Cowboy Baby Daddy

“Come to think of it,” he says, smiling, “I don’t think I have.”

“I’ve never heard him play or sing. I want to know what’s going on. He told me last night that he’s losing his job, whatever that actually is—besides, if he was making $120,000 a year as a musician, wouldn’t I have heard of him?”

“I don’t think you’re the musical aesthete you think you are,” Mike says.

“Whatever. Just help me keep an eye out.”

With the wicked smile that climbs up Mike’s face, I know I’ve made a mistake asking the favor.

“Don’t embarrass me,” I tell him.

“From the sound of it, you don’t really need my help in that area.”

“What are you doing?” I ask him.

What he’s doing is holding up his spoon and using it as a crude mirror to look over his shoulder at the people behind him.

“I’m helping you spy on your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I snap.

Mike just smiles that adolescent smile of his, and I’m starting to regret inviting him along.

Our waiter, a man with very little patience and a thick English accent, approaches.

“Will you be requiring anything else this evening?” he asks.

“I have a question,” Mike says, alternating eyes as he continues to pretend like he’s doing something useful with the spoon in his hand.

The waiter lets out a sigh. This isn’t Mike’s first question of the evening.

“Yes?” the waiter asks.

“Why a French restaurant?” Mike asks.

“What do you mean, sir?”

“Mike, leave the man alone,” I say, trying to get my oldest and dearest friend to stop being a jackass.

“Well,” Mike starts, “you have quite the British accent.”

“Yes, sir,” the waiter answers.

“So, why work in a French restaurant? Aren’t there any good English restaurants in the city?”

“Will you be requiring anything else this evening, madam?” the waiter asks, doing his best to ignore Mike’s idiocy.

“No, I think that will be all,” I tell him. “I do apologize for my companion. He doesn’t get out much in proper society.”

“I will have you know,” Mike butts in, “that I have personally attended many a silent auction where I have placed bids alongside many of New York’s cultural elite.”

I’m starting to wonder if our food came to the table clean.

“Yes,” the waiter says, “well. If there’s nothing else.”

I take one more look around.

The waiter’s going to kick us out if we don’t leave soon, and Dane is nowhere to be found.