Cause Célèbre: A Feel Good, Do Good Romance

by Gayla Twist

  Full disclosure—I’ve had a mad crush on Trent for about two years now. That’s when I was driving to work in a horrible rainstorm, and I blew a tire. Trying to change a tire in good light during a nice day on a quiet street is challenging enough, but during a downpour on the side of the highway with cars whipping past, all of them feeling the need to lay on their horns, is extra challenging. That’s when out of nowhere, a Town Car pulled up, and Trent lowered the back window. “Need a lift?” he asked, flashing me a compassionate smile. He didn’t exactly know me at the time but recognized me as a Bouche employee as they went past, so he had his driver loop back around to see if I was okay. Then he gave me a ride to work, called someone to fix my car, plus bring it to the Winchell, and he didn’t even complain as I dripped on his leather seats. Talk about insta-crush. Not that he would ever think of me in a romantic light, but a girl can admire from afar, can’t she?

  “Suzanne.” Trent comes over to me and takes my hand in both of his. My body goes electric as I feel like I’m holding a live wire. “Aziz tells me it's your birthday.”

  My face is on fire, and I can’t stop my free hand from flying to my hair to make sure it’s all right. “Trent,” I exclaim. “I mean, Mr. Winchell... I mean, Trent.” I’m sounding like a complete idiot, so I take a deep breath and try to pull it together. Uh... This is my boyfriend...” and then I completely blank on his name. “...Uh...” is all I manage.

  “Elliot,” Elliot snaps with warranted irritation.

  “Nice to meet you, Elliot.” Trent flashes a smile that probably cost as much as a four-year–college tuition. He doesn’t really look in Elliot’s direction, though; he keeps his gaze on me. “Sue, I'm sending over a bottle of champagne to your table. Compliments of the Winchell Hotel.”

  “Thank you Mr. ... Trent.” If my face gets any more red, I’m sure it can be used to warn ships away from treacherous shores.

  “Yeah, um, dude?” Elliot interjects. “Champagne gives me gas. Can you make that a couple of brews instead?”

  I am mortified. I truly could die on the spot.

  Trent turns to take Elliot in fully for the first time. His eyes flicker over the jeans, the shoes, the wrinkled shirt. “No.” Then he turns back to me and says, “Have a lovely evening, Suzanne.”

  As Trent walks away, Elliot glares after him, completely livid. “What a total douche,” he snarls.

  I am embarrassed beyond actual words. I knew having dinner where I work was a mistake, but if I’d known it was going to be this humiliating, I would have opted for the third-rate pizza.

  Elliot gets to his feet. “I've got to drop a deuce,” he feels the need to announce. “When the waiter comes by, get us some of those cheesy appetizers I like.”

  He saunters off before I can even stutter out, “Um… yeah... okay.”

  I sit by myself with my eyes closed, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth. It’s this meditation technique I’ve read about, but it’s really doing nothing to make me feel better. This absolutely has to be the last straw. I can’t keep tolerating Elliot and still have any respect left for myself.

  The music for when Jaws is about to attack some hapless swimmer starts to play. "dun-dun Dun-Dun DUN-DUN DUN!-DUN!" I open my eyes and notice Elliot’s cell dancing across the table. I pick it up to silence it but am caught by the caller ID. It reads "Office." Elliot hasn’t managed to hold down a job for longer than a few weeks for the entire time we’ve been dating, so he really has no reason to have “office” saved in his phone.

  I’m normally not the overly suspicious type, but something compels me to answer. “Hello...?” I all but whisper.

  “Elliot! You nasty boy!” a very female voice trills. “I found your underwear. Behind the couch! How did it get back there? You dirty thing!”

  I don’t know what I was expecting, but it’s definitely not this. Elliot has always been less than adequate in the bedroom, to put it kindly, and he’s sunk to completely incompetent in the last month. I guess I now know why. “Uh...” is all I manage to say into the receiver.

  “Elliot?” the female says again, the dawn of suspicion starting to creep into her voice.

  I drop the phone and just take off. I can hear the voice echoing in my head as I speed walk out of the restaurant. “Hello...? Elliot...?”

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  All characters in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.