Page 4 of The Husband I Left

It was a Thursday night, which meant trivia at the bar and half-price wings at Bill’s Sporthouse, where I was putting myself through college working as a waitress. There was a lull as trivia wrapped up for the night, and I was zoning out, waiting for someone to be seated in my section, when he walked in.

When I say the whole restaurant paused to look, I’m not exaggerating. Even the teenage busboy stopped mid-swipe to gawk at him. For as long as I’ve known him, Oliver has had this effect on people. He’s well over six feet tall, and if I’d had to describe him that night, I would have said: dressed like he’d just stepped out of a magazine ad for “rich guy at the yacht club but one who works out.”

The point is, he was hot, okay? Tailored navy suit, crisp white shirt, wavy dark hair, vivid blue eyes.

All the waitresses went feral. Chloe whispered, “Dibs,” under her breath. Harlow hissed back, “You wish.” I tried to look disinterested, which is hard to do when I’m pretty sure hearts were shooting out of my eyes like I was in an old cartoon. Then the hostess led him to a booth in my section, and my co-workers immediately started plotting my murder.

I took a moment to prepare myself. I tried to smooth down the curls that had escaped from my braid and formed a frizzy halo around my head, even though I knew it was an exercise in futility. I ran my fingers over my eyebrows. I made sure I didn’t have any embarrassing stains on my shirt. I reminded myself that if I were good at anything; it was talking to people. My customers all loved me.

I strutted over to his table with my brightest smile.

“Hi there! I’m Genny and I’ll be taking care of you tonight. Can I get you started with some drinks while you look over the menu? Also, I am legally obligated to inform you that wings are half-price, although they are also very good at full price.”

Another thing about me is that when I am nervous, nonsense comes out of my mouth and I do not know how to stop it.

Oliver, however, didn’t even blink. “I’ll just have coffee and a burger, cooked medium, with fries.” He handed the menu back without even having looked at it.

I brought him his coffee. I brought him his burger. He was polite. He thanked me. He ate his food. He never once looked up from his phone. Somehow I managed to restrain myself from checking on him any more than I did on any of my other tables.

And then the person seated in the booth behind Oliver knocked his water glass off the table with his elbow. I was refilling Oliver’s coffee when it happened and I saw that glass falling and, for reasons that I to this day could not explain, decided the best course of action was to drop the coffee pot, causing coffee to slosh everywhere, and make a heroic full body lunge for the glass. I missed, and it smashed everywhere.

What I did manage to accomplish was to pull Oliver’s attention from his phone. He looked down at me lying on the ground, and I looked up at him, and he raised a brow and said, “Impressive reflexes.” I wanted to melt into the floor. Instead, I muttered something like, “Thanks, I’m training for the Olympics,” before scurrying off to get what I needed to clean up the mess. It was humiliating even by my usual standards.

Oliver didn’t look at me again until he’d finished eating and given me his card to pay the bill. When I got back to the table, I found him studying me. He was leaning back in the booth, his arms crossed over his chest, and the expression on his face was almost thoughtful. I handed him the bill folder, and he took it but didn’t open it. Just continued to stare at me.

“What did you say your name was?” he finally asked.

“Genny,” I replied. And then, because I hadn’t made enough of a fool of myself that night, I continued. “Well, Genevieve technically. But no one calls me that except my mom when I’m in trouble. So yep. Just Genny. It’s on my nametag right…here.” I remember pointing at it and then feeling like an idiot.

Oliver had stared at me a moment longer, and if I hadn’t known better, I almost would have thought he was fighting back a smile. “Right then,” he’d finally said, taking his receipt out and signing it. “Thank you, Genevieve.”

And then he walked out the door, and I was certain I was never going to see him again.

“He was hot,” Halow said with a sigh when I made my way back to the kitchen.

“I’m pretty sure he was a robot.” I’d muttered. “Or a serial killer.” And then I’d finally looked at the receipt he’d signed, and my eyes nearly bulged out of my head. He’d tipped me $200. And underneath that, he’d written a phone number.

* * *

I nearly didn’t call him at all. I wrote the number down on a piece of paper, and for almost a week I carried it around with me and would occasionally take it out, unfold it, stare at it, put it back in my pocket, debate with myself.

Would calling him be the best or worst idea I ever had?

On the one hand, my stomach flip flopped when I remembered those vivid blue eyes. On the other hand, I couldn’t understand why he had left me his number at all. He’d barely even looked at me the whole night. I still cringed with embarrassment when I remembered some of the things I had said. And did. On the other other hand, if I didn’t call him, I would die not knowing what might have happened if I had called him. Not right away, of course. But someday.

“Okay, but think about it logically,” my roommate Kylie said after she caught me staring at the number for the fifth time one night. “I looked this guy up, Genny. His family is seriously loaded. So, hot, rich guy. He doesn’t smile once. He barely talks to you. And then he leaves you his number. Something doesn’t add up.”

“He could just be terrible at flirting.”

“And you could end up on Dateline. Just imagine. ‘She was a bright, bubbly waitress with her whole life ahead of her. But then one customer changed everything.’”

So Kylie was no help.

Neither was Harlow, who thought I was crazy for even hesitating and asked if she could have the number if I decided not to use it.

In the end, curiosity had me dialing the number more than anything. Curiosity and the memory of just how good he looked in that perfectly tailored suit.

He answered on the second ring. “Oliver Sinclair.”