Page 73 of No Judgements

“Hey, I thought we weren’t judging people.” He was moving again, just more slowly, and unfortunately, he’d let go of my wrist. “Isn’t that what you told your mom? Why is it not all right to judge bad pet parents but all right to judge bad child parents?”

I scowled. “You’re right. It’s not. Everybody is just trying to do their best, I guess. Do you think that woman is trying to do her best?”

He nodded. “I do. She reminded me of my sister—Nevaeh’s mom, Andrea—a little.” Then, seeing my glance, he added quickly, “Not the kissing my hand part. But the not having her shit together part.”

I didn’t say anything right away, because I was too stunned to think of anything to say except one thing. Until finally, I could keep it to myself no longer: “Your parents named you Andrew and your sister Andrea?”

He narrowed his eyes at me. “Yeah, they did. But is that something you should really be commenting on, considering your parents named you after a type of cheese?”

I snorted. “My name’s not Brie. It’s Sabrina. My mom named me after the title character in her favorite movie, which is almost as bad as being named for a cheese, because it’s a movie about a chauffeur’s daughter who falls in love with the son of the wealthy family her dad works for.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Well, nothing, I guess, except that—”

“Bree!”

The cry came from Angela, who was working behind the line of fold-out tables that had been set up in front of the café. Without power, and therefore no air-conditioning, it was too hot to serve food from inside the building, so Ed had set up a line of grills and coolers just outside the door. In front of them, Angela, Mrs. Hartwell, Nevaeh, and the rest of the staff worked at folding tables beneath hastily set-up beach umbrellas to serve what looked like half the town the contents of the café’s now nonfunctioning freezers.

“Hey.” I hurried up to greet Angela. “How did your mom’s place weather the storm?”

“Good. We lost a few roof tiles and a tree or two, but otherwise, it wasn’t nearly as bad as we were expecting.” Her face was shining from the heat, but I expected mine waslooking worse, considering all the beds I’d had to crawl under looking for people’s cats. “What’s going on over there?” She nodded toward Drew, who was standing by one of the barbecues, observing his uncle’s grilling technique. “I saw you two pull up together, along with Mary Jane Peters.”

“You know that woman? We ran into her on the street. She didn’t even know a storm was coming.”

“Yeah, that makes sense. She’s one of those ditzy yoga moms. Doesn’t believe in vaccinations or television or public school.”

“Oh, that explains it. I thought she was on drugs.”

Angela shrugged. “No, just vegan. Lets the kid have dairy, though, if it’s organic.”

“Yeah, that makes sense, she’s looking for milk.”

Angela sighed. “We’ve got some that hasn’t gone bad yet. I’ll give it to her. But you still haven’t told me what the deal is with you and Lover Boy over there.”

I felt myself blush, but fortunately there was no way Angela or anyone else was going to be able to tell, since the sun was beginning to sink in the west and turning everything and everyone pink with its fiery rays.

“There’s no deal. He’s helping me feed all the pets that people have left behind and can’t get back to on account of the bridge being out.”

“Ooooh.” Angela grinned. “I bet he is. And I bet he’s only doing it out of the goodness of his heart, not because he wants to get into your bed. Everyone knows Drew Hartwell is a real Boy Scout.”

“Shut up. He is.”

“Wait, what do you mean?”

“I mean, I’ve made out with him twice, but that’s as far as we’ve gotten. Although admittedly this pesky hurricane thing keeps getting in the way.”

Angela grinned, obviously wanting to know more, but then was distracted by something happening at the table in front of her. “Marquise, no. It’s one serving of chicken or steak or fish per person per plate. They can’t have all three at once. If they want more, they can come back through the line for more once they’ve finished.”

Marquise—Angela’s handsome young nephew who often helped out at the café when we were shorthanded but couldn’t work full-time because of his position as quarterback on the Little Bridge High School football team—looked frustrated. “But this gentleman here asked for chickenandfish,” he hissed. “Look at him! I’m not going to deny the man!”

Angela leaned forward to deal with the dissatisfied customer, who already had a plate piled high with corn bread, Caesar salad, black beans and rice, and a baked potato.

“Sir,” she said. “We’re happily giving away all this free food today on account of the storm. But we have to make sure we have enough for everyone. We’re serving chicken, fish, or steak. But you can only have one protein at a time.”

“But—” The gentleman, who appeared from the weathered condition of his skin to have spent a great deal of time at sea, opened his mouth to protest, revealing a past lacking in proper dental care.

“If you finish your plate and are still hungry, of courseyou can come back for more. But for now, it’s one serving of chicken or fish or steak per person per plate.”