Page 91 of The Casting Couch

The vegan sushi place?“We don’t eat fish that ain’t cooked.”

Italian bistro?“I don’t trust them people with all that garlic.”

A Dominican cafe blasting merengue?“What is this music?”

A sleek ramen joint?“I don’t like soup where I can’t see the bottom.”

And the empanada cart I secretly loved?Thom muttered something about “not eatin’ outta a truck like some stray dog.”

By the time we hit Big Clucker’s Southern Buffet, I was ready to crawl into a pothole and vanish.

“This looks perfect,” Mom declared, her voice bright with false joy as we stepped under the flashing neon sign shaped like a winking chicken.“Just like home!”

Thom nodded solemnly, like this place was hallowed ground.“Bet they even got real sweet tea.”

The dining room smelled like fryer oil and melted plastic.The buffet stretched across the back wall like an overfed parade float.Trays of beige food under heating lamps, glistening with suspiciously high gloss.My arteries tightened just looking at it.

We got a booth by the window, a sticky vinyl monstrosity that squeaked every time someone breathed.I slid in across from them and immediately regretted everything.

Mom loaded her plate with mac and cheese, fried okra, and what looked like three different kinds of gravy.Thom returned with a small mountain of chicken thighs and something unidentifiable but aggressively orange.

“You not eatin’, Nicholas?”she asked between bites, like we were catching up over brunch and not actively living in my personal hell.

“I’m good,” I said, poking at a sad biscuit I’d taken to blend in.“Not super hungry.”

She made a face.“You’ve always been picky.”

That’s one way to describe being homeless and starving at seventeen because you threw me out.

I didn’t say it.Just nodded and took a sip of watery iced tea.

“So,” she said brightly, like this was The View, “you likin’ New York?Been here what… seven years?”

“Eight.”

“Eight!Look at you.City man now.”She elbowed Thom, who grunted in response.“He always was independent.Never needed his momma for nothin’.”

“Right,” I said, voice flat.

Thom swallowed a huge bite of chicken, wiped his mouth on a paper napkin, and grinned at me.“I sell boats,” he announced.

There was a pause.

“I… okay?”

“And I dabble in crypto.”

I blinked.“That explains the belt buckle.”

He laughed like I’d just delivered the line of the century, then took a huge gulp of soda.“Got a jet ski for every day of the week back home.Maybe I can take you out sometime.”

“Thrilling,” I muttered.

The waitress stopped by to check on us, a tough-looking woman with tired eyes and a name tag that said DEB.Her accent was pure Queens—fast, nasal, efficient.

“You guys need anything else?”she asked, already reaching for the sweet tea pitcher.

Thom blinked.“Huh?”

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