Free Pretty Ugly: A Novel by Kirker Butler Page A

restaurant owned by her boyfriend. So Ray tossed his napkin onto the table, walked over to Phil, and got in his face.
    “Excuse me. I think you should apologize.”
    “Sir, this doesn’t concern you. It’s an issue between me and my employee, and I will handle it. Why don’t you just have a seat and I’ll bring you a free dessert. Okay?”
    Ray didn’t move. “I will sit down. After you apologize to her and all these people you offended.”
    Phil cocked his head and glared at Ray, his eyes turning black with rage. They were the only two people in the world.
    “What’s your fucking problem?”
    “Well, for one, I don’t like how you talked to her.”
    “Is that right?” Phil took a step closer. “Well, I don’t give a shit what you like. How I talk to her is none of your goddamned business.”
    Ray felt a warm rush of adrenaline tear through his body. Holy shit, I’m going to have to fight this guy! He took a deep, nervous breath but tried to disguise it by drawing it in slowly through his nose and squinting like Clint Eastwood. Diners rose from their chairs and moved to the other side of the restaurant where they secretly hoped the argument would escalate into a full-blown fistfight. Even Mom came out from the kitchen to watch.
    Christie went to Miranda who, by this time, was on the floor crying, curled up in a ball by the banister that led to the second floor where Mom lived. Earlier, when Christie first pointed Miranda out, Ray thought she was pretty; now—seeing her whimpering on the cold wooden floor, trying to make herself as small as possible, desperate for someone to protect her—he found her irresistible. No one was going to hurt Miranda Ford ever again. Ray would make sure of that. Nodding to his future wife, Ray tried to tell her this telepathically. She nodded back, pretty sure she’d heard him.
    Phil was now snorting hot breath like a cartoon bull. It felt wet on Ray’s face, but he ignored it and met Phil’s eye.
    “It is my business because I came here to have a nice dinner with my friend, and you’re ruining that by making this young woman cry. Now, either you apologize to her and to everyone else here, or we can go outside and I’ll show you what a twat really looks like.” Summoning every ounce of testosterone in the room, Ray tilted his head and snarled, “I’ll show you my twat!” The room went silent.
    As soon as the words left his mouth, Ray knew he’d blown it. I’ll show you my twat? Jesus, that doesn’t even make sense. He stood his ground and waited for Phil to stomp him into a greasy spot. But surprisingly, nothing happened. Faced with having to confront someone of equal or greater strength, Phil backed down.
    Nodding toward Miranda, he barked a cursory “Sorry,” then turned to the wildly disappointed diners and brusquely apologized to them as well. Stomping into the kitchen, Phil smashed his guitar on a stack of dishes and stormed out the back door.
    Ray grabbed a glass of wine sitting on the nearest table, emptied it in a single gulp, then exhaled for what felt like a full minute.
    Getting to her feet, Miranda met Ray in the middle of the room. If it had happened in a movie, everyone else would’ve faded into darkness as a single spotlight illuminated them from above. Her tear-streaked face beamed at the unexpected savior standing in front of her. They would have stood there forever staring at each other if Christie hadn’t finally said something
    “Miranda, this is Ray. Ray, Miranda.”
    That was thirteen years ago yesterday. Neither of them remembered.
    *   *   *
    Ray looked at his phone sitting on the old rag rug that covered the creaky wooden floor. He remembered the days before cell phones, how nice it was being unavailable. Cell phones had made everyone more accessible, which only made the world smaller. Unfortunately, no one realized that the world was already too small to begin with. Now it felt crowded. Bending over would have required more energy