Bennett slides into his seat, a second later wincing in pain as he reaches below the table to rub at his shin. We both stare at Mami, but she remains impassive. Bennett looks up at me, tries for nonchalance, and fails. “So, how are things going with your new husband?”
“Oh, we shouldn’t pry.” My mother straightens, pressing a hand against her chest as if surprised by the sudden line of questioning. But the three of us know damned well that’s the reason they dropped by.
I stare up at the ceiling for a minute, hoping to find remnants of my lost patience there. Like Bennett, I fail miserably, wanting nothing more than to pour the mimosa she regularly orders on her head. “We’re fine. Turns out married life suits one of us, after all.”
I duck my head after saying it because that was a low blow. Mami might love to meddle, but she has no idea she’s pouring salt on a wound. How could she when I haven’t told her anything about how and why I married Tony? I love my mom, but she can be exhausting.
And honestly, I don’t think the truth would be any kinder.
A breeze drifts over us as the front door opens and shuts. A respite. Salvation from my mother’s version of the Spanish Inquisition. But as soon as my escape appears, my soon-to-be-former best friend snatches it from my grasp. Taya, coward and traitor that she is, rushes up to the hostess booth to greet the incoming customers, and takes them to a table belonging to the next server in the rotation.
Bennett pats the back of my hand. “I wanted to ask if you and Tony might be willing to come help out with the renovation of the house again soon. We’ve been a little shorthanded lately and could use you.”
Last time, Tony and I had worked so well together, and he’d seemed to enjoy helping out as much as did. I suppose it couldn’t hurt to give working together another go. Especially since I hate saying no to Bennett. “I’ll talk to him and find out what his schedule is like.”
Mamileans back in her seat and cocks her head to one side, considering me with those dark eyes that somehow always know all my wrongdoings before I do. When she crosses her arms, I step back and wave to both of them before she can utter a word. “I should get back to work. Your server will be right with you.”
Once back at the hostess stand, I take a deep breath. I’ll have some explaining to do to my mother at some point. Part of me wants to be an adult about it all, admit the truth of my relationship to Tony, and maybe even ask her for guidance on what to do. Then again, how beneficial would advice be coming from a woman with enough husbands to make up a bowling team?