Page 17 of Set on You

Martin leans in to me, crunching his Caesar salad. A bit of crouton flies out of his mouth, landing dangerously close to my wrist, and I immediately set it onto my lap under the protection of the tablecloth. “You’ll be beside my grandson, Scotty.” He gives me a glowing smile, as if I’ve hit the jackpot as far as seating arrangements are concerned. Joy.

I’m momentarily distracted by Dad throwing Martin’s son an animated high-five across the table. Dad is one of those people who can walk into a room full of strangers and exit fifteen minutes later with new, lifelong best friends. He’s a quintessential extrovert, the first to arrive at a social gathering and always the last to leave.

“Looks like Scotty is running a bit late,” I say, eyeing the empty chair beside me.

A green-eyed woman with a stylish bob, whom Martin introduced as Patricia, his daughter-in-law, shifts forward diagonally across from me. “He told me he was coming right after his shift,” she says, glancing at her watch. By the way her nose is wrinkled with annoyance, I’m assuming that’s his mother.

“He’s a firefighter, my grandson,” Martin informs me proudly. “Followed in the family footsteps.”

I scan Martin, trying to imagine him as a firefighter forty years ago, to no avail. “You must be proud of him.”

Grandma Flo pipes up from Martin’s other side. “Oh, Tara, speaking of Scotty. Wait till you see him. The man is a looker.”

Both Tara and I shift uncomfortably in our seats. Since Tara’s failed engagement, Grandma Flo has been obsessed with playing matchmaker for her.

It isn’t that I want my grandmother setting me up with random dudes. But out of principle, I once asked why she hasn’t tried to setmeup. She waved it off, calling me one of those “independent types.” She then followed it up by admiring myface, going on about how I’m a perfect mix of my parents, and how rare it is that I’d have my mom’s hazel-gold eyes. Complimenting my “facial beauty” is typical when people try to compensate, falsely assuming I’m in need of a confidence boost where my body is concerned.

For Tara’s sake, I attempt to shift the focus away from her singleness. “If Scott is such a looker, why is he single?” I toss in a grin to ensure everyone knows I’m joking.

“He’s not.” Martin nods back toward Patricia. “He’s dating that professional figure skater. Diana. Isn’t he, Patricia?”

Patricia nods. “They’ve been together about six months now. Though she’s on tour doing Disney on Ice,” she adds, distractedly glancing at her watch once again. “I don’t want you guys to have to wait for him. He’s probably still at work, as usual.”

Martin shrugs. “Duty calls.”

My annoyance with this tardy Scott character only grows upon confirmation that he’s the sole reason no one except Martin hastouched their salad yet. It’s already seven thirty. I ate light in anticipation of a massive meal tonight, by seven at the latest. I wondered why they were delaying cocktails and appetizers.

Martin sets his hand over the back of Grandma’s chair before pressing a kiss on her temple. “Scotty won’t mind if we get started. I’ll go ahead and start my speech.” He tosses his cloth napkin onto the table in front of him, standing with his full glass of red wine. Everyone shifts their attention to him.

“Before we eat, I’d be remiss if I didn’t thank my family and Flo’s family for coming this evening, and Tara for giving us an entire wedding,” he adds with a wink, highlighting Tara’s misfortune for the fifth time tonight. Everyone giggles uncomfortably while Tara white-knuckles her salad fork.

“I don’t know if everyone knows this, but Flo and I attended the same elementary school. We were classmates, all the way until the eighth grade. She was by far the prettiest girl in class, with her little pigtails,” he says affectionately. “When I was—”

Martin’s speech is rudely interrupted when the door to our private room busts open.

The Ritchies erupt with enthusiasm, shouting, “Scotty!”

My eyes settle on the hulking figure taking up nearly the entire width of the doorway. The forest-green eyes. The Chris Evans face.

No freakin’ way.

It’s Squat Rack Thief.

Squat Rack Thief isScott.

I don’t know if I’ve ever wished myself to disappear into oblivion more than I do right now.

chapter eight

THE UNIVERSE ISofficially conspiring against me. I must have done some seriously messed-up shit in a past life.

Scott, better known as Squat Rack Thief, is borderline unrecognizable in non-gym wear, without the ball cap casting a grim shadow over his face. His wavy hair is damp and pushed back, as if he’s fresh from a shower. Under the warm candlelight, the deep jewel-tone hues of his eyes pop like emeralds. He’s wearing a sport coat over a pale blue button-down shirt and beige pants, all of which fit with unfair precision.

When he spots me next to his grandpa, he stumbles backward a step, gripping the doorframe. Clearly, this is as shocking to him as it is to me. In fact, I half-expect him to turn around and sprint out of the restaurant.

Seeing him here is jarring, given the last time we were in eachother’s presence, every square inch of our sweaty bodies was pressed together.

My stomach clenches as Martin cheerfully bellows, “Scotty! My boy!” from his standing position.

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