Page 53 of Petite Fleur

When the entire group is seated, I ask the host to sit me somewhere far enough away that they won't notice me but close enough that I can see my girl.

She's placed at the end of the long table, facing everyone else who's grouped off into little sub-groups of their gathering.

They all seem to be lost in their own conversations, which makes me wonder if Maeve is sat at the end simply because she's thebirthday girl or if it's because nobody else is willing to sit next to her and be the ugly friend.

My money is on the latter.

Honestly, I don't see what she sees in these so-called friends; they're not even talking to her.

They're letting her sit at the end and basically fiddle with her fingers like a neglected step-child.

When the whole group orders a couple of pitchers of margaritas, Maeve orders some yellow soda in a glass bottle.

Whatever it is, it's sealed, and yet she still wipes the top of it with a napkin.

I don't think she trusts this place; she even has her own bottle of water that she pulls out of her bag after talking to the waiter about it.

My girl is always so considerate.

It's just one of the many things that I love and admire about her.

Maeve's whole group ends up tipsy pretty quickly while she quietly snacks on the tortilla chips that she brought from home and a small bowl of salsa that the waiter brought explicitly for her.

That is until the guy in the group dips one of his chips into her salsa when he leans over to talk to her.

She fakes a smile, one that makes me want to jump up and slam this guy's head on the table, but nobody else seems to notice how fake it is.

After that, she abandons her salsa and opts to eat her chips plain while the rest of the group blissfully eats the food they've ordered.

Everyone has burritos, rice, beans, queso, and all kinds of variety, but not my girl.

I flag the waiter down and quietly ask him why she hasn't ordered a meal.

While I can tell that he doesn't want to answer me, he eventually does anyway after I give him a little pressure. "The kitchen staff could not guarantee anything was gluten-free aside from the house-made pico, even that wasn't promised unless we made a batch just for her since the vinegar we usually use is processed in a facility that is not gluten-free. Normally, they wouldn't make a single serving of pico at all, but that young girl is so nice that even the head chef insisted we do it." He explains.

I let out a rough sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose.

My girl is really this picky and so into the whole gluten-free fad that she's willing to starve for it.

While I may not get it, I'm not going to judge her for it.

I just wish that her so-called friends had cared enough about her to have picked a place where she could actually eat.

If she had been with me, we would have gone to a wonderful restaurant that could accommodate her. I would have rented the whole place out and made sure she had a fantastic dinner, one she didn't have to bring from home.

I would have treated her to the nicest wines and the best service before demanding the staff leave us so I could enjoy my dessert, her, in peace.

Maeve's group sits there for hours, talking, laughing, and drinking.

I guess I can't complain. The food is good, and it gives me the chance to read through my emails and write out a few patient notes while she enjoys herself.

Except she looks miserable.

Every time I look at ma petite fleur, she looks like she wants to leave, and nobody around her seems to notice.

Finally, after what feels like hours, a few girls get up and stumble their way toward me on their way to the bathroom.

They have to hold each other up and get lost on the way, but I don't miss them loudly talking amongst themselves about the group's plan for tonight.