Robin Wasserman - Gluttony

He’d hobbled around on crutches for the next two months, with a broken ankle almost as painful as his new nickname: the Klutz King.

“I still blame you,” Adam said, waving an accusing finger in Harper’s face. “If you hadn’t suckered me into doing that stupid chair dance-”

“If you hadn’t fallen on your ass-”

“I might never have become the man I am today,” Adam concluded jokingly. He clapped Harper on the back. “I guess I owe it all to you.”

Her grin faded suddenly, and she looked away, taking a long sip of the drink that looked even more disgusting than his. “Yeah.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” But she lowered her head, letting her wild wavy hair fall across her eyes. He knew it wasn’t accidental. She was hiding.

“What is it, Gracie?” He hesitated, remembering that the last time he’d tried using his childhood nickname for her, she’d blasted him for his presumption that their history together still mattered. “What’s wrong?” He used to be able to read her, and know why she was upset almost before she did. But this year, too much had happened-too much had changed. “Is it the tickets?” he guessed. “Miranda will never even know you were trying to get them for her. So she won’t be disappointed. I’m sure we can think of something else great to surprise her with.”

Harper laughed, but it was a sad sound. “I don’t care about the stupid tickets,” she admitted, her voice muffled. She was speaking so softly, he could barely hear her over the music, but what she said next was clear enough that he could almost read her lips. “It’s… you. I miss you.”

His first sensation: relief. Pure and overwhelming. Adam had to grip the edge of his chair to hold himself still. He didn’t know what to say next. Their friendship-what was left of it-was so fragile, he feared that the wrong words could smash it beyond repair. “I-”

But before he could say anything, right or wrong, one of the white jumpsuit Elvises hopped oft the stage and strolled right up to their table, close enough that Adam could see the plastic studs holding the rhinestones in place. “How about a serenade for our young lovers here?” the Elvis asked, and the audience roared with approval. Harper’s face flushed red, and Adam wished he could hide under the table-or, better yet, shove the Elvis under there until he and Harper had safely left the building. But they did nothing, and Elvis began to sing.

“ Love me tender ,” he crooned. “ Love me true …”

Adam buried his face in his hands, but it didn’t make the nightmare end.

“ For my darlin’ I love you. And I always will .”

“… and let’s just say that I will never again bite into something without checking to see if it’s still breathing,” Jackson concluded, shaking his head as if in dismay at his own foolishness.

Miranda laughed-perhaps a little harder than the story merited, but then, she was spending her birthday with a cute, older guy who, in his own words, thought she was “adorable,” “hilarious,” and “fantastic.” A little extra laughter was a small price to pay. “That’s unbelievable,” she said, gasping for breath.

“I swear.” Jackson put a hand over his heart. “It happened exactly like I said.”

When they’d been booted out of the bar, Miranda had been sure her date was over before it even began, but Jackson had just shrugged and escorted her down the strip to Killian’s, a dark, opulent, outrageously Irish pub with thick burgers, heaping plates of mashed potatoes, and towering mugs of beer. Miranda stuck to salad and soda.

“I’m really glad you agreed to come out with me tonight,” Jackson told her.

Miranda searched for a suitably snappy response, but under the table she suddenly felt the light touch of a hand on her knee, and her witty bravado melted away. “Me too,” she said sincerely, and, though it felt unthinkably bold, she rested her hand on top of his, lightly twining their fingers. Jackson stared at her so intensely that she was tempted to look away, but she knew that in a situation like this, she was supposed to meet his eyes. So she forced herself to do it.

He’s gazing at me, the overanalytical part of her mind that refused to shut up observed. I never thought anyone would do that . It was only a few hours to her birthday, and Miranda allowed herself to hope that she would get to start off her eighteenth year in the best way imaginable: with a kiss.

“Can I get you anything else?” the waitress asked, appearing as if from nowhere. She was dressed in green from head to toe, and wore a four-leaf clover beret over her bright red-certainly dyed-hair. “Some more water?”

“We’re fine,” Jackson said, but she had already leaned in to start pouring.

“Jesus!” he screeched, as half a pitcher of ice water sloshed into his lap. He jumped up, but it was too late-a large dark spot was quickly spreading across the front of his pants.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” the waitress cried, slipping out of the fake Irish brogue she’d adopted for the rest of their meal. “Here, let me-” She leaned toward him to start patting him down with a napkin, but Jackson squirmed away. “I got it,” he snapped. Sliding out of the booth. “Miranda, I’ve got to-”

“Go,” she urged him, marveling at how quickly her perfect date could go south. Not that it was a surprise. The perfection of the afternoon had seemed bizarre. It was all too unbelievably smooth and perfect to be true. This comedy of errors, on the other hand, was totally in keeping with the way Miranda’s life usually went. “I think the bathroom’s that way.” She pointed, but he was already gone. He’ll come back in a minute, she assured herself, but she couldn’t make herself believe it.

“Clumsy waitress, eh?” a familiar voice chuckled from the next booth over. Miranda peeked her head over the top of her booth to see Kane staring up at her. He shook his head. “It’s so hard to find good help these days.”

As always, she felt an unmitigated blast of joy at seeing him-so it took her a moment to wonder at his presence. “What are you doing here?” she finally asked.

“You’re not answering your phone,” he pointed out.

“I’m on a date .”

He smirked. “Yeah. I caught that. How’s it going?”

“It’s going great,” she boasted. “Fantastically. Best date I ever had.” Mostly because all her other dates had sucked. But that wasn’t the point. The point was to let Kane know that he wasn’t welcome to crash this one.

Even if, secretly, possibly, he was.

“I was afraid of that.”

“Afraid of what? That I’d actually have a good time?” Dare she allow herself to hope that he was jealous? Stop, she instructed herself. It doesn’t matter. I’m here with Jackson . Jackson was cute, smart, sweet, and, though he wasn’t Kane, he had one important thing going for him that Kane didn’t: He wanted to be with Miranda.

“He’s bad news,” Kane told her. “Don’t trust him. I’d leave now, if I were you, now that I’ve given you the chance.”

“Now that you’ve…?” The pieces fell into place: the suddenly clumsy waitress. The fact that Kane just happened to be sitting at the next table. Maybe even the bartender who’d randomly thrown them out of the bar. “Are you trying to ruin my life? Or just my night?”

“Just trying to help,” Kane said. “Get away from him. He’s-uh-oh. Don’t tell him I was here.” Before she could say anything else, Kane had ducked out of the booth and disappeared into a corridor. And then Jackson was back.

“Well, I’ve gone from soggy to damp,” Jackson said ruefully, sliding back into his seat. “So that’s an improvement. Still, maybe after dinner we could stop by my room, just to grab a change of clothes. If you’re up for it, I mean.”