Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 101629 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101629 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
“So what’s your favorite things on the menu?” Chaz asks as he opens his up across the table from me. And I’m reminded my favorite things Winston has cooked for me aren’t even on the menu. It was the chicken and dumplings he heated on his stove at his house for me when I was anxious for another reason. It was the lasagna he brought to my house when he wanted to check on me. It’s been several of the meals he’s sent me home with to feed my kids, Mia, and me. It makes my heart hurt even more that we can’t be together, that I don’t get to be with a man who cares so much about me and my family.
I clear my throat at the tightness there. “Um… the loaded nachos are really good. And the spaghetti is phenomenal,” I tell him.
“It’s such an eclectic mix of dishes. There’s no set cuisine, is there?” he asks, amused.
I shake my head. “There’s something for everyone, no matter what a family or group might be craving.”
“Have you tried this vegetarian tour, hon?” my mom asks, and I nod, knowing she had to cut meat protein out a few years ago for health reasons.
“It’s very good. I’ve tried just about everything on the menu except for the seafood, since I’m allergic to shellfish. He has several cooktops, so he’s able to do a lot of different things without cross-contaminating. He even has one specifically for gluten intolerance,” I say, and at their silence, my eyes pull from the swinging door to my parents who are staring at me, and I realize my voice had gone a bit wistful.
“Seems like he thought of everything,” Chaz finally speaks, his eyes narrowing a little. “You okay, kid? You seem a little… down.”
I sit up in my seat and shake my head once more. “Yeah, I’m… I’m fine. I guess I just feel bad about the whole Mike thing.” I pull the excuse out of my ass, not wanting them to know anything about my feelings for my boss. It’s one thing for my sister to know. I don’t want to hear what my mom would have to say about me feeling any kind of way for a married man. “I just wish we could’ve taken the girls for the getaway is all. We haven’t had the time or the money to do anything fun since Mike moved out.”
“Maybe you could ask for a few days off in the middle of the week, and we could take a trip then,” Chaz suggests, but I’m already shaking my head.
“The girls would have to miss school, and I can’t afford to take any more days off.”
My mom must sense I’m getting frazzled, because she reaches across the table and pats my hand. “It’s okay, baby. We’ll figure out how to have lots of fun with the girls without having to go anywhere or miss work, all right? I get it. I remember that year we were on our own. But we made do. And I’d like to think we had some fun, even while I was working my tail off.”
I smile at that, remembering how much she changed once we got into our new apartment just the three of us. Picnic dinners in the middle of the living room floor while we watched chick flicks. Spa days, where we’d do each other’s nails and wore dollar-store face masks. Little arts and crafts projects that we’d make together using supplies she snuck home from work. We had a blast.
“We did, Mom.” I squeeze her hand back, feeling a little better.
At one point during dinner, Winston does finally make his way out the swinging door. God, has he gotten even more beautiful in the days since I saw him last, or is it just because I miss him so much? Is it just because I long for him so deeply, so badly? He steps over to the bar and grabs a bottle of red wine, his black T-shirt pulled tight across his chest, the short sleeves looking ready to rip as they hug his huge biceps. And as if he senses my presence, feels my eyes on him, his lift and lock on mine. He gives me a heartbreakingly sad smile with a little cautious wave, and I return the gesture with a pained smile of my own before forcing my eyes to my dinner. When I glance up again, he’s no longer there, and I breathe out a sigh.
When Bitsy comes to the table, the bill tray only has the little chocolate mints we give out at the end of dinner. There is no check. At my confused look, she smiles and tells us, “The head honcho said y’all’s meal was on the house and to tell you and your parents he hoped you enjoyed your dinner.”