The Second Chance (Inferno Falls Book Three) (2 page)

“Talking to you,” Ed says, arriving. He gives me a wink. Ed has fluffy hair and skin that’s cratered like the moon. Rumor says he was almost married once, but then the woman met him and things went quickly downhill from there. Another rumor tells tales of an almost-marriage, but then she died because he overinflated her. Both rumors are surely untrue, but I’ve been embellishing them in my head since hearing them. It’s the only way to make him bearable. Self-help gurus would call that
reframing
. I reframe his ass all the time. That’s how psychologically healthy I am, except for my glaring personal faults.
 

“Yes?”
 

“Table 4 says his toast is burned.”
 

“Okay,” I say.
 

“You should handle that.”
 

“Okay. I will.”
 

“I don’t know why
I’m
handling it.”
 

In my head, I say,
Me neither. Asshole.
And then I look at the clock, glad that there’s only about an hour left in my shift.
 

“I just dropped it off. I haven’t checked on them yet.”
 

“Well, he says it’s burned.”
 

“I’ll go talk to him.”
 

“You should fix it.”
 

“I will, Ed.”
 

He pinches my ass and gives me a wink. I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to think this is hot, like we have a thing brewing, but I ignore it. I suppose I should stop it, but if I worry every time Ed touches me, I won’t have time for anything else.
 

I head out to the table. The guy got our double-decker grilled cheese made with mizithra — one of the trendy, reinvention dishes that supposedly makes the Nosh Pit so hip. When I arrive, I find that the guy has eaten half the sandwich. He’s actively chewing when I ask how their meal is, giving no indication that the manager sent me.
 

“How is everything?”
 

“This sandwich is over-toasted. See here?” He shows me a spot of barely brown.
 

“I’m sorry?” After dealing with Ed, it’s hard to keep the question mark out of my voice. The guy has been a problem from go. His whole table has. They seem to be early twenties, maybe late teens, and they keep speaking loudly about topics that would make Ed proud, like their girlfriends’ tits. I’ve already come over twice to ask if I could refill their glasses, in the hopes that sticking more things in their mouths might quiet them down.

“Can’t you tell that’s over-toasted?”
 

“Would you like something else?” I look at the half sandwich. I don’t know which kind of scam to accuse him of. If the sandwich wasn’t to his satisfaction, he shouldn’t have eaten so much of it. But this is the second time I’m offering to get him a replacement, and I’ve already decided I won’t be getting a good tip. It’s all I can do to not spill things on them.
 

“A cheeseburger,” the kid says. The answer comes out so fast and automatic, it’s clear he’s been waiting for me to ask. There’s no please, no thank you, no would you mind. There’s no acknowledgement that half of his entree is gone. No acknowledgement that there’s nothing wrong with the sandwich whatsoever, even though I’m pretending to understand.
 

I consider saying something, say nothing like always, then take the plate with a smile I don’t mean and head toward the back. I’m telling the chef, Patrick, about the replacement order when Roxanne sidles up and perches beside me like a vulture with an attitude problem.
 

“That’s coming out of your pay,” she says.
 

“The grilled-cheese sandwich?”
 

“The cheeseburger.”
 

“Why?”

“That’s the second replacement that guy’s asked for. What are you doing wrong?”
 

“I don’t know, Roxanne. I guess my cooking skills are off today.” I glance before saying it, making sure Patrick is out of earshot.
 

“You should fix what’s wrong, not give out free food. I heard you over there. You didn’t even try to correct the grilled cheese.”
 

I sigh. Roxanne doesn’t care about the customers or the diner’s operations. She mainly cares about dressing me down. I can’t say anything right. But unlike with Ed, it’s not simpler to let her keep grabbing my ass and calling me Hot Pants. Ed is a dog in search of a bone, more sad than threatening. But to Roxanne, this is a power game. Queen of the wait staff. If I weren’t so depressed that I ended up a waitress too, I’d mock her ambitions to rule the underlings instead of making something useful out of her life.
 

“He returned it because he doesn’t like it.”

“Because it was over-toasted,” Roxanne says.
 

“It wasn’t over-toasted.”

“Not in your mind.”
 

“I’m bringing him something new anyway. Why not bring him something he’ll eat?”
 

Something to Roxanne’s other side catches her attention, and I’m spared a reply. I’m sure I was about to get accused of tip grubbing: giving the annoying customer a peace offering to try and save fifty cents or a buck when their meal is over. It’s so not true. I just want to get through the next — and here, I look at the clock — the next fifty-five minutes. Then I can go home, wash the food smells off of my body, and finally spend some time with Mackenzie. God knows she deserves it. God knows my complex-but-relatively-simple life has screwed her enough lately, and that’s not counting the few times I’ve elongated her daycare because stress hurts, because I’ve thought too much of Grady, and because I spend so much time taking care of others that sometimes I want someone to take care of me.
 

Which is over.
 

Starting today.
 

There’s a crash in the front room.
 

“Maya!”
 

It’s Ed. I run out, apparently incapable of ignoring a shout lest it turn out to be something horrible. I find Ed standing with his hands on his hips. He’s in his mid-to-late forties and has a gut. The ridiculous way he’s standing, with his poofy hair and terrible skin, he almost looks like a sports team’s mascot.

“Yes?”
 

“Grab the mop.”
 

I look down. Someone’s dishes have spilled. I have no idea whose tray it is until I see Abigail rush around the corner. She’s dragging one of the big garbage cans and has a broom and a dustpan.
 

Ed is still staring at me.
 

“Get the mop.”
 

I squat and start gathering shards of plate and bits of food. Fortunately, it looks like this happened on clearing a table, not bringing food to customers. If it were the latter and if this was Abigail’s table, she’d be facing paying for food she didn’t eat, too.
 

“Get the mop,” Roxanne repeats, marching onto the scene. I notice that she’s not getting it, even though it’s right behind her. Even though this wasn’t my doing. Even though I’m already helping and she’s not.
 

“You get it, Roxanne.”
 

“Excuse me?”
 

“I’ll get it,” Abigail says. The shards are mostly gone. I’ve taken the small broom and dustpan, so she stands and threads between Roxanne and stools lining the front counter. Roxanne makes no attempt to move.

She comes back, and I ask her what happened.
 

“Did you see that guy who looks like a bird?”
 

I almost laugh despite how irritated I really should be. I’ve developed some sort of immunity because I know there’s less than a half hour left. I don’t know if Mackenzie and I will get ice cream again, go to the library to pick up some new books, head to the park and feed the ducks, or what. I only know it’s better than being here by a thousand miles, and my time on the clock is almost up.
 

“I did.”
 

“He bumped into me when he was dodging around Jen.”

“You should have had both hands on the plates at all times,” I say. I’m quoting something Ed would or will soon say, and Abigail sees it and almost smiles. She’s normally reserved and harder to crack with mirth, but she’s been almost obnoxiously happy lately. It’s not that she loves working here, though she seems to mind it less than me. It’s that she seems to have found some purpose and comfort: the first in songwriting for some local musicians, the second in one of said musician’s arms. I’m glad for her. But it just reminds me of what I don’t have, where I’ve found my own dead end after a promising life’s start, and how unlikely any of it seems to change any time soon. Abigail can take risks. If the band she writes for decides to tour, she can go. She’s not stuck in this town. I am, rooted by responsibilities I feel guilty resenting her.
 

“I know, right?” she says. The customers have mostly stopped paying attention as we clean up the last of the mess, Ed has moved toward the office, and Roxanne, despite having plenty of tables of her own, is going with him. She has seniority, but no more official power than any of us. Unfortunately, she happens to be a competent waitress and an extraordinary suck-up. She manages to flirt with Ed without getting his hands all over her. She might be making denial-and-promise work for her that I somehow haven’t seen, whereas Ed doesn’t respect me because I’m not swatting him demurely away. Probably because it’s pointless. Probably because this is honestly the best job I can hope for right now, and rocking the boat isn’t an option.
 

“Hey,” Abigail says, eyeing Ed and Roxanne as they vanish. “Do you think they’re hooking up?”
 

“Ugh. Don’t put that picture in my head.”
 

“I’ll bet he’s got birthmarks everywhere.”
 

I make a face, playing along, but I don’t reply. Yes, Abigail has come out of her shy shell quite a lot. I’m glad for her, really I am. I’m not jealous. And if I repeat those things enough, I’m sure I’ll start to believe them.
 

“I heard Roxanne earlier. Is Ed really going to charge you for that guy’s burger?”
 

“He’d better not.” I smile, but that’s not an answer. He might. Just because he’d better not doesn’t mean I’m not buying a burger today, and just as with Ed’s inappropriate hands, I’ll bet I let it happen without saying a word.
 

I peek at the clock. Twenty-two minutes.

The weather is fine. The park — the good one, not the shitty one near Little Amsterdam — has a great walking trail that circles the lake and heads into the hills. There’s a depot by the water where you can rent remote control boats. Mackenzie likes to watch people steer them, so maybe that’s what we should do. You can feed the ducks farther down, and I’ve already got my eye on some bread the Pit has earmarked to throw away.
 

Maybe, to make up for all the times I’ve disappointed M lately, we should rent one of the boats ourselves and steer it around for a bit. How much can it cost? Ten bucks tops? I’m not exactly hemorrhaging money, but I can swing ten bucks. The rent for our tiny house is cheap, and I’m excellent at stretching the food budget. I won’t take money from Mom and Dad, but we could definitely take them up on a dinner invite to save a few dollars. Mom’s a great cook. Dad’s a couch gourmand. They’re fine company and love Mackenzie to pieces. Everyone wins.
 

I’m in the back room. Stocking a tray. Time has become liquid as my thoughts stray to the good times coming … just sixteen minutes. For the first time in history, time is flying even though I’m not having fun. In an attempt to move things faster and forestall any possibility that Ed will charge me for the table 4 burger, I resolve to serve my ass off. To wait tables like my life depends on it. I can sprint through the rest of my shift. I can do this. If you could enter the Olympics as a waitress, I’d be determined to qualify.
 

I drop off the waiting orders. Nobody wants anything else, except for the birdlike guy who wants ketchup and honey, hopefully not for use on the same food. I refill coffees, even taking care of Roxanne’s customers just to rub her face in it a little. Table 4’s burger is up, so I take it to the table and manage to drop it off with a smile and a somewhat sincere “Enjoy!”
 

I refill water glasses.
 

I ring out a group that’s finished, then clear and wipe their table even though Travis, the busboy, is supposed to do it.
 

I’m riding high until I return to table 4 to ask Mr. Picky if he likes what he got after eating half of two separate things for free, and find the table empty.

I’m clearing the order from the system when Ed comes up behind me, too close, his body right against my ass.
 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asks.
 

“I had a dine and dash.”
 

“Did you go after them?”

“What, on my motorcycle with my gun out and my sirens blazing?” My tone is short. I’ve gone from low to high and back to low in no time at all. I feel like punching someone. Normally, this would be a case of deflection waiting to happen, but punching Ed would be spot on, since I want to punch him most times anyway.