Page 27 of The Waiter at Table 6

Leaning on my golf club, I give into my curiosity again. “Does that bother you?”

She spins to face me, and I have to focus to keep my eyes on her face instead of the miles of leg that spin just revealed. “That I’m hanging out with a twenty something year old?”

“That you have a friend a few years younger than you,” I correct carefully.

With the way she’s looking at me, I think the unspoken part of my question is clear. Is my age one of the reasons you didn’t want to explore this thing between us?

I can see the thoughts tumbling through her head, and I wait patiently for her answer. “No, our age difference doesn’t bother me.”

But there’s something else she’s not saying, so I stay silent.

Sure enough, she continues after a moment. “It’s not the age difference, and it doesn’t bother me, necessarily, but…” She bites her lip in thought. “But us being in different stages of life does affect this,” she admits, gesturing between us. “I mean, you’re twenty-five, with the world spread out before you. You know exactly who you are, and what you want. You’re a whole person. And I’m…” She lets out a heavy exhale. “I don’t know… not. I’ve lived through this entire stage of life where I completely lost myself.” She locks eyes with me. “When I was your age, we still would’ve been different, but I at least would’ve been at the same stage, filled with the same hope and excitement. I wouldn’t be…this version of myself.”

I hold her gaze, letting her see that I do get it. Ten years is a lot of experiences that I haven’t had the time for yet.

And yet, I still have enough hope that our journeys aren’t so different that we won’t meet in the middle. But only when it’s good for her.

So for now, I merely say, “I think you might be closer to your true self than you think you are.”

It must be the right thing to say, because a smile lights up her face. And it takes everything in me to fight the temptation to kiss her.

Instead, I walk over to the hole and pluck her ball from it, then drop it into her open hand.

“Alright, hustler, let’s see how many more ‘accidental’ hole in ones you can get.”

The rest of the game is light and easy. I ask her more about her childhood, she asks me for more stories about my family. I ask her about her interests, she brushes me off and turns the question back on me.

I’m starting to see what she means about never having had the chance to find herself. Even when she does answer one of my questions, there’s always an undercurrent of my family pushed for this, or my ex-husband suggested that. It’s like she was never able to figure out what she likes.

By the twelfth hole, I vow to broaden her horizons a little bit. Or at least to give her the motivation, or the inspiration, or whatever the fuck she needs to go find it on her own. The world deserves to see the vibrant, passionate woman waiting just behind her walls.

An idea hits me as soon as we tap our balls into the clown’s mouth at the last hole. By the time Vanessa returns her club, I can feel my grin stretching from ear to ear.

Sure enough, when she turns to face me, her expression becomes skeptical. “I feel like that smile should scare me.”

“Oh, definitely. Do you trust me anyway?”

I don’t realize I’m holding my breath for her answer until her gaze tracks over my face for a moment, right before she says in a strong voice, “I do.”

My exhale is heavy with relief. “Good. We’re going to the carnival.”

8

VANESSA

I don’t know how I was expecting the night to go after mini golf, but it wasn’t playing carnival food bingo while laughing hysterically at Ryder getting ripped off by the games.

“How do you keep being surprised?” I ask through yet another fit of laughter. “Everybody knows these games are rigged. There’s no way you’re actually going to win anything bigger than a bracelet.”

Ryder looks pointedly at the bracelet I slid onto my wrist as soon as he won it. I don’t tell him I already like it more than any other jewelry in my closet, solely because his expression of concentration as he tried to get a ring around a frog absolutely melted me.

“We’re not leaving this place until I win a stuffed animal,” he declares. Then he turns his glare on the kid working behind the counter. “And anyway, they’re not supposed to be rigged when you know the employees. Especially because your sister used to babysit that employee and once took the blame for him eating all the ice cream in the freezer.”

The teenager behind the counter just grins at Ryder, shrugging. “No proof, no assist. Sorry, bro.”

That earns him another glare. “I’ll remember this the next time you come by the restaurant with your family. You’re getting spoiled shrimp, bro.”

Laughing, I grab Ryder’s forearm to pull him away from the game and toward the one I’ve had my eye on for the past few minutes.

---