Page 65 of The Fake Out Flex

Evie mouths, "You first," so I place my order. When I'm done, Evie glances up at the waiter and asks, "I have some allergies."

"Could you pleez specify which allergiez you have? I'll make sure to inform ze kitchen team so we can accommodate your needs and provide you with meal options that are safe for you."

His words came out in one long monotone drawl, like it's something he's recited a thousand times before.

"My allergy is kind of…unique," Evie says, resting her elbows on the table.

He sighs. "I'm all ears."

"Well, see, I'm basically allergic to most food groups that aren't a burger."

"A boor-gair?"

"Yes. It's a very specific allergy. Only affects the tiniest amount of people in the world. We actually have a support group. Meet once a month online to discuss all the challenges and stigmas that we face. It's cathartic, actually, and I feel like I'm really growing and accepting that my allergy is a part of me, but not all of me. I won't let it define who I am."

Thankfully she stops because I am this close to bursting out laughing.

Frenchie isn't amused.

"Let me see if I understand you correctly. You would like me to ask ze chef to prepare for you a boor-gair?"

Evie nods. "With crispy fries. Or onion rings. I don't mind either way. Whatever they feel inspired to make."

"I see. Will that be all this evening?"

"You know what?" I say, snapping my menu shut. "I've changed my mind. Forget the tomahawk. I'll have a burger, too. Extra bacon. Extra cheese. With fries. Please."

Frenchie gets a vague look in his eyes, like he'd rather be anywhere else but here. He takes a deep breath, scoops the menus off the table, and mutters something under his breath in French. He's probably questioning the life choices he's made to wind up working in a posh restaurant with an impossible to pronounce name, serving burgers to Americans whose idea of refined dining is swapping out fries for onion rings.

"So, how has your week so far been?" I ask once he leaves, easing into the conversation we need to have.

"Dull. Incredibly uneventful. Bordering on boring. I've actually been hoping some scandal would erupt and I'd be right in the middle of the firestorm just so I'd have something to obsess over."

Man, I love how her mind works. Most people would answer a straightforward question like that with a simple reply.

But not Evie.

She uses words the way a hockey player carves up the ice, ducking and weaving on the way to giving a proper answer. She makes you work for it, sifting and sorting through her at times jumbled stream of consciousness to get to the heart of what she actually means.

And I love that.

It feels like what I wish all conversations I have with all people would be like. Maybe if they were, I'd feel like talking more.

"How have you been?" she asks, before I can follow-up.

"Fine."

"I've been worried about you."

"You have? Why?"

"Because you hate the press."

"Believe me, that opinion hasn't changed these past few days."

"And you've gotten a lot of it. Because of me. How are you handling it?"

"It's not because of you, Evie," I say, setting the record straight. I hope she hasn't been blaming herself for any of this. "I'm the one who asked you to go to the beach. I'm acutely aware I'm a target for people's attention, once I put myself out in public. That's on me. Not you."

---