“Do I like it? I almost married it. But my sweet pastry felt like I was getting all codependent, so we had this huge, messy breakup, and now I have sole custody of the tartlets. It’s hard, man.” Biting my knuckles, I dropped my eyes, pretending to wipe away the tears.
Max was used to my weirdness but Michael seemed startled for, like, ten seconds, then he cracked up. “Okay, no nut allergies, check. Try the pecan pie if it won’t trigger a flashback.”
It had been a while since I hung out with high school kids, basically since I was one, and I didn’t remember guys being so mature and poised at sixteen. But that wasn’t something I could comment on without it seeming strange and/or insulting. Max would also chide me for the third time about hitting on his brother, and that might open a hell mouth or something.
The waitress came over in response to Max’s chin lift. One of these days, I had to learn that. To get a server’s attention, I practically had to get out glowing batons and signal a plane.
“We’ll have three pieces of pecan pie and the check.”
“Any coffee?” she asked.
Before I could reply, Max said, “Nah. It’s too late for me, the kid’s too young and the lady doesn’t like it.”
I was kind of surprised he remembered, but Michael was glaring. He didn’t speak until the girl moved off. “Too young, fuck you. Too young.”
“So opposable thumbs are pretty cool,” I said.
But things were melting down too fast for me to head them off. Max waded in with boots on, not that I knew why. “You’re a kid, Mickey. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I can see why you’d think that, considering you haven’t even seen me in five years. Guess what, I grew up while you were out.” He took a deep, deep breath, brown eyes flashing. “Your phone doesn’t work, Max? Dad said you had a reason for disappearing on us, and I’ve been waiting to hear it.”
Part of me wanted to defend Max, but I bit my lip. This isn’t your fight, and you only know his side of the story. Things probably looked much different to Michael.
Before Max could answer—tell his brother what he’d told me about being kicked out of the house—the waitress showed up with pie. By the time she walked off, Michael was seething too hard to listen.
He shoved away from the table and wheeled around with a dark stare. “Never mind, not in the mood for dessert. Nice meeting you, Courtney.”
“That’s crazy,” I said, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “How is it humanly possible not to be in the mood for pie?”
Apparently that was the wrong thing to say. Because Max stood up and stalked out, stranding me in a strange diner in Providence.
CHAPTER FIVE
In reaction to my predicament, I ate one and a half pieces of pecan pie.
Michael was right; it was delicious. Then I asked the waitress to box up the rest. I mean, how bad can the situation be if there’s pie? Once I had my leftovers in a sack, I paid the check and stepped onto the sidewalk. Part of me hoped I’d find Max pacing, maybe smoking a cigarette like he did when he was really upset or completely hammered, but the bike was gone.
By this point, it was half past nine. Swallowing hard, I went back inside. The waitress didn’t look pleased to see me, but I rode it out. Local info could make all the difference.
“So I’m wondering if there’s a decent motel within walking distance. I don’t mind if it’s crappy, just not a hellhole.” I hoped she’d know what I meant.
“Oh.” Her annoyance softened, leavened with sympathy. “Your boyfriend ditched you?”
It didn’t seem worth it to clarify. “Yeah. There probably isn’t a bus out tonight anyway.”
I felt slightly bad for putting that on the table. If I left tomorrow, I’d fly back to Ann Arbor and ask if Nadia could pick me up. But the waitress wouldn’t feel like helping me if she knew I wasn’t as pathetic as I appeared. You’d have to be a complete sociopath to refuse to answer questions, given my apparent abandonment.
“You don’t want to hang around the station that late, even if there is. If you can afford a room for the night, taking the bus during the day is a lot safer.”
Since I had plenty of space on various cards and a fair amount of cash on me, plus my ATM card, this didn’t present as much of a challenge as it might have for someone else. My style hid the fact that my family had plenty of money, though not like Angus, of course. Better for me to blend into the neighborhood anyway, especially at this hour.
“Okay, thanks.” I smiled at her.
“There’s a decent place four blocks away. I can draw a map if you want.”
“No, that’s fine. If you tell me what it’s called, I can map it on my phone. Is it safe to walk in this neighborhood? I’m not from around here.”
She nodded, naming the hotel. “Just keep your head down and stay alert. The first block is iffy, but there will be more people when you hit Little Italy.”
After thanking her again, I memorized the route, then put away my phone. Even during the day, it wasn’t a good idea to show you had no fucking clue where you were going. At night, it would be insane. Maybe I should just call a taxi but it seemed dumb as hell to wait twenty minutes for it when I could walk it in less than ten. The waitress was right about the first leg feeling sketchy, so I speed-walked. A few guys stared from their stoops as I jogged by, but nobody made a move.
More lights sprang up as I turned, and by the way the architecture changed, I could tell I’d found Little Italy. The buildings looked more European, painted in brighter hues. Checking the street sign, I saw I’d found De Pasquale Avenue, just as Google promised. I felt better here, as a number of restaurants were still open, mostly bistros and trattorias that reminded me of Rome. I found the hotel, no problem; it was a three-story building—canary yellow with white accents. The front rooms appeared to have balconies, and it didn’t seem like a flophouse, even from the outside, though I could tell it wasn’t posh.
My phone read 9:50 p.m. No messages from Max. Well, it wasn’t the first time he’d taken off. But as I put my hands on the door, my cell rang.
“Where are you?” he demanded.
“I’ve been kidnapped by super generous criminals, who let me keep my personal electronics. It’s too late. I’m a sex slave now, don’t try to save me.”
An older woman coming out of the restaurant next door aimed a shocked look at me. I beamed at her, waving like we were old friends. That made her quicken her step, lest she be forced to talk to me. She crossed the street to continue her journey.