Boot(s)

34- Boot

Sergeant Jackson

The place was small, with ivy running down the front of the restaurant's red brick facade. A few iron benches littered the sidewalk out front where Nance dropped me. I turned, giving her a quick wave before I turned the doorknob and stepped inside.

I immediately entered a small enclosed area quite cut off from the rest of the dining room. There was an open doorway straight in front of me that led to where I was likely supposed to dine with Bo, but a dark-haired, stern-faced hostess staring at me from behind a tall mahogany desk stopped my pursuit. I hesitated, pulling my eyes away from the doorway and the windowed wall that allowed me to see exactly who was indulging in an Italian feast tonight. I hadn't seen Bobby, so I turned back to the young girl.

"Sir, I said, do you have a reservation?"

"Uh, yeah," I took a measly step towards her and her hostess stand, away from the open doorway that beckoned me on. Right as I was about to give Bobby's name, the phone at her desk rang and she gave me a very serious please-wait-one-moment-finger before answering it.

I let out a dramatic breath but didn't say anything. Instead, I allowed myself to grip her little desk for support—I had left the crutches at home (special occasion)—and glance back through the paned window looking for Bobby again.

The stern-faced hostess noticed my prying eyes. After eyeing my grip on her desk with distaste, she jutted her neck out towards me, covering the mouthpiece of the phone with her hand before raising her eyebrows at me. "Reservation? I'm afraid you can't get in without one."

"I—" But she didn't give me a chance to get a word in. She was back muttering into the phone within a second. This time I snorted, then decided, hey, what the hell. He was in there somewhere. May as well try and find him. So, I took a step toward the doorway, and sure enough, I saw him. There he was, at a table for two against the wall, wearing a white button-up with his brown messy hair combed down nicely, musing over the menu with a glass of red wine in his hand. The lighting inside the dining room was dim, and I could see spidery plants scattered around, hanging from the ceiling. It was all very romantic. I bit my lip to keep from smiling—he hadn't seen me—and took another few steps to make my way through the doorway.

Except, of course: "Sir! I said you need a reservation!" She had put down the phone now, and both her arms were now free to block me from going anywhere without a goddamned reservation.

If it were any other date out there, or any other day, or maybe if I was using crutches or wasn't dressed so nicely, I would have stopped, taken a deep breath, and calmly told her the name on my reservation.

But this wasn't any normal day. This wasn't a normal date. This was Bo, I was wearing a brand new goddamned outfit—tailored outfit, actually—and I looked completely and utterly not disabled. For once. I had felt like a thousand fucking bucks walking in here, and she wasn't about to spoil it.

"Reservation? Reservation?" I swallowed back the sergeant voice I could feel crawling out of my throat. Not the time. Not the place. "Yes. I have a reservation. It's for Bobby O'Callahan." I paused, waiting for her reaction. I'd like to think I could actually see her spewing curses and damning herself inside her very well-organized head. "Bobby O'Callahan, NBA legend, also the man I sleep next to every night? That's my goddamn reservation."

It was a bit of an exaggeration, and I had fallen asleep on the couch the night before, and we really had only been kissing for two days, but still. I felt I earned it.

"M-Mr. Jackson, I am so, so sorry. I was expecting you to be... a little more.. uh, um.."

I smiled at her sweetly. "Disabled?"