Page 19 of Coach
To further prove our classiness, we ordered a round of mimosas before our butts had even touched the seats.
Then the waiter called Sisi “ma’am,” and any hint of class flew out the window.
“Ma’am?” Sisi hissed, eyes wide, as if he’d accused her of clubbing baby seals. “Did you just fucking ‘ma’am’ me, boy?” she asked the now-cowering guy who was probably in college but looked like his balls had yet to drop.
Mike flinched.
Elliot picked up his menu and held it up like a shield.
And I—I slid my drink to the center of the table like a peace offering.
To his credit, the waiter apologized.
To her credit—and by some blessing of ancient Viking gods—Sisi accepted.
Sort of.
“If you bring me poached eggs and don’t call me ma’am again,” she said, “we’ll all walk out of here alive.”
And just like that, brunch was back on track.
The food was delicious, the drinks were better, and Sisi’s wit was cranked up to “murderous sparkle,” which meant she was working her way through judging those on the patio like a shark in red lipstick.
“I swear to God,” she said, slicing into her eggs Benedict like she was disarming a bomb with a meat cleaver, “if I have to hear another girl in a straw hat talk about her candle business and how ‘healing’ it is, I’m taking this damn mimosa back to the ER and injecting it into my veins.”
“Wouldn’t that be arteries?” Elliot asked, perking up.
Sisi’s eyes locked onto our burly lineman and narrowed. I was fairly certain a World War II era air raidsiren went off in some distant city.
“Does it matter?” I asked. “As long as it gets into the bloodstream, life is better, right?”
Mike raised his glass. “To citrus-based alcoholism and the nurses who enable it.”
Sisi glared a moment, then followed the crowd and raised her glass. We all clinked and drank, laughing like we never had to return to real life. Brunch was warm and easy and golden in the way only lazy, late-Saturday-morning brunches could be—when no one rushed, the food kept coming, and the company was good enough to make your stomach hurt from laughing.
Then my phone buzzed, its vibration amplified by the wood of the table.
I ignored it at first. Brunch was sacred, even if the entire gang couldn’t attend every week. In fact, it was so sacred that Sisi once took mine and tossed it in a pitcher of sangria because I checked an email during dessert.
But then it buzzed again.
Twice in a row.
A little flutter crept into my chest—half curiosity, half dread—so I slid the phone out and tilted it under the table.
Flannel Daddy:Hey. It’s Shane. Sideboard’s done.I didn’t have anything else today, so a buddy helped me load it. I can head your way if you send me your address, save you a trip to the boonies.
As I stared at the screen, my heart did something weird and undignified.
Sisi, without looking up from her plate, asked, “Who’s texting you and making your face do that thing?”
“What thing? I’m not doing a thing. My face is fine. Steady even. No thing here.”
Mike snickered. Elliot sat back and crossed his arms.
Sisi looked up.
“Danger, Will Robinson!” echoed in my head.
