenagers,” I hissed after he hustled off. I wasn’t sure I could get wine stains out, let alone ketchup.
