“I’ve got it,” I said.
I wouldn’t make it through half a shift.
Three minutes later, I carried the ribeye across the diner.
The man’s eyes dropped to his watch before the plate touched the table.
“You’re late.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I had a pain and needed a minute.”
He looked at my stomach.
Not with concern.
With annoyance.
“You’re late.”
“Pregnancy isn’t an excuse for incompetence. Women like you make careless choices, then expect everyone else to suffer for them.”
Conversation at the nearest tables faded.
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I tried to keep my voice even.
“It’s been eleven minutes since I put the order in, sir.”
“Exactly. One minute late.”
“Pregnancy isn’t an excuse for incompetence.”
I stared at him.
He looked pleased with himself.
“I’m sorry your meal took longer than expected.”
“Oh, save it.” He picked up his phone. “The owner and I play golf together.”
My fingers curled around the edge of my tray.
“Okay.”
“One phone call and you’re finished.”
He looked pleased with himself.
Diane had started toward us from behind the register.
I wished she wouldn’t.
Not yet.
I could handle one rude customer.
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I had handled worse.
The man looked at my stomach again.
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