CHAPTER TEN SAWYER #2
I give her one more once-over. This is the troll lover?
Never in my wildest dreams would I picture the crazed troll collector to be a background actor from Bridgerton serving up hash browns.
The owner in my mind would be a flamboyant woman with neon-colored hair—two inches of roots due to not having enough time to get to the salon—with the wardrobe specifically plucked from Back to the Future Part II , Marty McFly rainbow cap and all.
“Good morning,” Faye says, chin held high.
“Have you met Phil?” Roy asks, nudging me with his shoulder.
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting our newest resident.” She curtsies. “Pleasure. I’m sure you’re finding your new dwellings satisfactory.” Not sure I’ve ever met someone so proper—with a freaky side to them.
“I am,” I say. “Thank you—”
“Enough with this wishy-washy conversation,” Sully says grumpily. “Faye, the usual.” He hands his menu off.
“The usual for me as well,” Tank says, following suit.
“And me,” Roy says, and then all eyes fall on me as if they expect something from me, as if I shouldn’t even bother looking at the menu either.
Cautiously, I say, “Uh... the usual for me as well.”
Tank offers me a nod of approval as Faye takes my menu.
“Very well. I’ll be back shortly. Gladys will be around with coffee.” With a curt nod, she takes off.
“What’s the usual?” I ask, looking around the table with trepidation.
Tank smiles. “You’ll see.”
I’m going to throw up, right here, at the table. For all the trolls to see—and I know their eyes are on me. I can feel them.
There is no way in hell I can eat this last bite.
I can’t possibly fit it in my stomach. This measly one-inch-by-one-inch piece of pancake.
But as I stare down at the last bite on my fork, I feel all three men watching me carefully to see if I’ll “buck up” and join them in finishing their plates, a show of respect to the cook.
But... fuck, I really don’t think I can. I can feel my breakfast at the base of my throat, waiting to come back up any second.
Let me paint you a little picture. “The usual” is not usual by any circumstances.
When Faye came over with our plates, it was as if she unloaded a truck, and a wave of plates fanned out across our table.
Two large pancakes, two scrambled eggs, two links of sausage, two pieces of bacon, two pieces of ham, hash browns, two slices of buttered toast with a side of jam, and a cut-up banana.
When my plate was set down in front of me, Tank tapped my plate with his fork and shot me a knowing look. “You’re expected to eat all of that.”
And he wasn’t kidding. Sully watched me intently to make sure I took down every last bite.
How he did it, I have no clue. I didn’t think old people could eat that much, but he shoveled it down no problem.
Meanwhile, here I am, sweating, bulging at the waistline of my pants, and ready to curl into a ball on Roy’s lap and cry myself into a food coma.
Roy lifts his dirty napkin to my face and blots my forehead. I don’t have it in me to care.
“There, there, newbie. Take deep breaths. You’ll make it through this.”
I really don’t think I will.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” Sully snaps. “Stop being dramatic and take the last bite.”
Please, Jesus ... God ... anyone who wants to listen to me, don’t let me throw up on this table, just let me get through this last bite, say some goodbyes, so I can quietly embarrass myself behind a dumpster. Just not at this table, with these men, who I know won’t let me live it down.
With a deep breath, I take the last bite as a wave of sweat breaks out on the back of my neck.
Chew, man.
Just chew and breathe.
When I finally swallow, Tank says, “Welcome to the breakfast club.” He says that as if it’s an accomplishment. Gluttony at the troll parlor feels more like a punishment.
I can guarantee you, this is not a club I want to be a part of—not if I have to order this every time.
I take a sip of water and am setting my glass down just as Faye rips the check off her pad and sets it on the table. Tank picks it up and then offers it to me with a smile. “Newbie buys.”
And before I know what’s happening, Tank is getting out of the booth, as well as Sully, and Roy is pushing at me to get up as well. I slide out, allowing Roy to leave, and when I sit back down—because Lord above, I need a second before I start moving—they all look down at me with a smile.
“Thanks for breakfast, Phil.” Roy claps me on the back, shooting my body forward and my face inches away from my cleaned plate, where only a faded streak of egg yolk mixed with syrup remains. My stomach gurgles.
Please ... not here, anywhere but here.
“See you around,” Tank says. And together, they stride past the rows of demonic trolls and out of the diner, leaving me to grip the table with both hands and pray to the breakfast gods that I can hold it together.
I glance down at the check, and my eyes nearly bug out of their sockets. Over one hundred dollars.
What the actual hell?
Not that I can’t afford it, but I’m sitting in the middle of the mountains, in an old western false-front building surrounded by troll dolls—isn’t the food supposed to be cheap in a place like this?
The decor screams cheap.
“Stiffed you with the bill?” Gladys says. “You must have really made an impression for them to do that.” She pats me on the shoulder. “I think you made some friends. Welcome to Canoodle.”
And then she walks away to top off some more coffee mugs.
If this is what friendship is in Canoodle, I’m not sure I’m ready for it.
Bugs drone through the still, scorching air as I collapse onto the grass and stare up at the overhang of pine trees, providing me much-needed shade.
It’s so freaking hot today.
I tamp my right hand around the grass, looking for my water bottle, and when I find it, I open the top and squirt myself with water that I filled up about twenty minutes ago.
When I walked into the lobby earlier, I found Fallon and Jaz on the floor, assembling furniture.
When I asked if they wanted help, Jaz told me to turn up Wilson Phillips and beat it—while Fallon shot me a somewhat apologetic look.
I took that as a no.
While I filled up my water bottle, I heard Fallon hiss at Jaz to be nice, and as I started to leave, she called out a thank-you for the offer.
Perhaps I made some sort of an impact last night.
I don’t need to be best friends with her, but I do want her to know I’m a good person, that I’m not the narcissistic man she once met in Palm Springs at the Golden Star.
I hate leaving a bad impression on people, although... isn’t that what I did at the wedding? Everyone there got the worst impression of me ever.
And so did the world.
I squirt my face with more water when my cheeks heat up at the thought of what I did.
Now that I’ve had a moment to cool down from Annalisa and Simon’s dramatics, I’ll admit that what I did was embarrassing.
Something I’d write about but never do. It’s the kind of exit I’d write into a scene to hook the audience, to get them invested in the outcome, but nothing I’d ever do in real life.
So why did I do it?
Fed up?
Couldn’t take it anymore?
Jealous of the fact that I was supposed to be the one who proposed to Annalisa, not Simon?
Like I said before... I completely snapped.
All the pressure, the hurt, the anger, built up to the last moment, and instead of acting like the professional I’ve always prided myself on being, I chose the low road.
What I thought was a moment of justice has only tarnished my reputation.
Audiences and execs are only hearing one side of that story, after all. And that side is pretty damn damaging.
And now I’m trying to navigate through the repercussions.
Andy emailed me yesterday, asking me about ideas for my next pitch.
I tossed him another thriller about a zombie groomsman who disrupts his ex-girlfriend’s wedding, bites the best man, and together, they turn the entire wedding party into a zombie platoon, taking Hollywood by storm. Andy told me to stop fucking around.
I don’t know, it felt like a good idea at the time. I told him there was romance in it, unrequited love between the zombie groomsman and the woman trying to kill him and save the world.
Still didn’t work.
It’s not like I don’t enjoy writing romance, because I do.
There’s something so special about coming up with a meet cute and making it unique.
About building a loving relationship through friendship.
Or turning an enemies-to-lovers scenario into a truly beautiful love affair.
I’ve always been a romantic—thanks to my parents, who taught me to love the idea of love by setting a beautiful and caring example with their marriage.
But it’s hard to write romance, to write anything, when you feel so... lost.
“Always lazing about,” Sully says, cutting through my thoughts.
I didn’t even hear him approach.
I lift up from my spot on the grass and prop myself up on my elbows.
“Just letting the cement dry,” I say. “Should be done tonight.”
Sully walks around the horseshoe courts and examines them.
Two horseshoe courts with pits in dirt and grass in between.
They’ve been cleaned up by yours truly to reveal their true rectangular shape.
What I thought was going to be an easy project turned into an absolute nightmare because I spent a decent amount of time chopping into the overgrown grass and re-forming the pits.
And because it was all so old, I had to redo the iron rods in the ground, reinforcing them with cement that I had to wheel down with a janky wheelbarrow.
It took a lot more effort than expected, and now that the poles are set, I’m ready to call it quits.
“Looks decent,” Sully says. “But what about the benches?” He gestures to a pile of wood I dumped off to the side of the courts.
“I plan on tackling that tomorrow,” I answer.