Page 183 of We Can't Be Friends

“Never,” I laugh. “It has to be illegal how good these are.” The initial bite is my favorite—the dogs are good on their own, but I prefer a little bit of mustard and then a lot of ketchup—and I pause to admire it before I indulge. “Not many stands carry celiac safe hot dogs,” I say with a mouthful.

“Probably started stocking them for you.”

“Nope. They’ve always had them. The owner also has celiac disease.”

Eating our dogs, we walk to The Hayes. Flynn has been working on a new cocktail menu and asked if we would come to sample the drinks.

When we enter The Cleopatra, the restaurant on the first floor is moody. After nine, the chandeliers are set to dim. Each table has a small light that customers can adjust to their preferences. Most tables in the restaurant's center are dark green velvet curved booths.

I snicker.

“What?”

“Booths the color of Emerson’s eyes?”

“You’ve never noticed?”

“I think I forget sometimes that Liam’s love for her is preserved in this place.”

Around the perimeter are tables that seat two, four, and six—chairs on one side and the same material booth on the other. Staff move around each other easily, delivering food and drinks tothe lively crowd. The Cleopatra, named and designed after Emerson’s love for Cleopatra, has been open for a year and still has a wait of over two hours. They stopped taking reservations when the hotel opened and are now first come, first serve.

There are two barstools open at the bar—they have two—one for those who want to eat and drink and the other solely for drinks. Cal pulls out the chair, helping me into the high seat.

“Chloe. Callum,” Flynn greets us, pouring two glasses of water. “I appreciate you two stopping by. I have a round of drinks to finish making, and then I’ll be back.”

“Take your time.”

Fifteen minutes later, I think every employee stopped by and said hello to Cal.

Leaning into him, I ask, “Do you know everyone’s name?” Not once did he ask for their name; he knew it automatically.

Cal swallows his drink of water. “I do. I might not be their boss, but I still sign their paychecks. Knowing someone's name is the simplest way to show you care. To show you see them. One shift a week at a restaurant or full-time as an SVP, each employee deserves to know they are appreciated and respected.”

Sitting next to me is the man I’m falling in love with, but within him still is a little boy that wants to be noticed. That wanted to be loved. Even grown up, I know he still wants that, deserves that. Despite it all, here he is making sure that no one else feels as he did.

How did Cal turn out this way? Sweet, caring, genuine, respectful.

It makes me want to be better. How often did I blow off a coworker or the person making my coffee because I was having a bad day or in a rush? How hard is it to acknowledge their name, compliment them, or thank them? We’re all human, after all. We all want to be seen and loved.

“That’s special, Cal. Incredible.” My eyes are soft, weighed down by love for him. “I bet they love working here because of that.”

Flynn returns with a tray of miniature cocktails. He gives us a rundown of each one and a sheet of paper for notes. Then leaves us to enjoy them. He didn’t want to hover and force us to like them because he was around.

Flynn makes us full size versions of our favorites after listening to our notes—which were minimal.

Cal spins our chairs to face each other, his knees sandwiching mine.

His blue eyes flare when he looks over my shoulder, and he coughs on his drink.

I pat his back. “You okay?” He shakes his head like nothing happened. “Cal.”

He takes a deep breath, shoulders bopping. “Seth is here.” I try to glance over my shoulder. “No. Don’t.” Cal stops me with a protective caress of his hand on my cheek.

“What is he doing here? Who is he with?”

“Umm.” He quickly ping-pongs his eyes from me to them, trying not to stare directly at them. “She has reddish pink hair. Magenta? Her back is to me. I can’t see anything else.”

He doesn’t need to, I know who that is. Tamara.

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