Annabelle had been through some shitty situations in the past.

Once, in the bowling alley, some guy had given her butt a little slap after she had served him a drink. Another time, she had been locked inside her apartment elevator for three whole hours with all her groceries. Hell, only yesterday, she had set off the building fire alarms after burning some popcorn in the microwave.

Each time, she had stayed calm. Composed. Unbreakable.

This time, however, as she stared at her Tinder date, she could only think of doing one thing.

"I need to go to the bathroom," she said.

Then, she jumped from her chair, flew past the waiter, tumbled and tripped over her flimsy sneakers as she found the bathroom—

And screamed.

It was just her, the bathroom mirrors, the vacant stalls behind her, and the pale blue lights that danced along the tiles. And yet, she was certain that the whole restaurant shook as the sound came lurching out of her mouth – high and sharp, like a freaking walking ambulance.

Catfished.

She had been catfished.

That guy she had been speaking to – nice forearms, a gentle smile, curly hair. Fake, fake, fake. What else was fake? Was he actually a surfer, like it had said on his profile? Or was he 'surfing' the internet instead of cascading through ocean waves?

Annabelle buried her face into her hands to muffle the next scream.

It's not that he was ugly. Sure, his face wasn't that chiselled and his hair could use a good wash, but he still had some decent features. The ginger streaks through his hair seemed nice, and he had a fun, hearty laugh.

But how could she possibly be on a date with someone who had been lying to her for the past few weeks? Wouldn't that lead to more possible lying in the future? What if he had a girlfriend already, and was only pretending to be single? What if he was a secret agent, trying to marry her so he could keep tabs on her for the government?

Wait.

Why would the government even want to keep tabs on her? She paid her tax on time. Mostly.

"Excuse me, miss. Are you okay?"

Annabelle whirled around.

It was the waiter from before, holding his hands up in surrender as he hovered by the bathroom door. In the glaring lights, he looked somehow different – his eyes were lighter, and his cheeks were even more flushed.

"Why wouldn't I be?" she answered.

He blinked twice. "You were screaming."

Annabelle felt her whole face pale. "Could you hear it?"

"Everyone could."

"Oh."

She knew she had screamed, but she hadn't realised it had been that loud. What were people outside thinking? Did they think she was crazy? Hysterical? Being attacked by a meat-eating spider?

She wondered if Al Moitzi had heard.

In a strange, cruel way, she hoped he had heard it. She hoped it would make him run away.

"What happened?" the waiter asked. "Was that your date?"

Annabelle made a face. "No. Yes. It's complicated."

"Well, are you on a date with him?"

"Yes."

"So... it's a date."

"No."

Once again, the waiter threw his hands up. "You've lost me."

Annabelle glanced around her, patting down the bench with all the sinks and soap bottles. Then, after propping herself between two sinks, she gestured for him to join her. "Let me show you."

She fully expected him to say no. She expected him to insist he had a table to serve, or an order to take.

Instead, though, he strode over and heaved himself onto the counter next to her.

So, yanking her phone from the pockets of her overalls, she opened up Tinder.

"This is the guy I matched with," she told him, swiping through 'Al's' photos. "This is what he looks like in all his photos."

The waiter gave a low whistle. Annabelle snorted.

"Yeah, I know," she said. "Wait, are you also into men or—"

"No. But still, he has nice forearms."

"Exactly! And I thought I was weird for thinking that."

"You probably are. But yes, continue."

Annabelle clicked off her phone. "So, me and this guy with the nice forearms organised to catch up on a date. But I get here, he is half an hour late, and..."

"He doesn't look like the pictures."

"Nope."

He didn't even crack a smile. Instead, his brows furrowed. "Should I call the police? Do you need a safety escort?"

"What? Oh, no, I'll be fine."

And she believed it as she said it. If that man outside tried to come near her, she had two bowling balls in the back of her car, and she sure as hell knew how to give them a whirl. Besides, in the restaurant, surrounded by onlookers and cute waiters, he couldn't touch her. She was sure of it.

Still, the waiter didn't look convinced.

"He faked his whole identity so he could go on a date," he said.

"Would you ever do that?"

"The girl would have to be pretty special." He gave her a glance, pretending to assess her. From up where her hair was a tangle of knots, to where the bottom of her overalls rubbed against her scuffed boots. "In your case... maybe I would."

"You're joking. I'm not that special."

"Of course I'm joking."

Annabelle scoffed. "Well, okay, you didn't need to be so blunt—"

"No. What I mean is that, no matter how special a girl is, the most special thing about her should be that she loves you for who you are."

It was a bit cheesy. But still, Annabelle found herself smiling.

"Good advice," she told him. "Your boss should pay you extra for that—"

A scream interrupted her. Not from herself, nor from the waiter.

Instead, it was from the poor woman who had just opened the bathroom door. Her eyes were locked on the waiter, her hand covering her gasp.

And Annabelle realised.

"We're in the ladies' bathroom," Annabelle whispered.

The waiter froze up beside her. "I should—"

"You should—"

Then, as the poor woman stood by the door, Annabelle grabbed the waiter's arm. With laughter bubbling between both of them, they zipped out of the bathrooms, away from the stale stench of bleach, and into the hallway.

No one could see them there, aside from the velvet rugs, the dim chandeliers that hung above them, and the marble cherubs that guarded the bathroom. And yet, as she stood there, it was like the peace had been shattered – she could hear the twirling string music, the muffled conversations from outside. And then came the smell of basil and tomato...

Her stomach gurgled.

Beside her, she heard the waiter chuckle again. When she gave him a nudge in the ribs, he gave her an innocent smile.

"Are you sure there's nothing I can do for you?" he asked. "I can call security, or ask him to leave. Or add something to his food. Like poison."

"Well, poison is a tempting offer." Then, reaching out to touch his arm, she added, "Seriously, though, I'll be alright. Thank you."

He nodded, giving her hand a squeeze. "Have a good night, then."

As soon as he began walking down the halls, though, Annabelle cleared her throat.

"Actually."

He stopped, looking over his shoulder. Annabelle found herself grinning.

"What was that you said about adding something to his food?"

"And then, I was homeless for a while. My girlfriend had cheated on me, so while we were arguing, she kicked me out of her place, and so I called up my dad's best man and he let me stay with him and—"

Annabelle tried to listen. She really did.

But everything Al Moitzi did just ticked her off. Starting with the way he leaned back in his chair, with his feet stretching dangerously close to her territory beneath the table. Then, there was the fact that he spoke with his mouth full – because, really, having half-eaten garlic bread mush flying at her face was really what she wanted out of this hell of an evening.

Most of all, he didn't let her talk. When she did try to say something, she saw his eyes glaze over. Like he simply didn't care.

Still, she sat there. Kept her ears open. Tried to find something to connect with.

"So, a bowling alley, huh?" Al was saying. "Makes sense. They always find cute girls to work for them, because otherwise they don't get business."

And that was the final straw.

"Okay," Annabelle cut in. "What is your job?"

Her tone must have been too sharp – or even too cold – because he flinched back. "Huh?"

"You said, on Tinder, that you're a professional surfer."

"Ah, right, I..."

Annabelle took one look at his hands, which were fumbling desperately as he searched for words.

He couldn't even balance on a damned chair when it was leaning back. She couldn't imagine him managing to stand upright on a surfboard.

"You don't surf, do you?" she said.

"Well, I used to," he answered weakly. "Now I work for a graphic design company and—"

Annabelle raised her hand to stop him. "Where did you get those pictures, anyways, that you used for tinder? Who are they of?"

"Me."

"You?"

"When I was younger."

Annabelle gave him a stare more violent than death. He coughed.

"My mate," he corrected. "They're of my mate."

"Does your mate know you're using his pictures on your Tinder?"

"What do you mean?"

"Should I tell him?"

"Tell him what?"

"Should I tell him that his mate is using his photos for a damned Tinder account?"

She hadn't realised just how loud she had been until she noticed the silence. It was so thick that she couldn't even bring herself to breathe – not while the couples on the other tables were eyeing her with alarm.

Even Al seemed speechless. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Then, after shaking his head, sighed.

"What is your problem?" he asked.

Annabelle felt her jaw clench.

Her problem?

Her problem?

"Excuse me?" she said. "You lied to me about who you are! For weeks!"

He slammed his hands on the table, standing. "Oh, and what? You're so upset that I don't look like him – oh, and by the way, he's a freaking model. You think you can be rude to me because I don't look like a model?"

Part of her wanted to shrivel up at the way he stuck his mottled face forward, making his bloodshot eyes stare down at her. Instead, though, she pushed her own hands against the table and stood to meet him.

"It has nothing to do with the way you look," she shot back.

"That's what all women say."

"No, it's because you lied. You forged an identity!"

"You wouldn't have swiped if I hadn't."

Annabelle didn't back off, even when he leaned close enough that she could smell the garlic and sweat on him.

"You don't know that," she hissed. "Don't you dare make assumptions about me."

He raised his finger, jabbing it towards her, when someone cleared their throat behind them both.

"Dinner is served."

It was the same waiter – the cow blood one, the one who had been in the ladies' bathroom with her, the one who, she was starting to think, had been sent as her guardian angel.

Her date, though, took one glance at the two plates of pasta and rolled his eyes. "Took long enough."

"Aren't you the one who took half an hour to make it to your date?" Annabelle snapped.

That shut him up.

Annabelle lowered herself into her seat as the waiter set out their food – careful to leave her a sly wink. She didn't catch anything odd about the pasta before them, though; Al's plate looked like a perfectly reasonable serve of pesto pasta and sundried tomatoes. Had the waiter even done anything?

"My drink hasn't arrived yet," Al suddenly said.

The waiter frowned. "Pardon me. What did you order again, sir?"

"A beer."

"Oh, right." Then, with the mischief burning like little embers in his eyes, the waiter added, "I'm going to need to check ID for that."

"Mate, I am clearly not underage."

The waiter smiled gently. "With all due respect, sir, I don't know about that one."

If Al's face had been red before from earlier, it was bordering onto purple now. And Annabelle loved every second of it.

Or, at least, she was enjoying it until he indignantly pulled out his license and tossed it towards the waiter.

"Oh," the waiter said softly, squinting down at the license. "You're thirty-six. My bad. Your drink will be on its way."

Thirty-six?

The second the waiter was gone, Annabelle scowled.

"You're thirty-six?"

Al didn't even bat an eye. "Yes."

"You said you were twenty-four!"

"Tinder mustn't have updated it."

Annabelle snorted. "Oh, don't give me that bullshit. I bet your name isn't Al. It's probably Alvin or something, and you're too scared to admit you're named after a freaking chipmunk."

Even as she said it, she felt a small, smug part of her laugh. Because, really, even going on a date with a chipmunk seemed better than this.

"You know," Al suddenly said, "I can see why you're still on Tinder. I can't see a single man wanting to be with you."

His words were like a slap to the face.

Oh, he did not go there.

"And why is that?" Annabelle asked sharply.

"You're incredibly rude."

"Yeah, well, I can see why you are also on Tinder," she retorted. "I can't imagine many ladies want to be with identity thefts."

His fist hit the table. Again. "It's not identity theft. It's only the pictures. My real name is Al."

"You lied about your age. You lied about your job. You lied about your looks. What's next? Did you also lie about 'loving travelling?'"

At that point, Annabelle was sure he would throw his fork at her. Worse yet, she was certain that the chef would come along and kick them out of the restaurant for fighting for the third time within a twenty-minute frame.

Al, instead, sunk into his chair. "Let's just eat and get this done with."

Then, for the first time that night, complete silence between them.

Annabelle just couldn't believe it. How many times had this man done this to other women out there? Sure, whatever, he was self-conscious – but misleading someone like that?

And how did the other women respond? Did they just carry through with the date? Run away? Or did they, like her, scream at Al until he melted into his boots?

Also, that waiter – what was his name?

Maybe she could order another drink, just so she could ask and catch his name. Or—

Her thoughts were ripped out of her head as she took a glance at Al.

His face was bright red – burning in a way it hadn't before, right to the points of his ears. There was snot dribbling down his nose, running down over his lips, and there were even tears in his eyes.

Annabelle sat there, shellshocked.

Had she snapped at him too much? Had she broken this man?

"These aren't tomatoes," Al suddenly said, his voice a hoarse whisper. "These are chillies."

He instantly snatched at her drink, the Bloody Mary half falling into his mouth and half gushing down his neck.

"You shouldn't drink that," Annabelle said half-heartedly. "It's cow blood."

And she could have sworn that he started drinking it faster after she said that.

Even when he was done, his tongue was hanging out, and he clicked his fingers at the nearest waitress. "Get me some water. Now!"

The poor lady instantly scurried away as Annabelle shook her head.

"Would it hurt you to be nicer to them?" she asked.

"They burnt my tongue," Al snapped.

She couldn't disagree with that – especially since she had a feeling that her favourite waiter had something to do with that. Still, he had her back before; she was going to have his.

"Actually," she said carefully, "I think the food burnt your tongue, not the waiters."

"Yeah?"

"Well, yeah."

Al let his cutlery fall onto the plate with a resounding clank. Then, squealing his chair back, he launched onto his feet.

"You know what?" he hissed. "I'm done with you and this restaurant. Have a good fucking night."

He didn't even make it halfway to the door when Annabelle saw her favourite waiter rush in.

"Sir, the bill!" he called out. "You can't leave without paying the bill!"

Al turned to glare at him. "My date is paying for it."

"We have a strict policy, sir. Ladies do not pay on the first date."

"Rubbish."

"It's simply the rules."

Annabelle was too busy staring down at her lap, hiding her laughter and the absolute utter shame she felt over him calling her his date. Still, as she played with her fingers, she heard the familiar beep of a debit card against a machine, of a receipt ticking out of a box.

Then, the ever so custom door slam.

After a moment, she felt someone sit in the chair across her.

The waiter.

"He paid for your meal and your next drink, as well," he said softly.

Annabelle's brows shot up. "How kind of him."

"Well, I don't think he knows I added it to his charge."

She laughed at that – a real, soft laugh. There was something about that cheeky smile that undid the knots in her stomach.

"Would you get fired for this sort of thing?" she asked him. "You know, mischarging him, putting chilli in his food..."

He shrugged. "Probably. But it was worth it. Did you see his face?"

She didn't grin back, though. She just reached over the table, and placed her hand over his.

"Thank you for looking out for me."

He nodded. Squeezed her hand like he had done earlier than evening.

Then, he was gone, throwing menus onto tables and humming along to the music.