Chapter 35

                                    

                                          
Thirty minutes later, my Impala was parked outside Jerry's, the best breakfast diner in town.
I was ready to put Jerry to the test.
Michael wore a black three-quarter sleeve tight on his biceps while I stayed cozy in his sage hoodie and some baggy jeans. He reached the door first and held it open.
Instinctively, I grumbled to myself. "Michael. Seriously?"
"Sorry," he grinned. "Couldn't help it."
"What's next, you gonna buy me some earrings?"
He moved a hand to my lower back to herd me through the door. I rolled my eyes, but didn't push him away. "Let's try breakfast for now. Earrings can come later."
Later. I let the word swim in my brain. Michael was a man-whore with commitment issues and dishonest tendencies. I'd have to be a complete idiot to think he was devoted to me.
But one date couldn't hurt.
We took a table by the window and smiled awkwardly as we sat, like two middle schoolers holding hands for the first time. The walls of the diner were red, the floors checkered black and white. The waitress, an older woman with streaks of white ribboning throughout her pristine bun, scurried around the tables tapping icons on a tablet.
My stomach was in knots, but I couldn't tell if I was feeling giddy or nervous. Or just hungry.
I felt a definite rumble amid the swirl of anxiety. Watching the man two tables over cut into a steaming omelet didn't help. He talked quickly as he ate, waving his hands around as if he were discussing something important.
Across from him sat another man, skinny legs crossed, glasses drooping on his nose as he nodded along and scribbled into a notebook. Several coffee cups were placed haphazardly between the jumble of papers on the table.
"See," I said. "Dudes get breakfast together all the time."
Michael turned toward them. The man talking seemed about forty, with a neatly trimmed beard and hair combed over to poorly disguise a bald patch. The skinny man looked up and adjusted his glasses.
"Yeah, they're definitely fucking," he said.
"Morning! Can I get you started with some coffee?" The waitress was suddenly at my shoulder.
"He hates coffee," Michael jumped in before I could reply. "Two glasses of orange juices, please."
The woman blinked past her surprise and broke into a warm grin before setting two menus down on the table. "Two orange juices. Coming right up."
"Michael," I hissed as soon as she walked away. "I don't hate coffee. We've been over this. And can you please refrain from ordering for me next time?"
He gave a one-shouldered shrug. "You seemed to struggle with it at dinner so I figured I'd help you out."
I crossed my arms around myself, fighting off the urge to pout like a toddler. My whole life, I'd dreaded ordering food, raising my hand in class, or speaking up in any manner. Relying on Sarah to do all the talking had been a blessing and a curse.
"I can order for myself," I said firmly.
He smirked. "Look at you, what a big boy."
"Did I ever tell you I hate you?"
"Yeah," he said. "You also told me you love me."
My stomach stirred uneasily. The waitress returned and set down our drinks, but the orange juice did little to help me relax. Maybe if it had some tequila. Yum. Tequila sunrise.