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“Oy, stop.” His eyes narrow as he grabs the handle. “We’re not done with that.”
I let go and watch in slow motion as the amber-colored liquid sloshes violently over the rim. A moment later, a tidal wave of the house lager spills all over the table, drowning the breadbasket and soaking the front of the guy’s shirt and my shoes. At least it missed my shirt. The last thing I need tonight is to smell like a frat house for the rest of my shift.
A few of his friends scramble back, swearing as the cold lager hits them.
“Watch it!”
“Miller, you dolt!”
“Oy, whatcha do that for?”
Miller stares down at his soaked chest. His mouth hangs open, like a toddler who can’t believe he just broke his favorite toy.
Max’s chair scrapes against the tile. He rises to his full height, easily about six feet. His knuckles turn white where they grip the back of his chair. “Stand up,” he says in a deadly quiet tone, a muscle ticking in his jaw.
“Oh, come off it, Max. We’re just having a bit of fun—” Miller starts, his voice pitching up an octave as he tries to laugh it off.
“I said stand up. We’re leaving.” Max’s look is ice-cold. Miller squirms in his seat under the weight of it. “But first, you need to apologize. Now.”
Miller opens his mouth to protest. “Why should I? It’s her fault the beer spilled everywhere!”
“Because it’s the right thing to do,” Theo says curtly, approaching the table. “Now, I believe the gentleman gave you an instruction.”
Max looks up, his eyes meeting Theo’s. Some sort of unspoken communication passes between them. Theo gives him a small nod.
“Get on with it, Miller. Apologize,” Max repeats.
“I’m sorry,” Miller mutters to Theo.
“Not to me,” Theo says, crossing his arms. “To her.”
“Sorry,” Miller finally chokes out, looking everywhere but at my face. “Sorry for the mess.”
“Louder,” Max commands loud enough that the entire restaurant goes quiet. Silverware stops clinking. Every head turns to see what the commotion is about.
“I’m. Sorry.” Miller’s face colors a deep-purple. It almost makes me feel bad for him. Almost.
Lina materializes by my side. “Katie, are you all right, cara?” she asks, hands on her hips.
“I’m fine.” That word is my default setting. The standard issue for anyone working in the service industry who can’t afford to make a scene.
“I’m sorry we were being rude,” Max says, refusing to let it go. He glares at Miller. “We were just about to leave.”
He puts himself between me and the rest of his group. While they slip outside, he holds a credit card out to Lina. But his eyes find mine. He’s close enough that I can smell cedar and something crisp—a stark contrast to the heavy scent of spilled lager and garlic.
Lina’s eyes travel from Miller’s slumped shoulders back to Max. She takes the card with a single snap of her wrist. “I’ll get your check,” she says. Her expression softens only when she looks back at me. “I’ll finish up here. Go ahead and take Theo his cannolis. I’ll handle the gentlemen.”
Suddenly, a chorus of rhythmic singing erupts from the sidewalk out front.
I turn toward the window. “Is that ‘Do You Hear the People Sing’?”
The guys have linked arms in a row and are swaying back and forth. As I keep staring, I realize that they aren’t just singing. They’re belting the lyrics with fervor, surprisingly on key.
Traffic has ground to a halt. The sidewalk is jammed with people who’ve stopped dead in their tracks. It’s a sea of glowing phone screens. The guys aren’t just performing—they’re thriving on it. Any trace of that embarrassing, beer-soaked table from a few minutes ago has vanished.
“Bloody hell,” Max mutters, looking at his friends and then back at the receipt he hasn’t even signed yet. He doesn’t wait for Lina to return. He bolts, sprinting toward the door to catch the would-be revolutionaries before they march into traffic.
“Wait!” Lina calls out, emerging from the register area. But the bell above the door is already jingling as it swings shut behind him.
