Never a Hero

felt claustrophobic. I was sure everybody must be looking at my arm, although I was too embarrassed to actually look around and see. I stood there, huddled between Nick and the wall, wishing I had enough nerve to say, “Let’s go someplace else.” They finally seated us across from each other at a tiny table. Each spot held a dinner plate, a bread plate, flatware, and two glasses, one for water and one for wine. There was also a bottle of olive oil, one of ketchup, salt and pepper, and a flip chart of appetizers and desserts. And a wine list.
    “Where the hell is the food going to go?” I asked. There was barely an inch of open space.
    “What?” Nick asked, cupping his hand behind his ear.
    I sighed, and said in a near shout, “It’s really loud in here!”
    “It is. I had no idea it would be this crowded.”
    I nodded, unsure what to say. The waitress stopped at our table long enough to pour water and wedge a plate of bread down in between our glasses. Not sliced bread, but one big hunk with a serrated knife stabbed into the center like some kind of ritual killing. I stared at it, hating it. Why couldn’t they bring sliced bread? Had they ever considered how hard it was to slice bread with only one hand?
    Of course they hadn’t. Why would they?
    Nick was already browsing the menu, which was roughly the size of a newspaper. I tried to scoot my chair back to give myself room to open mine without being dangerously close to spilling my water all over the bread, but there was no room behind me to move into.
    The waitress stopped at our table, pad and pen in hand, looking frazzled. I suspected her hair had begun the night in a tight twist, but it was now coming loose and falling around her face. She had smudged mascara and a run in her stockings. “Are you ready to order?”
    “We’ll start with the sampler appetizer,” Nick said. “And I’d like a mineral water.”
    They both turned to me, and I felt my throat begin to clench up. Restaurants were one of my biggest triggers. My mother always made ordering dinner feel like a test. If I stuttered, I failed. If I didn’t stutter? Well, I’d probably find some other way to fail. The night was young and ripe with possibilities.
    “Uh . . .” I said stupidly.
    The waitress blew her hair out of her eyes. “House red’s on special until seven. Want to try that?”
    “Y-yes. Sure. Th-thank you.”
    “You like wine?” Nick asked when she was gone.
    “Not really.”
    He cocked his head at me in confusion. “Then why did you order it?”
    Because it was the easy way out. But what I said was, “I thought I’d try something new.”
    He seemed to approve of that sentiment. “I don’t eat out often. Restaurant food is loaded with sodium and empty calories. But every once in a while it’s nice to splurge.” He looked down at his menu. “I’m thinking lamb chops or moussaka.”
    “No broiled fish?”
    He laughed. “Definitely not.”
    I finally managed to open my menu, although I knocked over my wine glass in the process. I counted myself lucky it was still empty. I scanned the menu, thinking less about what sounded good and more about what would be easy to eat. Pasta was always a good bet, as was fish, except we’d had that the night before. Not steak, because it could be hard to cut. Nothing from the “Two-Handed Sandwiches” section, although I laughed to myself at the title. At least they’d given me fair warning.
    The waitress stopped again to set down our drinks. I’d assumed she’d pour the wine into the glass in front of me, but instead, she brought a new one, although she had to carefully rearrange everything on the tabletop to make room for it.
    She blew her hair out of her eyes again and pulled her pad and pen out. “You ready?” She wasn’t even looking at us. She was glancing around, taking note of what needed to be done next—who needed water refills and who needed their check. She was hurried and weary, and her impatience made me self-conscious in an all-too-familiar way.
    Nick ordered—lamb chops and moussaka—and then it was my turn. And in that instant, I knew I was doomed. I felt the panic clawing at the back of my throat, making my mouth unresponsive. “I-I-I’d like the b-b-b-b—” I stopped and took a deep breath, feeling their eyes on me. My cheeks burned. I couldn’t possibly look at Nick. I kept my eyes on my menu and tried again. “The b-b-b—”
    “The bruschetta?” the waitress asked. “Or the baked