Page 69 of The Irresistible Distraction

Instead of responding, I go through the counterarguments in my head.

Brody is on sabbatical. Jesse’s location changed, why can’t Brody’s?

And even if there are times when I also think Brody seems a little spoiled, I’ve never seen Brody make coffee and serve just himself. Brody would have made and handed me an ube latte by now.

The longer we’re silent, though, the more my brain begins to spin.

It’s not hard to remind myself that Brody and I are eight days into our situationship.

That even Jesse, the man of saved engagement ring receipts and no-frills romance, was bringing me flowers from his mother’s yard at this stage.

Jesse’s voice is gentle as he continues. It’s his bedside manner voice, the soothing tone he used on Sebastian when he sprained his knee. “I’m only considering your best interests. Because if I don’t say something, who else will? Vera’s not going to warn you against her own nephew, and she’s not here anyway. Maggie’s always full throttle—it doesn’t matter if it’s a popup cupcake stand or that she thinks you should dye your hair pink. She’s not going to tell you to be sensible here. Which means even if it’s unpopular, someone’s got to say it. What is Brody Branca, multimillionaire, maybe hundred-millionaire, if you count his inheritance, doing here, with a single mother, a community college waitress, instead of . . . Vi Shindler?”

“Okay.”

“Okay you’ll think about what I’ve said?”

“Okay, if you’re done talking, I’d like to go to work now. Because that’s a thing I have to do on a daily basis. There aren’t positions I can interview for in Newport Beach or San Jose. I’m Sebastian’s mom and I work at a diner. So if you’re done insulting me and all the things I hold most dear, I’m going to go now.”

Jesse finally lets go of my arm, even though his grip wasn’t particularly strong to begin with.

“I’m not trying to be a jerk here⁠—”

“Then don’t be a jerk.”

The door closes softly, because I don’t want to wake Seba. I’m several blocks away before the tears start, and even then I tell myself I am allowed two traffic lights of drama. A bit of a cheat because the one light is still mostly broken. During the months after Seba was born, after my parents died, and when the divorce was finalized, I learned the art of timing the cries so I could recover before puffy eyes triggered a cycle of endless questions and condolences.

It’s been years since it mattered, and unlike the previous times, this time I’m not quite sure how to articulate which emotions are the primary ones. Fear over what Jesse said? Anger at the timing of all of this? It’s not quite five thirty when I pull in, and nothing inside me feels settled, but Reuben’s already here and so I smile and ask about the food truck.

Walter’s nowhere in sight.

It’s five minutes until we should be opening our doors by the time Walter comes in. I hate how relieved I am to see him, that a late Walter is still so much better than no Walter.

He’s in his late twenties but has the kind of stoner-stereotype personality that would make you think he’s anywhere from seventeen to thirty-five. His face is prematurely wrinkled from years of no sunscreen days at the skate parks followed by too-long nights at Dogwood Tavern, the only bar in Lake Arrowhead that purposefully caters more to locals than tourists.

“Sorry I’m late, bruh.”

“Fine.” I hand him the tray of condiments I’ve been refilling, which can now be distributed to the tables.

“Nice to see you too, Sophie.” He says it just loudly enough for Reuben and me to both hear, if we strain.

I should let it go, because this is just how Walter is. He’s rubbing sleep out of his eyes, and if I press, I’m sure there will be a million different excuses he can tell me as to why he’s half an hour late again. In the past, I’ve borne witness to a variety of his tales: His car broke down, his car battery died, he had a flat tire, he ran over a nail and had two flat tires (one on each side, could I believe?), his car was repossessed through no fault of his own, just a couple of speeding tickets and the police completely misunderstanding his good intentions, his crazy ex took his car, and also, my personal favorite, that he was driving up from down the mountain and it was raining down there even if I couldn’t see a speck where I was. (He’s tried that one twice now, as if he doesn’t realize I have access to the internet, which can tell me what the weather is in San Bernadino.)

But today? I’ve . . . had it. He’s that final proverbial straw, and it’s one sarcastic bridge too far. I toss the rag down in front of me, place my hands on my hips, and ask, “Can you not?”

My voice is loud enough that Reuben stops his prep to look up and through his counter.

“What?” Walter gives me an incredulous look and, finding no sympathy, turns toward Reuben with his hands raised comically.

“Can you not come in here late, again, and then be sarcastic about my completely justified annoyance?”

The door opens then, because even though we’re not open and I haven’t technically unlocked the door, Walter didn’t bother to lock it on his way in, and so now I’m apparently going to have a long-overdue showdown with an employee my parents hired out of high school, in front of Brody, who’s standing there in his jogging clothes and carrying a Yeti mug.

My Yeti mug.

The one he makes my ube latte in each day, and the one he takes from me and washes each night when I come home.

“Look, I don’t know what your problem is, but—” Walter shrugs again, because this is his normal way of communicating, like he can’t be bothered to finish his half-assed thoughts.