Frankly in Love (Frankly in Love, #1)(89)

Back at our barrel, Joy stews. “Way to be on my side, Frank.”

“You said to call your bullshit, so I’m calling your bullshit,” I say. “Look at these guys over here. They’re waiting like big kids. You can wait like a big kid, too.”

I nod at two toddlers jammed in a stroller with a fartphone, and I can see Joy realize how petty she’s being. She offers me a simpering look.

“You’re just hangry, okay?” I say.

“Li, party of two?” says Becky.

“Thanks, Becky,” I say.

“We had a cancellation,” says Becky, and gives Joy an eyebrow.

The bread helps. It makes the hangries go away. After a prodigious delay our food finally arrives—Joy gets her plate of I-forget-what and I get my order of it-doesn’t-matter, because it’s all truly awful anyway. Fried something atop wax pilaf next to green mini-logs in a pool of salty milk, all easy to chew. Retiree food. We don’t even bother with any of the desserts, which are insultingly huge, like some kind of gluttonous dare. We just ask for the check, and wait, and wait.

“I’m a mess without my little China girl,” sing drunken voices amid the din of the restaurant.

Three huge European-American guys—fuck it, let’s just call them white—are crooning at Joy.

Joy buries her face in her hands. “You gotta be kidding me.”

But they’re not. My heart floods. The whole world stops down to a dark halo.

I stand. “Hey. Go find a gopher hole to fuck.”

“Grasshoppa mad,” says one.

“Ah so,” says the other.

“Hai-ya waaaah,” says another, and aims a flat hand.

“I will feed your severed dicks to each other,” I shout, just as there’s a lull among the shocked diners.

The three bros become sober. “I think this prick really wants to do this,” says one.

“Sir?” says a voice. It’s Becky.

“These—assholes—are antagonizing us,” I tell her.

“I apologize, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” says Becky. “Consider the meal our treat, compliments of the house.”

“Why do we have to leave?” I shout.

“Oh, both parties have to leave,” says Becky. “I’m giving you a head start.”

“We shouldn’t have to leave in the first place,” I say. “These guys started it.”

“Frank,” groans Joy. “It’s not worth it.”

And so, to the bemusement of all the dining patrons at Cheese Barrel Grille, me and Joy walk the long walk out of the restaurant. It is a bizarre walk of shame. Because what do I have to be ashamed of?

Outside, me and Joy find a stretch of wall to lean on and regain our balance.

“It’s like the world is trying to fuck with our night,” she says.

“I think that’s a little egotistical,” I say. “The world doesn’t care that much about two specific people.”

“Jesus, Frank, just agree with me.”

“I’m joking,” I say.

“No you’re not,” says Joy, and she’s right. I’m being prickly.

“Anyway, I don’t think the forces of fate are conspiring against us,” I say, and shove off the wall. I lead Joy around a corner toward the Henry Gallery. Might as well keep going, I figure.

But when we reach the gallery, we see that the doors have been closed with a handwritten sign.


AT MAX CAPACITY NO FURTHER ENTRY

BY ORDER OF THE FIRE DEPARTMENT SORRY


“Huh,” I say. “Maybe I’m wrong about the forces of fate.”

I glance at Joy. She looks like she’s fighting tears.

“Hey, come on,” I say. “It’s just one bad night.”

“Out of how many, though?”

“Don’t think like that.”

“But don’t I have to?” says Joy. “I haven’t been able to see you in a month, and I’m not blaming you, you were doing what you had to do, but I’ve been waiting a month and—this—is what we get?”

“It’s just one bad night. We’ll have more nights.”

“You are not ditching your dad to see me,” says Joy. “I won’t allow it. You have to see him while you can.”

“I’ll be able to see both you and Dad.”

Joy wrings her hands. “Be realistic. We don’t have that many nights together before summer ends. That’s the reason why I’m crying like a stupid baby right now. I just realized it, just now. There’s all this bullshit pressure for the few nights we have left.”

“We can have a do-over.”

“When, Frank? Next couple of weeks? A month? And that’s if we can find a spare sliver of time to sneak out in, and also if Q can fucking chaperone us?”

I approach, then gingerly touch her shoulders before bringing her in for a hug. “It does put a lot of pressure on us, you’re right. But I promise next time will be more fun. We can make it fun.”

“Summers of love are supposed to be carefree and la la la lovey dovey skipping in a meadow, not sneaking around to keep your parents from going to war with each other,” says Joy. She wipes her eyes. “I must look like someone just died.”