ANNIE

“Another glass of tea, ma’am?”

I look up from where I’ve been staring into a piping hot mug. “Sure,” I say with half a smile. I don’t bother to correct him on the use ma’am this time. “Thank you.”

“Can I get anything started for you, or...”

I sigh, frustrated for the waiter, for myself. Look, I get it. The server wants his table back because he needs to make tips for the night, but him asking me ten times isn’t going to help anything. It’s been almost thirty minutes, and I need a few more. Just in case.

Reaching into my purse, I pull out a twenty dollar bill and slip it under the centerpiece, a gently flickering candle that has been my main source of entertainment this evening.

“Give me a few more minutes, please,” I say. “And I’ll be out of your hair.”

He has the grace to look a bit flushed, but it doesn’t mask the pity in his eyes. I wonder how often this happens; a girl like me sitting alone at a restaurant, waiting for a man that’ll never come.

I wonder if he’s guessing that I’m on a first date, or maybe that my boyfriend has broken up with me and left me out to dry. I wonder if it’ll ever cross his mind that maybe, the person I’m waiting for is the person who’s supposed to love me the most.

I shake my head and set back to work on the sketch I’ve doodled on my napkin. Hearts, lightning bolts, a stormy sea. I let my hand draw whatever it wants. I’m hardly thinking about it, which is why I’m surprised to find myself drawing the name Annie James there. I’ve drawn it three times and just now noticed.

The image makes me smile and cringe all in one. For all I know, Cohen’s idea of a relationship is a two-week fling. He never talks about marriage, or the future, or anything beyond the now. I suppose like Andi said, I have to ask him. At the same time, I’m scared to ask because I’m terrified I won’t like his answers.

Another waitress stops by to refill my water glass. I’ve been so nervous, I’ve inhaled the liquid as if it’s my lifeblood—my courage—and because of this, I’ve used the restroom twice already. Another ten minutes, and I’ll leave. I’ll have been here nearly an hour, and that’s long enough. He could’ve called. He has a freaking phone.

I’m not sure if he’s forgotten, or if he’s busy. If he’s run into a problem at work, or something else. I’m not sure I care all that much.

“Sorry you’re still waiting,” the woman pouring my water says. She’s pretty and young—late twenties maybe, a bit older than me. Old enough to offer a soft smile filled with empathy. “If I were you, I’d be drinking wine.”

“Been there, done that.” I offer her a friendly smile. “It doesn’t help.”

“Well, if I can get you anything else, don’t hesitate to let me know.” She takes one step away, pauses, and then looks back. “For what it’s worth, he’s an idiot. Whoever it is.”

I nod and watch as she leaves, grateful for the ripple of understanding in a sea full of onlookers. And in the sea full of prying eyes and hushed voices wondering who I am, there’s sympathy for the girl who waits for the man who’ll never show.

I want to tell these people that I’m hopeful. That this will be the time he’ll show up, but I can’t. In my heart, I doubt it’s true; I’ve learned the hard way. I know he’s not coming, yet here I sit, and here I wait.

“Excuse me, ma’am, can I please take your order?” It’s the waiter again, and though his eyes are filled with sympathy, there’s a brusqueness to his tone that’s begging me to give up my spot. It’s a high-end restaurant—my dad’s choice—and there’s a line waiting to be seated out the door.

“Oh, yes, um...” I look down at the menu, a sheepish blush blooming on my cheeks. “I haven’t looked yet. Please, give me one second, and—”

“I recommend the salmon. The sweet potato fries are also excellent.” It’s clear that he’s not moving until I order something. “If you’re looking for something lighter, the chicken salad is incredible.”

The way he says incredible, it’s with as much enthusiasm as if he’s suggesting I eat dirt. My brain’s not working, and neither are my reading muscles. I wave a hand. “Sure, fine. Whatever you said first.”

“Salmon and sweet potato fries? Excellent choice, ma’am.”

“Can I please get it to go?” I say, the blush on my cheeks spreading to the back of my neck. “And I’ll take the check with it. Thanks.”

He nods, finally having the grace to look slightly uncomfortable, as he retreats toward the kitchen. I take the moment to examine my napkins, the drawings there. The stormy seas shifting a tiny boat on waves too big to hold it. The name Annie James—foreign looking, foreign sounding to me—surrounded by squiggles and boxes and rays of sunshine.

I draw a line through one of them, my pen tearing so hard at the napkin that it rips the paper. I’m about to go to work on destroying the rest of the fantastical names when a hand clenches on my wrist and halts me in my tracks.

“Annie James?” A deep, husky male voice says from behind me. “Now, I like the sound of that.”

“Cohen?” I gasp, turning to face the sound, finding the man behind it who stops my heart. “What are you doing here?”

He stands tall, wears a gorgeous suit—the severe black and white giving his face angles that hadn’t existed before. His chin is strong, his shoulders wide, his eyes swimming with complexity as he leans forward and pulls the loose curls tumbling over my shoulders to the side. There, he presses a kiss to my exposed neck sending instant shivers down my spine.

I can feel the eyes of other patrons—those who’ve been whispering and waiting all evening—collectively inhale a breath. The waiter is back then, asking if he can get Cohen something to eat, something to drink. Apparently, Cohen looks like money, and the waiter senses a tip.

“No, thanks,” Cohen says. “In fact, you can cancel her order, too.”

“But—”

“I’m taking her home with me, and you can have your damn table back.”

“The salmon,” the server says weakly. “The fries.”

“It’s okay.” I rest a hand on Cohen’s arm. “Let’s go. I’ll just pay the check, and we can leave.”

“No, I have dinner plans for you,” Cohen says. “This isn’t the place for us, sweetheart.”

Pulling a wallet out of his pocket, Cohen retracts a fifty and hands it to the waiter, who makes an effort to look surprised.

“Keep it, cancel the order,” Cohen says. “Sound good?”

The waiter nods, but Cohen’s already directed his attention toward me. Hooking an arm through mine, he guides me to my feet and marches us toward the front door. He’s either oblivious to the stares around us, or he’s ignoring them. He’s supremely excellent at pretending we’re the only two people in the entire room, and I try to do the same.

He’s grabbed the napkin from the table and, just before we head outside, he takes one glance at it. With a boyish grin on his face, he stashes it in his pocket. “Annie James,” he murmurs to himself, almost giddy. “I like the sound of that.”

I don’t know how he does it, but even when I feel like crying, the man can make me laugh. “I was just doodling.”

“I think you’re an artist.”

Once we’re outside, Cohen approaches a valet, hands over a tip, and the man points to Cohen’s waiting vehicle. We climb into the car, and I look over, trying to find a way to thank him. I end up stuttering and mumbling some nonsense as we pull onto the street, but he merely shakes his head and rests a hand on my lap.

I’d told him the name of the restaurant at the pancake breakfast, so I understood how he’d gotten there. What I didn’t understand, however, is how he’d known my father wouldn’t show.

“Thank you for what you did back there,” I mumble, my hands trembling in my lap. “How did you know he wouldn’t be here?”

“I didn’t. I hoped he would be there when I arrived.”

“You showed up anyway?”

“Of course,” he says, giving me a quick glance before fixing his stare on the road. “I told you I’d always show up.”

“What if my dad had been there?”

“I would’ve left.” He shrugs. “I was Plan B for tonight. I only wish I’d been there sooner, but I was... taking care of something.”

“Something?”

“Nothing important. I came as soon as I could.”

“Well, I really appreciate it. It’s not your job to show up because my dad can’t be bothered to.”

“No,” he says thoughtfully. “It’s not my job.”

“But you did it anyway.”

“Because I care about you, Annie. I didn’t show up tonight because it’s my job.” His fingers tense on the wheel, his lips a flat line as he explains. “I showed up because that’s what a boyfriend does.”

“Yes, but—”

“There are no buts about it,” Cohen says, an edge to his voice now. Not at me, but at something else, something beneath the surface. “When you’re hurt, I’m hurt, and when someone breaks you, it’s my job to put you back together. I wish I could protect you from everything, but when I can’t, I want to be there to scoop up the pieces.”

I swallow the lump in my throat, move his hand into my lap and squeeze it tighter. It’s the only thing I can do. It’s the only thing I have to give him now, and thankfully, it’s enough.