Maritza

“So yeah, we were lying on his couch last night watching Interstellar and his phone kept going off. I saw him silence it. A half hour later he got another text and then he started acting weird and said I should probably leave because he had a test to study for all of a sudden …” I tell Rachael about my night with Blake as we stand outside the back entrance to the café, waiting for Hollie to unlock the door. “So I called him on it. I refused to leave until he told me why he was acting so weird and then he confessed.”

“Confessed what?” she asks.

“That he has a girlfriend,” I say. “And he’s had one the whole time.”

“But you two weren’t dating, right? And you haven’t slept together.”

“Right,” I say. “But I don’t want to be someone’s side piece and I feel like we were headed in that direction.”

Hollie opens the door and we shuffle in, one of the chefs staying a few steps behind us with his nose buried in his phone.

“I just feel like he left out a crucial piece of information,” I say. “So we’re done hanging out. I can’t trust a guy who has a girlfriend and tries to meet girls on Tinder at the same time.”

“That eliminates ninety-five percent of men in LA.” Rachael clocks in and shoves a pen in her apron.

We check in at the hostess stand with Maddie and get our table assignments, but halfway through the morning rush, a new patron is seated at one of my tables.

“Ian. Hi,” I say, flipping my notepad to a clean page.

“Morning.” He glances up at me with a honey-brown gaze that crinkles at the sides. “Think I’ll try one of those pancakes today. The guys at work won’t shut up about them.”

It’s been a little over a week since I met with him at the coffee shop and he dropped an armful of bombshells in my lap. And I have to say, as wild of a ride as that was, I finally have some semblance of closure.

Everything makes sense now and it boils down to this ugly truth: Isaiah is a womanizer who lied and used me.

Nothing else really matters.

“Good choice,” I say, jotting it down. “And coffee with room for cream and sugar?”

“I forgot. You’re psychic,” he says with a wink and a smirk.

Everything about Ian is sweet and disarming today, and while I don’t know him, we almost have this common bond, this shared secret.

Leaving to grab a coffee carafe from the back, I return to fill up his mug, leaving a couple inches at the top. “Going to work today?”

Ian adjusts his tie. “How’d you guess?”

“Promise I won’t make you late this time.”

His mouth curls at one side as he makes his coffee.

“I’ll be back in a bit, all right?” I ask, resting my hand on his shoulder for a brief second.

“Oh, hey,” he says when I turn to leave. I stop, spinning to face him once more. “Do you maybe … want to grab a drink sometime?”

His question comes out of nowhere and my lips part but nothing comes out until I manage to muster a quick, “Can I … can I think about it?”

“Of course.” Ian’s confidence doesn’t appear to be shaken in the slightest and he reaches for his coffee mug with a steady hand.

Returning to the back, I bump into Rachael hanging a ticket on the line.

“Ian just asked if I wanted to get drinks sometime,” I tell her, leaning close.

“What? No, he didn’t.”

I nod, biting my lip.

“What’d you tell him?” she asks.

“That I’d think about it,” I say.

Rach rolls her eyes. “Which means you’re going to say no.”

“I need a break from men,” I say. “And even if I didn’t, I don’t need to go out with the identical twin of the guy whose face I’d really love to punch right now. It’s confusing. And I don’t need that in my life.”

“Amen, sister.” Rachael laughs before heading back out to the floor.

Peering out toward my tables, I observe Ian for a minute or so, watching him scroll through his phone before tapping out a text and then turning his attention toward the sidewalk outside, people watching.

He’s so sweet and from what I can tell, genuine.

Then again, apparently I’m a horrible judge of character.

I can’t pick the good ones from the bad ones to save my life.

As soon as Ian’s order is up, I run it out to him, making sure to grab a warm bottle of maple syrup on my way.

“You’re not going to regret this,” I tell him.

“These things are like crack, I hear,” he says. “Is it true you only get one?”

“Yeah,” I say.

He spreads a pat of cinnamon butter across the ‘cake. “Sounds like a genius marketing ploy.”

“Right?”

“Anyway,” he says. “I’m going out with some friends this Friday. Dos Rios. If you and your friends want to meet up for drinks, cool. If not, no big deal. Just thought I’d ask.”

“Never been to Dos Rios. Is it any good?”

“It’s incredible,” he says. “Best margaritas in the city. You like margaritas?”

“Margaritas are my jam.”

Ian chuckles. “Then you should go. If not for me, then for the margaritas. They’ll change your life.”

“Now that sounds like a marketing ploy.” I give him a playful wink. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

He slices into his Brentwood pancake and I head off to check on another table, wiping the dopey grin off my face before I get there. I can’t remember the last time I smiled like that, over something so silly, but Ian’s so easy to talk to. He puts me at ease without even trying. He’s disarming in a way that Isaiah never was.

I suppose one margarita never hurt anyone …