Page 17 of Best Served Hot

Shit. “I just have one of those faces,” I said at the same time Bennett said, “You’re probably thinking of my twin brother.”

I blinked at him, my mouth falling open a little bit at the sheer audacity. It was probably good he couldn’t really see me, because he didn’t miss so much as a step as he continued breezily on. “We’re identical twins, and I know he was here the other night,” he said. “He wears glasses. Does the guy you’re thinking of wear glasses?” The waiter blinked, apparently lost for words. “He also dresses like a bit of a square. I’m always making fun of him, telling him to let his hair down. Figuratively, of course. We have the same haircut.” Bennett tapped his fingers, harder this time, almost like he was trying to communicate through Morse code. Maybe signaling for help. “Open his collar a little. That’s the expression I was looking for.”

“I see,” the waiter said doubtfully, and whether he believed Bennett or not, he turned to me, and that squint fell upon me so sharply it was like he was drilling into me with it. It was okay. I’d just double down on what I said earlier, that I had one of those faces everybody seemed to recognize, that—

“I have a twin sister, too,” I blurted. My eyes went wide with panic. Why did you say that, Julie?

It was too late. It was out. Bennett’s lips quirked in amusement. So I doubled down on that, instead. “She’s a brunette, though. And she hates his twin brother,” I told the waiter, leaning in like I was confiding in him. “It’s kind of ridiculous. They can’t be in the same place together, or they start spitting and pulling hair.”

Bennett made a sound kind of like a snort. I ignored it. “I certainly hope you don’t recognize us, because that would mean you’ve met them,” I said. “And you don’t want to have met them.” I leaned back, still kicking myself on the inside. We were definitely getting thrown out a second time.

“I see,” the waiter said, even more doubtfully than before. And then he snapped his fingers. “Oh! That’s how I know you!”

I began to stand so that he wouldn’t have to ask me to leave more than once.

“You look just like my roommate’s sister!” he said, eyes lighting up. “She has the same hair. Do you go to Alex at Metropolis Salon?”

“She absolutely does,” Bennett jumped in. I turned a killer stare on him, but it was wasted since he was gazing up at the waiter. His lips twitched just the tiniest bit as he spoke, as if he were trying as hard as he could to hold back a laugh. “She and her girl Alex, they’re the best of friends.”

“I thought Alex was a man,” said the waiter.

“My mistake,” Bennett said. He buried his face in his hands, and his shoulders shook. For a moment I thought he was crying, and then I realized he had to be laughing.

Back to me. “I would definitely recommend going to Alex next time you’re up in the area,” I said, and then my eyes settled on his gleaming bald dome. “Or, um, maybe not.”

The waiter sighed through his nose and glanced up at the ceiling. I could practically read his mind through his bare, shiny skull. Good Lord, what did I do to deserve this? But his income depended on tips, so it wasn’t long before he was back with his practiced smile, which looked very much like the one I wore every day for Mr. Decker. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

We ordered our tap waters, and our waiter skittered out of there: relieved, I was sure. Bennett lowered his hands, still laughing, and I found myself smiling. Like the waiter, I was pretty practiced in putting a smile on and keeping it there. But why was I doing that right now? I didn’t care what Bennett thought of me. In fact, he didn’t deserve my smile.

However, while I might have been practiced in pasting a smile on, I was a lot less practiced in peeling it off. Our culture really isn’t invested in telling women not to smile. So it took a minute to flatten that smile into neutrality, then further turn that neutrality into a stern frown. By the time I’d finished with that, Bennett’s laugh was dying a natural death. Good. I’d bury it. “Let’s pick our food,” I said nonchalantly, lifting up the menu and propping it up on the table like an elementary schooler putting up anti-cheating folder dividers on their desk. “I want the pulpo.”

A moment of silence. I kind of wished I could see his face, but I didn’t lower the menu. “Fine,” he said at last, just as coolly.

I marked the octopus down on my phone to order. To be quite honest, octopus wasn’t my favorite protein, but I was definitely going to feature it, if only because I knew Bennett definitely wouldn’t. And then we haggled away. “There are a lot of potatoes on your list,” Bennett said from behind the menu. “I’d like a little more variety.”

I lowered the menu to respond. “There’s plenty of variety. There’s potatoes with cheese, and fried potatoes with sausage, and sautéed potatoes with ham on top of them.”

“That’s too many potatoes.”

I wrinkled my nose. “There’s no such thing as too many potatoes. That’s like saying a dish has too much butter.”

“I’ve definitely had dishes with too much butter,” Bennett said. “Makes them greasy.”

“Oh my God, that’s blasphemy,” I cried. The men at the table next to us looked over, askance. But I didn’t lower my voice, just my menu, because blasphemy deserved volume. And eye contact. “There is no dish that isn’t made better by more butter. Nothing.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Opened it and closed it again.

“See,” I said triumphantly. “You can’t think of anything, can you?”

“I wasn’t even trying to think of anything,” he said stiffly. “I want to try this orange salad with the olives. And the pan con tomate.”

“Tomato bread? Boring.”

“What you mean is that it doesn’t photograph well,” said Bennett. I curled my lip at him, then stuck out my tongue. He couldn’t see it anyway.

“You know I can see that.”

Oh well. “What I mean is that it’s just tomato and bread,” I said. “Boring.”