Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
“Drinks would be nice to start,” says Cody, slapping a hand playfully on the table. “Our glasses are empty.”
“They are,” notices Anthony. “What, uh … uh, what would you like to—”
“I think we can order our food, too,” says Trey. “If I hear my father’s stomach try to talk at me one more time …”
And just like that, everyone gets to throwing their orders at a very overwhelmed Anthony, whose face retains a scrunched-up, uncomfortable expression the whole time, like he’s constipated, his pretty blue eyes in a permanent squint. “You want what now?” “Uh, yeah, I can get you that, I think.” “Sure, on the side? Uh …” “Right, how do you want that cooked or whatever?” “No, I dunno any special discounts for that, I gotta ask.”
I watch Anthony shifting his weight from leg to leg, over and over. He keeps taking breaths, wiping imaginary sweat off of his forehead, scribbling away on the pad, scratching out things, then squinting some more. Everything is confusing and too much.
“Alright, got it, get all that out for you soon,” says Anthony in a state of bewilderment, then turns to head off.
Until he realizes I’ve gotten hold of the corner of his apron, stopping him. “Forgot one.”
Anthony slowly turns back around.
Was he purposefully avoiding me? What was his plan exactly when he did bring out the food and realized I had nothing in front of me? He doesn’t really think things through, does he?
And when his eyes meet mine—wow, those icy weapons in his face could set me on fire if he glares at me like that long enough.
He readies his pad once again and doesn’t bother to prompt me for my order, his eyelids half-closed as he stands there, stares at me, and waits for me to just speak. Really? This jerk is gonna hold this immature grudge with me until the end of time?
I close my menu. “I’ll take the 10-ounce sirloin.”
He scribbles on his pad, then eyes me again, waiting, silent.
I lift my eyebrows. “What? Did you hear me?”
“I got ears. I heard you.”
This fucking guy … When I glance at the others, I realize Cody and his mom launched into a hilarious story together that they’re tag-teaming in telling the others—mostly for Pete’s benefit—with Trey and his dad wearing smiles stretched ear to ear.
I guess that explains Anthony’s audacity; no one’s listening.
I face him. “So why’re you standing there staring at me like a bored orangutan?” I ask under my breath.
“Waiting on you to tell me how you want your meat cooked.”
“Medium rare.” My eyes narrow. “I like it bloody.”
“And I wouldn’t be standin’ here like an orangutan if you knew how to put in your full-ass order in the first place,” he mumbles back at me.
Our exchange has quickly descended into hushed insults only the two of us hear. “Then I’d better be extra clear so my words get through your thick head. What else you wanna know? That I need a dish to put my steak on? That I may need utensils to eat it with?”
“Good thing you told me that, or else I might’ve served it onto your lap along with a helpin’ of gasoline, you knob.”
“You’re seriously still raging about that?”
“I seriously still smell it on me.”
“It isn’t gasoline. It’s your juvenile attitude seeping outta your pores like B.O.”
“Better than an uptight attitude seepin’ outta my pores like a … a …” He can’t seem to think of anything. “Just tell me what sides you want so I can stop lookin’ at your ugly face. You get two.”
“How about a side of knuckles into that smug mouth of yours?”
Anthony leans in, growing even quieter. “How about a side of whatever stick you got up your ass?”
I lean in closer. “I thought I get two sides.”
“Two sticks, then.”
“You sure are rude to your paying customers.”
“Sorry if my attitude is twistin’ your manties.”
“Maybe I’ll leave a comment card on my way out.”
“What … the shit … is a comment card?” He’s so close now, I feel his breath on my eyelashes.
I squint at him. “You don’t know what a—?”
“I’ll comment card your ass,” he cuts me off. “Tell everyone in the comments section what a piece of … what I think of you. We’ve got the social medias. I got a friend who works for the paper. Make that two friends. Headline: ‘Loser Named Bridger Gets His Manties Twisted At Local Restaurant Over Sides’. People pay attention.”
“What are you? A ninety-year-old keyboard warrior?”
“Bitch, try twenty-four.”
“I—” That catches me by surprise. I expected older. “Really?”
Anthony frowns, confused by my reaction. Then apparently he decides he’s finished with me, because he shoves the pad and pen into his apron and heads off abruptly toward the kitchen, his tight ass dancing distractedly in those slacks of his, pulling on my eyes as if getting the last word in without any words at all. He shoves into the swinging kitchen door on his way out as if it did him wrong.