I’m about to step in and fix the dressing—like I always do—but Henry quickly swallows his terrible bite and reinstates his winning smile.
“Incredible,” he says to Rory, somehow sounding like he isn’t totally lying. “But you know what I think would make it even better . . .” He swipes a lemon wedge from the counter and holds it over the bowl. “May I?” he asks. “Final decision is the chef’s, of course.”
“Ohhhh, I totally forgot about the lemon!” Rory yelps, her eyebrows quirking upward. “Yeah, squeeze it in there.”
He squeezes the lemon in while Rory gazes at him adoringly. I find myself suddenly transfixed by the way muscle ripples up his arm, the way his plain white T-shirt hugs his broad shoulders and accentuates his golden-brown skin—
“Rika-chan!” Now Belle is hissing in my ear, startling me out of my very important study of, um . . . whatever I was just studying. “What’s going on?” she demands, jerking her head in Henry’s direction. “I know this isn’t about”—she draws her words out suggestively—“studying.”
“He’s helping me with the Grace thing—he knows her,” I hiss back, all too aware that my face is now several shades brighter than a fire engine. “And we might have a chance to meet her today, if I can actually get out of here.”
“Okay, I really need to know everything,” Belle says, swatting me with a kitchen towel. “I can’t believe you’ve kept all these important developments to yourself.”
“There hasn’t been a ton of time to share,” I say. “I’ll tell you everything later, but right now I have to . . .” My overactive brain grinds to a halt. So much has happened in the last ten minutes, and it feels like there are so many things I have to do, but I can’t seem to remember where I’m supposed to start.
Part of the problem, I suppose, is that my eyeballs are still glued to Henry Chen’s biceps.
I tear my gaze away from him—all too aware that Belle is tracking my every move—and aim myself at the dining room. At the very least, I can go see if the Becky table is finally ready to order.
The dining room is still in chaos when I emerge, and I let myself sink into it—the noise, the clatter of plates, the irresistible scent of fried panko wafting through the air. The Uncles have gone back to their drunken carousing. The line outside is now more orderly. People are still peering through the window, trying to get a glimpse of Hank Chen. But now that Henry’s been spirited away to the kitchen, some of the rabid frenzy seems to have died down.
The Beckys huddle around their table, combing over each other’s phones with great intensity, probably trying to find the perfect candid shot of Henry to post. Or of me. I wonder how rage-y I look.
I take a few deep breaths, touch the precious photos in my pocket, and remind myself of my quest: all I have to do is get through this late afternoon rush, take some orders, and be borderline pleasant. And then I can go to Grace.
I can do this.
I paste what I hope is an extra-serene smile on my face and march over to table four yet again, pencil clutched in my sweaty hand like a sword.
“I’m back!” I declare, making my smile even wider and infusing my tone with over-the-top brightness. Unfortunately, my attempts at being cheerful make my voice sound completely unnatural and I can’t quite squelch that thread of annoyance that keeps rising up, so my offer of help seems more like I’m threatening to bite their heads off. The girls recoil. I try to tell my face to freaking relax, but—
“Waitress! Hey, waitress!” A loud, sneery voice cuts through my thoughts. I whip around to see none other than Craig Shimizu snapping his fingers at me, smug grin firmly in place.
I see red before I can stop it, then sternly order my kaiju-temper to stay leashed. The goal is to get out of here, not start a brawl.
“Excuse me for a sec,” I say to the table four girls.
I tighten my grip around my pencil—my sword—and cross the room to Craig Shimizu. His smug look never falters.
“Can I help you?” I say through gritted teeth. My tone is not completely pleasant, but at least I don’t sound like I’m about to bite his entire head off. Yet.
“Yeeeeah,” he drawls, lazily tapping the plastic-coated menu. “Can you explain the cheese katsu?” His nose wrinkles. “Doesn’t seem very authentic.”
“It’s basically as described,” I say, my shoulders stiffening. He clearly wants to start some shit, and I have to remind myself not to take the bait. “Cheese, covered in panko, fried. It’s for our more adventurous customers. There are plenty of very traditional offerings on the menu. As you know, since you’ve been here before. Many times.”
“Hmm.” He makes a big show of examining the menu. I tap my pencil against my order pad, trying to breathe through my full-body annoyance. “Maybe I’ll have a salad. But please ensure that it’s made by an adult who knows what they’re doing—not that brat who oversalts the dressing until it’s inedible—”
“Hey,” I snap, rage stabbing through me. “Do not talk about Rory—”
“You’re right,” he says, his smile getting even bigger. “It’s not her fault she was born into such a mega-freak family. Maybe if she had better role models—”
“May I take your order?” I interject loudly, doing everything in my power to keep my voice steady. I press my pencil to my order pad so hard, the tip almost snaps off.
“There’s that temper,” Craig says, his eyes narrowing shrewdly. “I’ve always thought that must be your white side coming through—you’re probably the reason Rory’s all messed up, huh?”
I reel back, all the blood draining from my face.
“I . . .” I swallow hard. My voice is wavery, on the verge of tears. I feel like I’m about to explode. Why does he have to do this? Why does he have to choose today of
