Weeks after our divorce, my ex brought his mistress to the restaurant where I worked just to humiliate me. They ordered me around, laughed as I served them, and he whispered, “Look at you… pathetic.” Then the owner walked in with my son and said… my ex went pale. My ex-husband smirked as I refilled Amber’s wine and said, “Twenty-seven years with me, and this is where you ended up.”
What I remember most is the sound of the glass.
Ice tapping the sides as I tilted the pitcher and made my hand look steadier than it felt. Magnolia Table & Grill was full that Friday night, around 7:12, give or take. It was the kind of crowd we got when the high school team had a home game and folks wanted something warm afterward, a little noise, and a reason not to go straight home.
Plates clinked. Chairs scraped. Low country music hummed under everything.
And right in the middle of it all sat table fourteen. Randall had chosen it on purpose. “Diane,” he said, leaning back like he owned the place, one arm draped over the back of his chair.
“You still remember how I like my steak, right?”
I kept my voice even. “Medium rare. I’ll have it right out.”
Amber glanced up from her menu, though she hadn’t been reading it.
She had just been smiling, that small, practiced smile. Her bracelet caught the light when she lifted her hand. “She looks comfortable here,” she said, as if she were making an observation about the weather.
I nodded once and stepped back. My shoes stuck slightly to the floor near the edge of their table. We had mopped before the dinner rush, but there was always a spot or two that held on to the day.
I told myself to breathe. Tessa passed behind me with a tray balanced on one hand. “You okay?” she murmured without slowing down.
“I’m fine,” I said. I wasn’t, but fine was what I had. I took their drink order, sweet tea for him, white wine for her, and turned toward the service station.
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