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Authors: Jody Wallace
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in use. I didn’t spot any kids.
“I thought this was a family
place.”
“Well, not on Saturday nights.
But the food is worth the noise.”
Before we reached John, a blond
man with several days’ worth of beard and an empty pitcher of beer at his table
snaked out an arm and grabbed Samantha. He tugged her into his lap.
“Sammie,” he said, his voice
slurred. “You don’t call, you don’t text. I miss you.”
“Hands off, Clint.” Samantha dug
her fingers into his wrist until his skin dented around her nails.
“But I love you,” he said in
utter, drunken honesty.
“I can’t help that.”
“Don’t you know what I do for
you? We need each other.” He buried his face in her hair, whuffing, and her
eyes narrowed. She elbowed him and he lurched back, sending her sprawling.
I tried to catch her, but I
skidded on a peanut shell. We konked heads so hard I saw stars.
“Ow!” I fell on my ass in peanut
litter. Samantha did the same, knocking into the bench.
“Damn! I’m sorry, baby.” Clint
leapt out of the booth and heaved Samantha to her feet.
“Sober up, Clint. I don’t have
anything to say to you.” Samantha, a halo of dishonesty surrounding her, dusted
herself off. I guess she did have something to say to old Clint. I walked
behind her to John’s booth. He’d risen to his feet, unlike the other patrons,
who hadn’t acknowledged the altercation.
Samantha had peanut shells on her
butt. As I checked my own posterior, I considered telling her, but she pointed
at the side of the booth opposite John without saying a word. I held my peace.
She sat next to me, preventing my escape.
John eased back into the booth.
“Everything all right?”
“It’s nothing I can’t handle. Let
it go, John.”
Seemed like a reasonable question
to me, but I was a newcomer, ignorant to the undercurrents, especially when my
companions were as preternaturally honest as these two.
John shrugged. “Cleo, I hope
you’re hungry. I ordered spring rolls to start.”
I hadn’t seen those written on
the windows. “I like spring rolls.”
“I know. I told him.” Samantha
yanked a napkin out of the dispenser and wiped the tabletop, her motions abrupt
and angry.
“My blog again,” I guessed.
John slipped a red vinyl menu
from behind a tin bucket of peanuts and handed it to me. “Everything’s good
except the chili.”
“Don’t get the chili,” Samantha
agreed.
Perversely, I wanted the chili.
Instead I ordered the closest thing on the menu to chili—black beans and
Mexican corn bread. The selections were eclectic, a combination of Thai,
Tex-Mex and American. John had beef satay and Samantha fried rice and a beer.
“So,” John said, once we’d placed
our order, “how do you like Nashville so far?”
“I haven’t seen enough to say.” I
cracked a peanut so I’d have something to do with my hands. Particles of shell
sprayed out and speckled the table.
“This area is Nolensville,” John
said. “It’s south of the city. I can take you on a tour tomorrow if you want.”
“She’ll be tired.” Samantha
swiped the table with her napkin, pushing the detritus of my peanut into the
floor.
I was tired now, and that hadn’t
stopped Samantha from dragging me to dinner. “I’d like that. Thanks.”
“No problem,” John said.
I still wasn’t sure about the
relationship between them. While I felt no loyalty to Samantha since we
weren’t, and likely would never be, friends, I had no interest in John if he
was a cheater.
In my experience, cheaters came
in all shapes and sizes. John had light brown eyes, long lashes and, stretched
out on his side of the booth, seemed a good deal more comfortable than he had
on the job and in his suit. I took a moment to inspect him—his blue sport shirt
did his broad shoulders justice. His biceps revealed plenty of definition
without coming off steroidal. His hair was mussed. When he sipped his beer,
licking foam from his upper lip, I wondered what it tasted
“I thought this was a family
place.”
“Well, not on Saturday nights.
But the food is worth the noise.”
Before we reached John, a blond
man with several days’ worth of beard and an empty pitcher of beer at his table
snaked out an arm and grabbed Samantha. He tugged her into his lap.
“Sammie,” he said, his voice
slurred. “You don’t call, you don’t text. I miss you.”
“Hands off, Clint.” Samantha dug
her fingers into his wrist until his skin dented around her nails.
“But I love you,” he said in
utter, drunken honesty.
“I can’t help that.”
“Don’t you know what I do for
you? We need each other.” He buried his face in her hair, whuffing, and her
eyes narrowed. She elbowed him and he lurched back, sending her sprawling.
I tried to catch her, but I
skidded on a peanut shell. We konked heads so hard I saw stars.
“Ow!” I fell on my ass in peanut
litter. Samantha did the same, knocking into the bench.
“Damn! I’m sorry, baby.” Clint
leapt out of the booth and heaved Samantha to her feet.
“Sober up, Clint. I don’t have
anything to say to you.” Samantha, a halo of dishonesty surrounding her, dusted
herself off. I guess she did have something to say to old Clint. I walked
behind her to John’s booth. He’d risen to his feet, unlike the other patrons,
who hadn’t acknowledged the altercation.
Samantha had peanut shells on her
butt. As I checked my own posterior, I considered telling her, but she pointed
at the side of the booth opposite John without saying a word. I held my peace.
She sat next to me, preventing my escape.
John eased back into the booth.
“Everything all right?”
“It’s nothing I can’t handle. Let
it go, John.”
Seemed like a reasonable question
to me, but I was a newcomer, ignorant to the undercurrents, especially when my
companions were as preternaturally honest as these two.
John shrugged. “Cleo, I hope
you’re hungry. I ordered spring rolls to start.”
I hadn’t seen those written on
the windows. “I like spring rolls.”
“I know. I told him.” Samantha
yanked a napkin out of the dispenser and wiped the tabletop, her motions abrupt
and angry.
“My blog again,” I guessed.
John slipped a red vinyl menu
from behind a tin bucket of peanuts and handed it to me. “Everything’s good
except the chili.”
“Don’t get the chili,” Samantha
agreed.
Perversely, I wanted the chili.
Instead I ordered the closest thing on the menu to chili—black beans and
Mexican corn bread. The selections were eclectic, a combination of Thai,
Tex-Mex and American. John had beef satay and Samantha fried rice and a beer.
“So,” John said, once we’d placed
our order, “how do you like Nashville so far?”
“I haven’t seen enough to say.” I
cracked a peanut so I’d have something to do with my hands. Particles of shell
sprayed out and speckled the table.
“This area is Nolensville,” John
said. “It’s south of the city. I can take you on a tour tomorrow if you want.”
“She’ll be tired.” Samantha
swiped the table with her napkin, pushing the detritus of my peanut into the
floor.
I was tired now, and that hadn’t
stopped Samantha from dragging me to dinner. “I’d like that. Thanks.”
“No problem,” John said.
I still wasn’t sure about the
relationship between them. While I felt no loyalty to Samantha since we
weren’t, and likely would never be, friends, I had no interest in John if he
was a cheater.
In my experience, cheaters came
in all shapes and sizes. John had light brown eyes, long lashes and, stretched
out on his side of the booth, seemed a good deal more comfortable than he had
on the job and in his suit. I took a moment to inspect him—his blue sport shirt
did his broad shoulders justice. His biceps revealed plenty of definition
without coming off steroidal. His hair was mussed. When he sipped his beer,
licking foam from his upper lip, I wondered what it tasted
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