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She’d be the first one to admit she has faults, but she’s not a bigot. The genetic pool in her nuclear family spans the globe. And it’s not that she’s prejudiced against people with disabilities but that doctors and wheelchairs give her the heebie-jeebies. So when a cute guy in a chair keeps showing up in the restaurant, she’s clumsy, awkward and strangely drawn. Can Irene let go of the past or is she too emotionally broken to find a future worth the risk?
The counter guy took a sip of his coffee. He turned to Mama. “It’s like the goddamned UN in here, a chink fag waiter and some spic in the kitchen.” He gave a wheezing laugh.
My stomach dropped. Mama gave me a look. Then she focused on him and exaggerated her Castilian accent. “What are you saying about my family?”
“Lighten up. I was making a joke.” From twenty feet away I could see the flare in his nostrils. “How was I to know you’d take it bad? You look white.” He backed away, fumbling in his back pocket for his wallet. Throwing a couple of bills on the counter, he bolted.
I picked up the money and smoothed it out. “On top of that, he shorted us a quarter.”
Mama reached over and plucked his jacket from the back of the stool. She held it so I could see the confederate flag stitched on the back. “And he left his trash.”
There was a squeak of wheels, and Mark rolled up, his dog beside him. He was smiling. “We’ll take it to him. You’re not the first person to get scared by Tuk.”
Jesus, he had nice eyes.
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