How To Win Sam Wheeler

four

“Hello,” she smiled at me. “Welcome to Wendy’s.”

I looked up to see the lady in uniform. She was wearing pigtails, her short, red hair warm under the restaurant’s dim, yellow light.

“Hi,” I said to her. “Table for two, please.”

“Alright, follow me,” She said.

She led me to the only spot furthest from the entrance. It was secluded, in a way, that you had to sneak in to actually sit in the chair.

It was a Wendy’s like no other.

Which was, apparently, their restaurant quote.

Makes sense, I guess.

I couldn’t help it myself, though. So I asked. Which seemed likke a mistake.

“Um, why is this table.. different?” I asked.

She sent me a look that says Are you fucking kidding me? But paired it with a smile.

It almost looked like she was genuinely interested in answering me. Almost.

But I was good at analyzing looks, and so I smiled at her.

“I don’t know why you found that offensive -because you clearly do,” I said.

Her plastered fake smile had left her face.

“This table was reserved for you, miss.”

“Reserved?” I arched an eyebrow. “Who reserves in Wendys?”

“Yes, reserved, don’t be a bitch about it,” She said. “Apparently, a Wheeler had called to reserve a table for two. We have families here, but this is not a usual option for.. dates.”

Dates? As if.

For all I know, I could just leave the wallet in here and call this certain Sam Wheeler to pick it up.

But maybe she  was just acting this way because nobody really reserves a table for restaurants like these.

Like Wendy’s.

Too bad I used to love their Strawberry lemonade drink.

I sighed, sitting down, ignoring her derogatory comment.

She left a moment later, and I was glad to finally have some space. And peace.

That is, until the very familiar guy showed up.

He sat down in front of me wearing a black V-Neck shirt that stick to his sculpted body, emphasizing his chiseled biceps. His familiar scent had filled the air between us, smelling like cinnamon and beach hair.

I studied his jawline, ever so sharp as the last time I saw him. His cheekbones looked soft, even with the bruised cut that swayed along it.

I studied his neck too, only that there was something significant missing.

The cross necklace had been missing. The small accessory I’ve noticed yesterday – which should’ve been dangling his neck now – wasn’t there.

But, psh, who am I to judge?

Maybe I was just overthinking. Again.

Maybe he wore it off earlier, and forgot to put it back on.

Or maybe it got stolen. Or pawned.

Or maybe, because it wasn’t Sam Wheeler who had been sitting in front of me, ordering a glass of water.