“Wonderful!” I cooed, doing my best not to notice Cruz.
Gabriella did that thing where she posted pictures and videos of herself on Instagram, trying out new products, making you believe you could look like her if you used them, too.
She dragged her plate across the table like there was a dead rat on it.
“Look, I don’t want to be that person, but I don’t think my turkey burger is…you know…”
“Cooked?” I curved an eyebrow. Or turkey…
“Organic,” she whispered, shifting uncomfortably.
I had a Sherlock on my hands.
Did she think she was at The Ivy? She should be happy her lettuce was washed and that the bun didn’t come from a can.
“It’s probably not,” I agreed.
Her eyebrows slammed together. “Well, I specifically asked for organic.”
“And I specifically asked for a winning lottery ticket and a hot date with Benicio del Toro. Looks like we’re both having a bad day, hon.” I popped my gum again.
Cruz was quiet, as he usually was when I was around. The elephant in the room was that Gabriella Holland was my baby sister Trinity’s best friend. And my sweet baby sister was engaged to Wyatt—Cruz’s older brother.
Sounds super Jerry Springer? Why, I think so, too.
Which meant that, technically, I had to play nice with both of these uppity gassholes. But while Cruz made a deliberate effort not to acknowledge my existence in any way, I was perfectly happy to show him what I thought about him.
“Do you think that kind of attitude will help you get a tip?” Gabriella asked incredulously, folding her arms over her chest. Some best friend to my sister she was, treating me like I was a dry horse turd on the bottom of her stiletto shoe.
“I don’t think I should be given attitude over a diner burger’s origin story,” I supplied.
“Maybe if you were nicer and more conscientious, your poor son could have more opportunities.”
Yup. She went there. She actually mentioned Bear.
A bullet of anger pierced my gut.
“Well, if you were just a little bit prettier, maybe you wouldn’t have come in third on Miss America.”
I smiled sweetly.
Clearly, I was willing to go there, too.
Gabriella’s eyes watered and her chin wrinkled and danced like Jell-O as she fumed.
“I would like to speak to management!” she cried out.
“Oh, you mean the big boss?” I asked. “The one in charge of this entire culinary empire?” I made a show of moving half an inch to turn to Jerry. “Management! Table three wants to speak to you.”
Jerry rounded the counter, spitting his tobacco into a nearby trash can, already looking alert while I turned back to the happy couple.
“Anything else I can do for y’all?” My silky smile was as big and fake as Gabriella’s breasts. “Maybe offer you some complimentary white truffle oil while you wait? Perhaps some foie gras?” I made sure to pronounce the ‘s’， to keep that uneducated bimbo label alive.
I definitely wasn’t doing myself any favors. But dang, getting sexually harassed by a kid my son’s age and patronized by my baby sister’s friend just about hurled me to the breaking point.
“Yes, actually. I can’t believe Trinity—”
Gabriella’s scathing remark was cut off when a choking sound came from booth number five, the one occupied by Grabby McHandson himself.
“Oh my gosh!”
“Jesus! No!”
“He’s choking! He is choking on the straw!”
Karma must’ve heard my prayers and decided to intervene, because the guy who’d pinched my ass was now lying on the floor, clutching his neck, his eyes wide and red as he kicked his legs about, trying to breathe.
The whole diner was in a frenzy. People ran back and forth, chairs toppled, women screeched. Someone called 911. Another suggested we flip him on his stomach. And one of his friends was recording the entire thing on his phone, as if we needed more reason not to put our trust in Gen Z.
And there he was.
Dr. Cruz Costello, running in slow-mo to the kid, his sandy hair swooshing about like a Baywatch montage.
He performed the Heimlich maneuver on my assailant and made him cough out the piece of straw he was choking on, saving the day once again.
The jukebox, on cue, started belting out Kid Rock’s “All Summer Long”。
It wasn’t like I genuinely wanted the kid to die.
Being a gasshole was not a sin punishable by death. But the fact that the entire diner glossed over the overt sexual assault I’d been subjected to was jarring, if not completely depressing.