Chapter 15: The Napkin

By Monday morning the napkin had four million views.

The tailgate club's account had stopped calling me Sandwich Girl and started calling me something worse.

Anneliese Barron Bet on Dane Conrad's Sexuality, said the caption, over a picture of my signature.

Under it there were eleven thousand comments, and I read the first hundred standing at the bakery oven with a tray of croissants in my mitts.

She spied on him for fun.

Imagine doing that to the one guy who stuck up for you.

I'm sorry but she deserved page two.

The last one hurt the most.

I had slept on a cot in the back room, and I had not slept much.

My boss came in at six and looked at my face and handed me a coffee.

"You can stay in back if you want," she said. "I'll run the counter."

"I'm okay."

"You're not," she said. "But it's your shift."

At eleven the line went out the door.

Nobody was buying croissants.

People held up their phones and ordered nothing, and a girl in a Herons scarf leaned over the counter to whisper.

"Is he or isn't he?" she said.

"I'm not telling you that."

"So you do know."

"I don't know anything," I said. "Do you want a muffin?"

Then the bell over the door rang, and the line went quiet.

Six linemen from the Herons came in together.

They were huge in their white team jackets, and the line opened for them without being asked.

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