"Eww, seriously? When are you going to quit?" I wave the smoke away from my face.
Brianna shrugs at me, I know she's tired of me harping on her about this, I've tried talking to her about quitting smoking for years now. She looks at me out of the corner of her eye and blows the smoke away from me. She sucks back on her cigarette like it's the very oxygen mask I worry she's going to need in the future.
"Are you gonna tell me what that guy said?"
"He called me sweetheart." As soon as my flat voice echoes his word, I realized just how silly it sounded that I had made such a scene about it.
"Seriously?"
"Yeah."
"Wow, how does that animal live with himself?" She smiles. "What a monster!" she adds theatrically.
"I know, I'm just tired and pissy. I'm just a walking raw nerve at this point."
"Well, that much is clear. Jeez, I'd love that guy to call me sweetheart or baby, or dirty little slut … he's hot as fuck!"
"Oh yeah? I didn't really notice," I lie.
"Well, I only saw him from the back, but just those shoulders alone. Mmmm. Give me a break, Kendra, don't gimme that blank stare. I know you have eyes for god's sake, you can see he's gorgeous. What is it with you? Do you, like, hate hotties? You need to cut loose and get laid for once!"
Easy for her to say. Brianna never bothered with college. She told me she was too young to get bogged down with a desk job when all she wanted was to have some fun while she was still young. I often tell her that she should aim higher and get back into school, but she has too many guys lined up and too many parties to go to. When you look like Brianna, with flawless mocha skin and gorgeous golden brown eyes, it's probably a lot easier to be confident around all those sexy men.
"You know I don't have time for that right now! I have a degree to finish and then I need to find work and get a new apartment and … "
"I know, I know." She waves her hand at me like she's shooing away the case I'm building like an annoying mosquito. "I just think you deserve some fun every once in a while. It wouldn't kill ya to go out and act your age."
Crushing the cigarette under her black shoe, Brianna smooths her hands over her long, shiny waves. God, I wish I had her hair. I swear she must have Beyonce's stylist locked in her closet. I touch my fingertips to my own frizzy, short hair wistfully. With my feeble attempt at pinning it back, it just looks like a dark cloud puffing out around my head.
"Look, I'll go cover your tables. You just smooth things over with Mr. Taylor before he has a fit. I will gladly go serve Mr. Sweetheart too." She smirks. "I don't know what it is about that guy, but he looks kinda familiar."
"Maybe you already did serve Mr. Sweetheart," I laugh.
Brianna gives a little snort. "Maybe, I wouldn't rule it out."
She goes back in the restaurant leaving me in an evaporating cloud of her smoky perfume. I should probably go apologize to that guy, and then maybe Taylor will calm down. I walk back out to the dining room, but I can see that Mr. Sweetheart already left. Shit. Well, hopefully, I can smooth this over with the boss.
I start heading back to Mr. Taylor's office when Brianna runs over, waving a napkin in the air like she's surrendering a war.
"Kendra, wait!" She grabs my arm, "Ohmygod! Do you know who that was?" She's jumping up and down so much I can't see what's on the napkin. I'm searching my mind for actors or politicians when Brianna stops jumping and gives me the side-eye. "Seriously? Do you, like, ever get out at all? That was Matthew Blackwell."
I'm familiar with the name. You can't be pursuing a masters in business in Manhattan and not know about the Blackwells. They own a ton of communications and media outlets across the United States, and yet somehow, Matthew Blackwell still manages to have news stories about his bad-boy, lady killer antics every second week.
"Oh."
"Are you fucking kidding me? Oh? I said Matthew Blackwell. The billionaire. And he left his number, look!"
I pluck the napkin out of her hand and read the blue scrawl across it:
Let me make it up to you.
I'll treat you to dinner, something without fries.
My cell: 555-2928.
Matthew Blackwell
"Uh, no thanks." I crumple the sheet in my hand and stuff it in my apron pocket, scrunching my nose up.
"You can't be serious? There's no way you're not gonna call?" Brianna looks like she's going to hyperventilate. "Matthew fucking Blackwell wants to take you on a date, are you insane? That guy is, like, a kajillionaire! And, he's a bachelor too."
"Good for him, so why is he asking out a waitress in this dump? Nothing about this sounds strange to you?"
"You're always so suspicious! Just enjoy the fact that a super hot, super goddamned rich, guy wants to take you out. Are you actually saying you're not going call? Are you kidding?" She sounds like she's going to either cry or throttle me. Probably both.
I consider it for a moment, just for a fleeting second, what it would be like dating someone so impossibly handsome, someone who seems to be able to see all of the secrets hidden in my soul in just one gaze. I remember his eyes, so incredible and yet, so unsettling. The way his custom designed suit hugged every muscle in his shoulders and strong arms … which brings me back reality and my original thought: why is he interested in me? I'm not a breathtaking beauty, and I certainly didn't win him over with my charm by freaking out at him about calling me sweetheart.
"I'm not kidding and I'm not calling. At best, this guy just wants a date because he feels bad, at worst, he wants something else. Either way, I don't have time for these games."
"Kendra, come on, can't you get over yourself for one night and go have some fun? How many times in your life do you think you'll be going on a date with a smokin' hot CEO? Seriously, what's the worst that's going to come out of it?"
"That's what I don't want to find out."
"I'll tell you what will happen. You might have a good time, or at least a great story of a night I'm sure you'll remember for the rest of your life. I need you to go, so you can tell me all the amazing details. I mean, aren't you curious?"
I sigh deeply and run my finger over the balled up napkin in my apron, considering the idea. It would be fun to go out for a night and maybe he is just interested in me for some reason. My research paper! There's no way I can go out with him, or anyone else for that matter, when I have so much to get done.
"There's just no way, I'm too busy. Here, why don't you call him?" I thrust the ratty napkin back into her hand. "I'm sure you two would be a better match."
Brianna sighs, scrunching her nose into a spiderweb of fine lines, but she holds her tongue. She knows all too well how stubborn I am, it comes with the territory of being my closest friend since high school.
I glance at the clock and am relieved that I have an excuse to get out of this conversation and this diner after this painfully long shift. "It's time to punch out, I've gotta get home and finish my research paper, but let's get together for a coffee soon, ok?"
"Sure, give me a call … when you're not too busy," she says with an edge in her voice. I don't know why she's so focused on me going out with this guy. Can't she just accept that we have different priorities?
"Will do." I smile at her, ignoring the harshness of her tone.
When I get off the bus and trudge up to my shoebox apartment, I wish with every fiber of my existence that my roommate isn't home. I'm so tired, and the last thing I need is her endless soap opera of cell phone calls with her long distance boyfriend when I need to concentrate. I open the door and trip over a pair of her leather thigh high boots that she left in the hall, almost eating the floor.
"Jesus! Janelle! Why do you have to leave your shit everywhere? I nearly broke my neck!"
I listen to our fridge hum in response. I'm all alone, after all. Perfect.
I'm finally making some real headway on my paper, after putting in four hours of straight work, I think I can get it finished before bed if I push it. I sink my teeth into the pb&j I'm calling supper and the phone rings.
"Heh-woah?" I try swallowing the sticky peanut butter that's coating the roof of my mouth.
"Uh, yes, may I speak with Kendra Cole, please?"
I don't recognize his voice, maybe it's one of the marketing firms I've applied to! I clear my throat and attempt to sound professional. "Yes, this is she." I cringe. This is she? Why am I talking in third person?