Page 3 of Real Fake Husband

I wrap my arm around Kaylin’s shoulder and lead her toward the back, aware she needs a few minutes to collect herself. Along the way, I motion to the two other waitresses to take our tables, and they swoop in without complaint.

In the kitchen, it’s hot and busy. Just like every other night. Deacon, our head chef, is singing loud and off-key. He’s an older man in his late sixties with gray hair pulled into a low ponytail. When he notices me leading a trembling Kaylin into the back office, I motion for him to fix her something to eat. He salutes me and does as I ask.

Matilda’s office is cramped. I don’t even think it’s technically an office. I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to be a storage closet that has a desk, two chairs, and a filing cabinet shoved into it. I sit her down and kneel in front of my friend.

“I want you to just relax here and take all the time you need.”

“But the tables,” she protests.

“Don’t worry about it.” I wave her off. “Daphne and the other girls can handle them. I’m sorry that guy was such a creep.”

Kaylin sighs, putting her face in her hands. “I can’t believe some people.”

I say nothing. I’ve been waitressing a long time, and sadly, nothing surprises me anymore. But Kaylin’s a good-natured girl. I’ve tried to talk to her many times about being “less sweet,” but first, I know it’s just not in her character, and second, advice is the last thing she needs to hear right now.

“Thank you for coming over and taking care of it,” she adds.

“Of course. You’re my bestie. You know I’d kickanybodyin the nuts for you.”

I’m thirty-three, and I’ve been waitressing my entire adult life. I’ve got a pretty thick skin when it comes to customer service. There’s nothing someone can throw at me that I can’t handle.

“I know.” Kaylin chuckles.

The door opens just enough for Deacon to push a plate through. Perfectly poised in the center is a steaming chocolate lava cake—Kaylin’s most cherished sweet dish—with a large scoop of vanilla ice cream melting on top. I take it from him.

“Here, have a yummy treat,” I say, handing her the plate. “Take a few deep breaths, and then head on out when you’re done. Okay?”

She nods and offers to share with me, but I decline. She can eat and eat and is always skinny.Ion the other hand—oh, well.

Before she takes a bite, she asks, “Don’t you have that meeting to get to?”

Ugh, the meeting. It’s not a typical “meeting,” but I have no idea how else to explain where I’m going or what I’m going to do once I get there.

“Yeah, but I have a few minutes.”

“I don’t want you to be late because of me.”

A quick glance at my phone tells me I can stay a little longer. I’ll have to grab an Uber instead of using the subway, but that’s doable. Also, more practical with the bags and all anyway.

“Don’t worry about it.” I take the seat across from her, leaning my elbow against Matilda’s messy desk. “To be frank, I’m not in any rush to get there.”

“I can only imagine,” Kaylin says, “I’ve never been named in someone’s will before.”

Neither have I.

My heart aches for Mrs. Blanche Ashford. Or, to her close friends, Blanchie. We used to call her “the Baroness” because she was always dressed to the nines, and in the evenings, would sit in her favorite booth with a glass of merlot. She was not royalty, but she looked every inch a royal in her ruffled dresses with a hint of nude lipstick and thick flicks of deep kohl eyeliner. Even though it’s been a few weeks, sometimes when I have the dinner shift, I still can’t help but expect to see her come through the door in a bouncy step. Her gray hair would be twirled in an intricate low chignon knot, underneath an extravagant “fascinator”—a small feathery hat she wore on the right-hand side, immediately above the eyebrow.

I have to stop thinking about her, otherwise I’ll cry again. “She was a special lady,” I say. “I miss her a lot.”

“I do too.” Kaylin puts her plate on the desk, adjusts her glasses, and pulls me into a hug. “Go to your meeting. I’ll be fine. Promise.”

I’m glad she’s okay, but damn, I was hoping to hold off as long as possible.

Truth is, I don’t want to go to Mrs. Blanchie’s apartment.

It’s not just the sadness of the meeting and reading of her will that’s getting to me.

It’s knowing that I’m going to have to seehimagain.

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