Amber didn't get it. Or, if she did, she wasn't making it easy on him. Foreman wanted to roll his eyes and snap that he'd already made more of a commitment to Amber than he had to Shanelle, in a fifth of the time, and that should fucking mean something. But he wasn't about to explain it. He waited for their trays to be deposited in front of them, at more or less the same time. Despite the line, the place wasn't full. Most people were grabbing sandwiches and coffees to go. Probably a good idea. If they ended up in a screaming match here, Foreman knew he wouldn't feel comfortable coming back for as long as anyone might remember it, and he liked this place. "It wasn't." That was the point. It had been fun, a distraction, better than dealing with House going off the wagon in a seriously stupid way and ending up with all of them questioned by the fucking cops. It hadn't been a relationship.

Not saying another word, he took his lunch and found a table. It wasn't near the counter or the door or the washrooms, and there was a large potted plant that hid it from most of the rest of the room. As much privacy as he could find. Amber could follow him--or not, he supposed. That might be safer, if she just ditched him here instead of making a scene. He stared down at his food, shoulders hunched. Why would she want to have lunch with him, when they were both in such shit moods? Dammit, it wasn't his fault Shanelle had walked in right then. That he'd known her at all.

Didn't seem likely he could retrieve the situation. Maybe Amber would kick him out later, after he'd taken her home, and they could cool off, apart from each other. Until then, they were stuck. Foreman picked up his sandwich and bit in, nearly surprised that it tasted just as good as usual and that he was still hungry.