Page 20 of Loaded

He said he was golfing earlier, but I wouldn’t care if he was skydiving. I’d barely care if he was going in for a job interview. . . I’ve saved him more times than I can count, so he can come eat a free dinner when I need him. He’s eight years younger than I am—just out of school—so free food’s usually enough of a draw on its own.

He gets here just as Bea’s bringing my oysters, which is pretty impressive.

“Who’s this?” Bea’s eyeing him like he’s a moth trying to eat her favorite sweater.

“I’m Matt.” He holds out his hand, which is strange. No one shakes hands with their waitress.

I shake my head.

He drops his hand and sits. “Wow, this place is nice,” he says.

“I fell in love with their food last night,” I say. “I barely slept, thinking about their prosciutto and cheese.”

He eyes my plate. “And then you got oysters?” Matt’s going to get punched if he keeps making me look dumb. I’ve been doing plenty good at that myself. I definitely don’t need help.

“I was waiting to order the burrata until you got here.” I look up at Bea. “Maybe make it two orders. Matt eats more than most teenagers I know.”

“How do you two know each other?” Bea asks.

“I signed up for a mentoring program as an alumnus. They assigned me this loser.” I can’t help my smile.

Bea quirks an eyebrow. “Let me guess. You both went to Harvard?”

“Hardly,” Matt says. “This guy flunked out of Princeton. I met him at Rutgers.”

Everyone thinks I flunked out, because to my parents that was less embarrassing than admitting we couldn’t pay the tuition. They couldn’t risk that anyone at the tuition office might recognize I was taking out loans, so Rutgers, which offered me a full scholarship as a transfer, is where I went.

“You’re a Jersey boy?” Bea narrows her eyes. “Really?”

“I think I got an ‘in state’ scholarship,” Matt says, “which is really just a discount. They waived the fact that I’m from New York to entice me to go.” He shrugs.

“That’s smart of them,” she says. “Bring the good people, but don’t make it entirely free.”

“Good people?” I cringe. “Not sure Matt qualifies.”

He throws his napkin at me.

My phone rings—there’s some kind of problem with the supplier for one of our men’s colognes. By the time Iget off the call, Bea’s back with the burratas. Matt wastes no time popping some in his mouth. “That’samazing,” he says. “But it’s small.” He glances my way. “We’re getting more food, right? With like, big portions?”

Bea laughs. “We’re not exactly known for massive portions.”

“Tell her whether you have allergies,” I say, delighted that she seems entertained. “Then tell her your favorite meal of all time and where you ate it.”

Matt frowns. “No allergies, not like my boy here.”

I try to kick him and wind up slamming my toe into the central table support instead. It’s hard not to wince, but I manage.

“Wait, you have allergies?” Bea asks. “You said last night?—”

“No food allergies.” I scowl.

“But he’ll run like a scared little girl if he sees a bee.” Matt slaps the table. “His little scream is hilarious.”

I’m going to kill him.

“I’d mock him about it more often, but I swear, it was so scary that one time that if I were him, I’d screech too.” He shakes his head. “Do you even remember anything from that?”

“Of course I remember it. My face swelled up,” I say. “It didn’t break my brain.”

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