Page 83 of Just Like Starting Over
“Okay,” I say. “Next Friday at nine. Is the champagne going to be good, or is it going to be that cheap junk that burns a hole right down to your shoe leather?”
Mike laughs. “Take an antacid before you go and bill me for it.”
“Deal.” I smile and he’s gone, leaving me with my spectacular view.
The truth is that I have no commitments for this next Friday night or any Friday nights in the near future. I don’t miss Chelsea much, but I do miss how she always planned our weekends to the last detail. I thought she was kidding the first time I saw ‘sex’ in an assigned time block on the weekend schedule she emailed me each Friday afternoon before four. (She had a template in Excel. Yes, she did.)
But she wasn’t kidding. Right on time, she pulled me into the bedroom and peeled off her panties. Chelsea really did plan everything, probably even the timing of her orgasms.
Maybe that’s why I don’t miss her much. Our relationship lacked a certain spontaneity. I always knew what I was supposed to do next.
That last time, when I was supposed to propose, I just didn’t do it.
Even though it was on the schedule and everything.
My bad.
“Asshole,” she said and she wasn’t wrong. The only thing I hate more than being nice is being predictable. Both give people ideas.
Mike is right about my affection for blondes. I hope there are a few at this reception, or maybe just one stunner to make the evening worthwhile.
If we aren’t going to win, who will even know if I cut out early?
21
SYLVIA
The fan boy turns up on Saturday morning.
I don’t notice him right away and then when I do, I nearly jump out of my skin. He’s tall and thin, such dark hair and fair skin that he could be one of the undead. He has his face pressed to the glass door of the café, eyes wide as he scans the interior. His eyes, in fact, are the only part of him that’s moving. It’s almost like he appeared out of nowhere, beamed down or transported through time and space.
“Not open,” I say and point to my watch.
He drops to his knees and holds his hands together before himself, like he’s praying in church.
I turn to Merrie, but she’s chopping with furious concentration.
Against my better judgement, I unlock the door. “We don’t open until noon.”
He nods solemnly, his gaze sliding past me to Merrie. His eyes light. “Is thather?” he whispers. “Is that Meredith MacRae? TheactualMeredith MacRae?”
“Yes. Do you know her?”
“Oh no, I’ve only admired her from afar.” He rises from his knees and I see that he has a small backpack with him. He’s wearing jeans and high-tops, a denim jacket and a striped shirt. He also may be the tallest kid I’ve ever seen. He takes a breath, a deep one, then exhales. There’s something almost reverential about the move and I realize he must be able to smell the gratin. He notices the menu board and turns to read it so intently that he might be memorizing it.
“Um, we’re not open,” I say again. “You have to go.”
“I need a job,” he says, spinning to face me. “I want a job, and it has to be here. I came from Toronto as soon as I heard about the café.” He nods solemnly. “I took the bus to Havelock, then hitched a ride. I had to walk the last bit because the guy was going to a farm, but that’s okay because I’m here now and I never want to leave.”
I try not to think about the kind of people Sierra could be meeting on the bus each week.
“Well, I’m sorry, but we’re not hiring right now.”
“You must need help! I saw how busy you are. I follow Rafe online and I saw the food.” He pulls out his phone, which is new and large. Sure enough, he has hundreds of pictures of what looks like Merrie’s cooking. “It looks fantastic and Ihaveto work here. I have to learn from the greatest chef of our time.”
I think he must be joking, but he seems to be completely serious.
“Someone talking about me?” Merrie asks, then comes clicking across the floor.
