Page 5

For a moment, I freeze. But just for a second, because I can’t let him know he’s getting to me. So, he used my name. Anyone can read it on my name tag. For some reason, I think he’s trying to get under my skin.

“Thanks for getting that table.” Wendy reappears. “I swear, this menopause or perimenopause or whatever the doctor called it is really pissing me off. These periods just show up whenever they feel like it now.”

I pat her shoulder as I grab the coffee pot behind her. “But at least you won’t get a period at all soon, right?”

She huffs a laugh. “Yeah, and then I get to just ride off into old age.”

“I don’t think you could ever be old.” If it wasn’t for the graying hairline and her constant complaints about her age, you wouldn’t know she was in her late fifties.

“My knees would say differently,” shequips.

“They weren’t bothering you last night.” Karl, her husband and cook, laughs from behind the pass-through as he pushes a plate of pancakes toward us.

“You shush.” She blushes as she grabs the food.

“Mira, you dropped this when you were back here.” Robby slides my nametag across the passthrough counter.

Instantly, I grab at my chest where I could swear I had it pinned, but it’s not there.

“I dropped it when I was eating?” I pick it up.

“Yeah, must have fell off.” He pushes through another plate. “Table three pick up.” He taps the counter with his fingertips and disappears back into the kitchen.

“What’s wrong?” Wendy asks as I pin the tag back in place.

“What? Oh, nothing.” Nothing at all. I grab the order and deliver it to where it needs to go, trying to find a plausible reason why that man knows my name.

More than likely he heard someone use it. That’s all.

Confident that I’m not losing my mind, and I’m just tired, I put my mind into getting my tables served and out the door.

Just to show I’m not afraid of the man in the corner, I swing by his table to refill his coffee twice. He keeps scrolling his phone, and I let him have his peace and quiet.

When his plate is empty, I head back over, his check already in my hand. I’m not sure what game he’s playing at, but I don’t want to play.

“Can I get you anything else?” I pick up his empty plate.

“How long have you lived here?” he asks instead of answering me.

“Not long.” I answer, lifting my chin. Lots of people move to new towns. He hasn’t caught me in some sort of confession. “Do you want anything else?”

“What made you choose this place?” His eyes roam over me as though he’s trying to find an answer pinned to my clothing.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t feel comfortable talking about my private life with the customers.”

“Hmm.” He nods like he understands but presses on anyway. “You know, back home, there’s a restaurant that makes a roast beef sandwich as big as my arm. They don’t dip it in the juices though like most places, they smother it with red sauce. Then they crisp it up under the broiler with cheese.”

He’s talking about Carlucci’s Pizzeria. There’s only one of them, and it’s on Fifth Avenue. A five-minute walk from the apartment I share with Megan.

“Yeah?” I force my features to stay bland. “I’m sure lots of places do that.”

“Never found it anywhere else; maybe somewhere here does it like that?” He’s poking, trying to find a weak spot.

Pressing the edge of his plate against my body to keep him from seeing my hand trembling, I slide his check onto the table.

“If there’s nothing else, you can pay the cashier at the front.” As I start to walk away, he grabs my wrist.

Not hard enough to pull me toward him, but just enough pressure to relay the message he wants me to stay.