Page 43 of Wall

At least John has his nose stuck in the menu, so he doesn’t notice my loss for words. I follow his cue and scan the entrees. I can’t read a word. It’s too loud.

There are a lot of people here, and they’re pretty raucous for so early in the evening. A nearby table has a family with three generations, all chatting away except the kids on their phones.

There’s a table of women who look to be on a girls’ night right next to us. One of them is recounting a story at top volume. Something about a friend named Becca who’s gone too far, and thinks her “shit don’t stink,” and needs to be brought down a notch. The woman speaking is so animated, I can’t focus on the entrees.

John shuts his menu firmly. “I’m gonna get a porterhouse. You want the filet?”

I breathe a sigh of relief. “Sure.”

“Baked potato, no sour cream?”

He remembers. My chest warms. “Yes, please.”

Our waiter comes over, and John does the ordering. It’s a touch heavy-handed, but it’s another thing he picked up from his dad. John Sr. has very firm ideas about how a man should treat a woman. Most of his ways are more chivalrous than anything else, so I’ve always rolled with it.

Whoa. Did that have something to do with why John cheated?

‘Cause I was his wife, the good girl he married, not a woman he could bend over some boxes in a storage room at a motorcycle club?

“What’s that?” John’s frowning.

“What’s what?”

“That look on your face.”

“Nothing.”

He raises his eyebrows expectantly.

“It’s nothing.” I flip through the cocktails and desserts menu left on the table. I vaguely register that the women at the high-top fall quiet. It’s a whispery, giggly, expectant hush.

“Hey! Hey!” The woman who’d been boozily holding forth on “that bitch” Becca is now addressing John. “The porterhouse is a bold choice.”

For a moment, John doesn’t seem to register that she’s talking to him.

“That’s a big piece of meat. Let me know if you need help with it.”

Finally, he glances over at her. She makes a show of re-crossing her legs. She’s wearing one of those slinky jumpsuits. It’s burgundy and classy and miraculously unwrinkled in the lap.

“Hayley,” one of the other women admonishes her in a stage whisper. “He’swithsomeone.”

“I’m just being friendly.” She flashes me an unnaturally white smile. “You don’t mind, do you?”

I recognize her type. She’s doing well for herself. She thinks she’s too good for this hick town, but she hasn’t caught a ride out of it yet. She’s naturally blonde and skinny and confident, so when you see her, you think “pretty.”

I went to school with a girl like her. Everyone did. She made my life miserable in middle school until I got lucky, and she decided I didn’t exist in ninth grade.

Girls like her end up with guys who look like John does now.

Girls like her know guys like John are taken, and they try anyway.

Hayley. Stephanie.

I turn back and direct my glare at John, cranking myself up to be hurt and bitter. And he’s looking back at me.

He’s never stopped looking at me.

“Babe?” He reaches out his hand across the plastic tablecloth. “You want me to ask for another table? More quiet.”

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