Page 6 of Go Back to December
I turn and summon my staff. Everyone—the entire front and back of the house—abandons what they’re doing to march over and line up in front of Baz’s table.
DeNiro style, I take two fingers, point them at my eyes, then point one finger at him and nod to every person who works at the café.
Baz sighs heavily. He examines the ceiling before he draws his long limbs up from the table, scans the crowd, and says, “I’m sorry.”
It’s a poor excuse for an apology. I don’t believe him for a second.
My team exchanges awkward glances while I stew over his false regret for several minutes before I finally wave their dismissal.
The new waiter lingers—Baz is sitting in his station—but I direct him back to the kitchen. I’m not trusting my jittery new guy with Baz when he’s this hungry.
He’s putting on a good show with his straight posture, feigning patience while his gaze roams the length of my body. Evaluating his opposition.
To prepare for the Finance Committee meeting, I’ve swapped my usual thrifted wardrobe for a fitted emerald-green dress made from sustainable stretchy cotton. My hair’s tamed back in a respectable ponytail, and I’m even wearing lipstick.
Squeezing my abdominals to prevent myself from squirming, I hand Baz a menu. “We’re out of ham.”
This may be the most offensive thing that’s happened to him this morning. Perhaps, his entire life. A vein throbs in his neck, beneath his clenched jaw.
He flips over the menu and stabs a finger at the café’s mission statement. “I thought inclusivity was one of your core operating principles.”
I should update that language to exclude assholes. “What can I include in your order?”
“An explanation for this discrimination.”
“Don’t throw around fancy words you know nothing about.”
“You’ve denied me service all morning.”
“I’m trying to take your order now. You’re the one getting in the way.”
“Yesterday you said I didn’t belong here.”
That barb left a mark. “And yet, here you are.”
“Why are you so pissed?”
His hand grips the menu; his monogrammed silver cuff links glint against his custom shirt. Everything he wears is tailored exactly for him. Including his café breakfasts.
“You want to embrace our operating principles?” I say through gritted teeth. “Show up.”
He frowns. “I’m here every morning.”
“Exactly.” I point to the bins at the back of the café, where we collect canned goods and toiletries for the women’s shelter. “Every morning you walk past those without blinking.”
I nod to the bulletin board that lists our schedule of free work skills seminars taught by Blackhart & Steele volunteers. Baz has never signed up to teach a single class. “That too.”
“Those things don’t bring in the revenue to fund your community investment.”
He isn’t the least bit defensive about it, which makes my blood heat more.
“So I’m only welcome here if you witness proof of my good works,” he continues. “That’s not a fair principle.”
“You want to debate fairness and equity?” I fling a hand at the portrait the warlord on the cover of his book. “That dirtbird kidnapped and conscripted children to rape and murder, and got a handful of years in prison. His sentence wasn’t even a slap on the wrist; it might as well have been a kiss.”
“It’s better than none.”
His green eye flares. There’s a catch of breath, a sort of hissing sound that rises above the piercing holiday music. I can’t tell if it came from his throat or mine, or why I’m mentioning the word kiss to Baz.
