The Rivals - Dylan Allen Page 0,78

a hugely pregnant belly approaches us when we step into the main dining room. “Your first time here?” she asks knowingly.

“Yes.” I smile back.

“Yeah, your openmouthed, wide-eyed stare kinda gave it away.” She laughs good-naturedly and then reaches for two menus that sit under a green chalkboard—“open secret” scrawled on it.

“That’s our oxymoron of the day. Well, of the week or whenever someone thinks of one and changes it. Feel free to contribute. Every week, I pick my favorite and the author gets a free entrée,” she says excitedly.

I pick up the chalk and scrawl “bittersweet” while she marks something down on her hostess stand.

“You want a booth or table?” she asks.

“Booth,” we say at the same time.

“Awesome, come this way. And I’m Angie. My husband, Jackson, and I are the managers.” Her soft brown eyes twinkle with pride. I can see why. It’s a wonderfully unique place. Nearly everyone we pass looks up to greet her and tips their heads at us as we make our way through the wide aisle between the tables in the front of the huge space.

“If you need anything, just shout. But your server will take real good care of you,” she says happily and puts the menus down on the stone tabletop of the booth she stops at.

“Actually, I need the ladies’,” Cass says.

“Just walk past the bar and down the corridor. You’ll see it on the left,” Angie says.

“Be right back. Will you get me some water, please?” Cass says and drops her bag on the floor.

“Thank you,” I say as I slide into the curved, butter yellow leather covered seats of the booth and smile up at her. The high-backed seats wrap around the table and we can’t see our neighbors on either side.

It gives us a view of the entire room. I admire how brightly decorated it is. The white brick walls are full of abstract artwork and broken up by large windows that face the picturesque strip of stores that line the street.

The artwork is all whites, blues, and yellows with splashes of red and purple that manage to look coordinated but somehow eclectic at the same time.

“It’s so private,” I say. Angie nods knowingly.

“You make yourselves comfortable and I’ll get your waters and your basket of bread right out.” She puts a hand on her pregnant belly and rubs it.

“Are you okay?” I ask, pointing with concern at her baby bump.

“Yeah, I’m fine, why?” she asks sharply, peering at me with intense anticipation on her face.

“Uh—” I eyeball and wonder why she’s acting like my answer is important. “Well, nothing … you keep rubbing you're belly. I was just thinking maybe you were having some pregnancy-related difficulty,” I explain cautiously.

She laughs at the joke she still hasn’t bothered to explain to me.

“Oh. Thank goodness. I was only rubbing it ‘cause I wanted to make sure you knew I was pregnant and didn’t think this was a beer gut or something,” she says and then gasps with embarrassment.

“I can’t believe I said that out loud,” she says apologetically. “Pregnancy has completely removed my already very porous filter. It’s my fourth time; you’d think I’d be over this part. But I hate that I can’t see my feet and this ass is as wide as the Houston Ship Channel,” she blurts, a pained expression on her pretty face.

I want to laugh but I don’t think she’s trying to be funny. I try to think of some sort of consolation to offer, but I have a feeling nothing I say would actually make her feel better.

“I’m sorry, you probably think I’m so vain,” she says and shakes her head deprecatingly.

“You are vain. And nobody is thinking anything except how to get you to stop talking so they can get some food,” a gruff but twangy woman’s voice comes from the booth next to ours.

“Oh, Lord, I’m sorry,” Angie smiles apologetically. “For talking and for Henny’s rudeness. Thank you for being nice.” She rolls her eyes at the booth. “Your server will be right over. Glad to have you. Hope you’ll come back.” She makes an exaggerated scowling face at the hidden booth occupant and waddles off toward the front of the restaurant.

“As if anyone could mistake that belly for anything other than another one of your giant babies,” the voice calls after Angie.

“Oh, Henny, be nice and introduce yourself,” Angie calls back without looking over her shoulder.

A gnarled, arthritic hand with perfectly, French-manicured nails comes to rest on the shared top