Page 9 of The Reluctant Reaper
So she had to ask herself why she’d suggested La Croix meet her at a place she liked. La Croix already knew far more about her than he should.Should’ve arranged to meet him at a truck stop an hour after the bars close.All former truck stop waitresses knew three a.m. was the witching hour, if witching meant barfing.
And she had no idea how to feel about sharing a table with the two of them. No, that was a lie. Watching Gray slap La Croix’s hand away as he tried to force a finger of walleye on her best friend was...
She groped for it, found it: It was the same feeling she got when someone she cared about was enjoying something she adored: Happy (this will be cool!), bewildered (worlds collide!), a little—a very little—envious (it’s not my secret anymore).
“How did you and my ‘dear friend Gray’ come to?—”
“Whoa.” Gray nearly choked on his drink. “I could actually hear the air quotes.”
“Amara, darling, how could I miss the opportunity to spend time with one of your closest friends?”
“Closest and onliest friend,” Gray added, then tipped her a wink.
Discounting Gray’s utter fascination with her family’s, um, history was a mistake. She should have anticipated it; reason #2 it was dumb to meet La Croix here.
“A drink,mon coeur?”
“Stop it, La Croix. I’m not and have never been your heart.” She perused the menu, unmoved by his baritone. “I believe I’ll be drinking syrup with syrup today.”
“Don’t you kind of do that anyway?” To La Croix: “She eats her own weight in sugar at least twice a week. When she’s done fixing an iced tea, it’s got more sugar than a Coke.”
“It’s March,” she pointed out, and caught the waiter’s eye. “Cherry Coke, please.” As the waiter nodded back, she ignored the newsflash about his impending doom in fourteen months and nine days. Car crash. Drunk driver. She wondered if he had a family. She wondered if his family would die with him.
“So!” Gray said brightly, raising his virgin mojito. “What d’you guys want to drink to?”
Amara let out a snort. “Absolutely nothing.”
“Don’t let her fool you, La Choy. Somewhere under the sickly pale skin and terrible bangs lurks a sentimental romantic.”
“You needn’t tell me, friend Gray. When she was a child, she wept over even the smallest creature’s demise.”
“Yeah, well.” Amara took a gulp of syrup with syrup. “I outgrew that by the time I was in fifth grade. Besides, La Croix doesn’t toast. Nor does he—oh, yum.”
A waitress passed their waiter and handed off Gray’s entrée. “Sorry,” he said as he got ready to dig into his chicken parm. “Didn’t think you’d be here or I would’ve ordered something for you.”
“Could you tell our waiter I’d like the ribeye, medium, with mashed?” Except Gray said “the ribeye, medium, with mashed” when she did, earning a giggle from their waitress and an eye roll from Amara. “So I’m predictable. Fine.”
“And whatever this guy wants.” Gray jerked a thumb in La Croix’s direction.
Even as La Croix shook his head, Amara added, “He can’t.”
“Vegetarian? Pescatarian? Ketogenic? Gluten-free? Vegan? Flexitarian?” Gray paused. “A gluten-free flexitarian pescatarian?”
“Nothing so—what was the word, Amara? Predictable? I can eat. Idoeat,” La Croix admitted. “Alas, I can only gain, ah, satisfaction if someone else eats what I want.”
Gray paused. “Okay, I need to digest that. Shit, I hate accidental puns... that explains why you seemed weirdly excited when I wolfed down a crab cake. Related: Please tell me ‘gain satisfaction’ doesn’t mean the deli scene fromWhen Harry Met Sally...”
“I fear I don’t know your friends, nor their deli. As for satisfaction?—”
“He can eat for nutrition,” Amara broke in. “But to taste anything, to get the total experience, someone else has to do the actual eating. And smoking. So he doesn’t order meals in restaurants.”
“Sure. What would be the point?” Gray’s eyebrows were so arched, they looked ready to climb off his forehead. “Ooooookay. Have I mentioned I love being friends with you, Mara? So much cool shit going on right now.” To La Croix: “Okay, how d’you feel about Italian? Like my chicken parm? Because I’ve got a forkful of breaded chicken here with your name on it.”
“I feel ‘Italian’ dishes should originate in Italy.”
“So you can’t get the full feels unless someone else chows down,andyou’re a picky eater?”
Amara grinned. “Nutshell.”
