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“Are you…” I pat around my mouth, “Are you Cullen’s…”
“No, but even if I were, I’m not legally allowed to share that,” Darrel Hastings says firmly. It’s not like he’s being mean, but I do feel corrected.
Sunny laughs to cover the awkwardness. “Hey, no work talk. Nardi and I are here to discuss mom’s birthday dinner.” She takes a sip of her milkshake. “Like I said over the phone Nardi, we invited a few close friends and their families. A little less than thirty people. I do prefer a ‘serve yourself’ style because that’s how we do it in Belize.”
Although it’s difficult to change gears, I tap out Sunny’s instructions on my phone. We negotiate whether she wants chicken or beef (her husband once again encourages her to get both). We debate between coleslaw and potato salad and then there’s another discussion over onion sauce or Marie Sharp pepper.
We’ve moved on to talking about fried plantain versus baked plantain when Cullen returns. He’s gripping his cell phone tightly and seems bothered by something.
“Is everything okay? You were on the phone for a while,” Sunny says. “I ordered a salad for you just in case.”
“I was programming something for my team,” he says, not quite looking at her.
“You did that on yourphone?” Sunny whistles. “That’s really cool.”
He doesn’t smile at the compliment. In fact, it seems to make him even more uncomfortable. “I’ve paid for the meal already.” His eyes slide to me for a quick second but he doesn’t address me at all. “Mr. Hastings, we’ll need to reschedule.”
“Anytime.”
He’s leaving? Already?Disappointment courses through me and it’s so strong that I have no hope of hiding it.
Cullen turns briskly.
“Wait,” a voice says.
And it’s not until everyone stares at me that I realize the voice is mine.
“Uh,” I clear my throat. “You should at least take this.” I hand him the fries that were served in a white paper bag. “You might get vertigo again if you don’t eat.”
Cullen stares at the fries in his hands.
The oily fries.
In an oily bag.
From a probably oily, unclean kitchen.
I gasp when I remember his words last night. He made his distaste for outside food super clear and here I am, shoving a greasy bag into his palm.
“Or, you don’t have to?—”
As I’m pulling the bag back, Cullen grips it. He gives me a small, lopsided smile. “Thank you.”
“Sure,” I say casually. And then I nibble on my club sandwich.
Cullen darts off, and I make a concentrated effort not to look up from my food. However, I can hear Sunny slurping the last of her milkshake and I canfeelDarrel Hastings staring at me.
Now that I know Hastings is a therapist, his thoughtful looks and deep observations during the entire lunch feels very onbrand. I have no idea what conclusions he’s jumped to, but Ihopewith all my heart they’re not the wrong ones.
“Cullen seems like such a sweetheart,” Sunny says, polishing off the rest of her fries. “Doesn’t he?”
Her husband nods indulgently.
“Dare made it sound like he was this robot, but he’s so thoughtful. Look at how he paid for dinner and kept Nardi from falling earlier.”
“Yes, you two seemed quite close, Nardi,” Darrel notes.
I stiffen.