Chapter 10

“Hamburger, please,” I said.

“Would you like fries, salad, or soup to go with it?”

“What kind of soup do you have?”

“Corn chowder or Minestrone.”

I folded my menu. Placed it on top of Pete’s. Pete reached for my hand, brushing mine with his rough fingers.

“Salad,” I said. “No dressing.”

Sue noticed Pete’s large hand on top of mine, caressing; our fingers intertwined. Strangely arousing.

“Just a dry salad?” Sue said.

I pulled my hand away as if I’d been bitten. I swallowed. Nodded. Looked up at her. “Dry. No dressing.”

“And for you?” Sue cocked her head at Devon.

“A bowl of your infamous spicy jalape?o chili.”

“Man, you’ll be shitting fire for the next three days,” Pete said, chuckling.

Repulsed by Pete’s unfiltered manners, Sue yanked the menus from the table, shook her head, hurled Pete an angry glare, and padded away, her sneakers screeching—squeak, squeak, squeak—across the sticky linoleum.