One & Only

Chapter Nine

NINE

I was still pondering the question the next morning as I got ready for my 9:00 a.m. lab, still weighing it in my mind as I drove to school and entered the building. I had a hard time picturing anyone treating Hannah the way Todd J. Hamilton Jr. had treated me last night. Was there some tattoo on my forehead, visible only to assholes, that said, “This one’s fair game”?

Had it always been that way? I wasn’t much of an English student, but I’d read Jane Austen in high school, just like everyone else. In Pride and Prejudice, all my classmates had swooned over the love story of Mr. Darcy and Lizzie Bennet, but I’d been fascinated by the response to Mr. Wickham, who’d tried to seduce several of the characters. It wasn’t a part my teachers had ever stressed in class, but I’d never been able to get it out of my mind. With the rich Georgiana Darcy—Mr. Darcy’s sister—and later with the heiress Mary King of Meryton, he’d sought to marry them. But with Lizzie’s flirty younger sister Lydia, who had no money, he’d just run off, content to get the sex and leave her and her entire family ruined. Later, Lizzie’s uncle had reported that Wickham had still hoped to marry a rich girl, despite the fact that he’d been “living in sin” with Lydia. I’d always wondered what would have happened if Mr. Darcy hadn’t stepped in and forced the marriage. Would Lydia have spent the rest of her life in secret, raising Wickham’s bastard children while he married some fine lady? 

If there was an invisible tattoo for girls like us, Lydia Bennet had it, too.

I was able to put the thoughts aside as I finished my lab work for the week, but my mood was charcoal gray. It must have shown on my face, too, because I exited the lab, hardly seeing where I was going, and ran smack into Dylan.

“Whoa, there,” he said, steadying me. “Everything okay?”

“Fine,” I grumbled. “I’m just in a rush. My shift starts at ten thirty…”

“Oh, right. How’s the restaurant biz?”

I rolled my eyes. “Eh. Had some jerks in my section last night.”

“Rough. Bad tippers?”

“Zero tippers,” I replied. “Apparently some guys don’t believe in tipping the waitress unless she agrees to go home with them.”

A cloud seemed to pass over Dylan’s eyes. “Does that kind of thing happen to you a lot?”

“I’ll tell you when I’ve done this for a little longer. But according to my friend Sylvia, the answer is yes.”

“I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “We’ve got to get you out of there. I’m going to keep my eyes open for any research assistant jobs.”

“Thanks.” I shrugged. “It’s a learning experience. I should have realized anyone with a name as pretentious as Todd J. Hamilton Jr. would be a jackass. Note to self—always check out the credit card when they open a tab. If they’ve got a jerk name, expect jerk treatment.”

Dylan said nothing for a moment. “I’m so sorry, Tess.”

I didn’t need his pity. I just needed to get to work.

***

Friday night at Verde passed without incident, and the Saturday lunch crowd was especially genteel, seeing how it was made up of all the locals who hadn’t gone out to the football game. As the afternoon waned, however, the patrons grew rowdier and the restaurant filled with football fans eager to celebrate Canton’s win. Half the booths held diners wearing Canton T-shirts and hats and jackets.

“You’ve got table twenty-eight,” Annabel said as she swung by me at the prep table. “Six top. They asked for you specifically.”

“Requests, already?” said another waitress. “Gee, someone’s popular.”