A Year Straight by Elena Azzoni

Author:Elena Azzoni
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Seal Press
Published: 2011-11-12T05:00:00+00:00

THE LIST, LIKE the training, went on and on, until I was back in my hotel room and it was seven o’clock. Time to leave for my date.

TJ’s new ring tone went off on my way to the restaurant. I’d assigned her a motorcycle engine sound in honor of her new girlfriend, Moto Guzzi.

“I’m on my way to a date, what’s up? And are you wearing a helmet at all times like you promised?”

“Is it a date with the Don’t Move Guy?” No matter how many times I’d been reminded that I shouldn’t tell TJ anything she might stockpile as ammo against me, I still told her everything. And she always used it against me.

“Yes. He’s nice.”

“Uh huh. Call me when you’re done. Which shouldn’t be too—”

“Goodbye.”

I was early for dinner and Justin was late. I approached the empty host station.

“I suppose you’re here to eat.” One of the waiters glided over, grabbed a menu from the pocket of the podium, and gave me a big smile. He was cute in that Ben Affleck way, where he looked just like every other tall, white, brown-haired aspiring L.A. actor who could either play a hip young dad or a charming single guy on a sitcom, but with a special little twinkle in his eye.

“It ’s what I do best. Oh, and I’ll need two menus please,” I said.

“You don’t even know my name and you want me to have dinner with you?”

In spite of myself, I laughed. The waiter was charming, just like that guy on that sitcom. Uh oh.

“I have a few more hours on my shift, but I suppose I could join you for a few.” The waiter straddled the chair across from me. In New York, a waiter would be fired on the spot for sitting down on the job. But California was much more laid back. So much so that the waiter reclined, leaning on the rear legs of his chair, looking quite at home.

“Why don’t you earn your tip and bring me a glass of wine? A big one,” I said, trying to shoo him away before Justin arrived while still maintaining the flirtation.

“You nervous about breaking up with the guy who’s meeting you here?” Again, I laughed, this time a loud and boisterous roar. “Seriously, what kind of guy makes a pretty girl like you wait?”

I waited and waited, growing hungrier and more irritated by the minute. I was accustomed to the West Coast time difference—the difference being that in New York, people (aside from my brother) were on time, and on the West Coast they were not. But when forty minutes rolled by, I rolled up my sleeves, took a deep breath, and decided to brave dining alone. Normally opposed to ordering Italian food anywhere other than Italy, upon the waiter’s recommendation I opted for the fusilli Bolognese. It was out of this world. Ten points for good taste. The waiter, whose name I learned was Paul, kept me company by popping by every few minutes to refill my already full water glass or to drop off a free treat.

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