Smart Mouth Waitress (12 page)

I kept hoping I'd see Marc again, but I had my days off on Friday and Saturday, and to my disappointment, he didn't come in on Sunday. He'd never come in on a Sunday before, so I decided he had to have other regular things that day, or he wanted to stay away from the busy weekend crowd.

Surely he would come in on his regular day, I thought. I was so nervous by the time Monday morning rolled around, even more because he didn't show up until half an hour after his usual time. For a full twenty-nine minutes, I'd overreacted and was miserable at the thought of not seeing him.

I'd worn special shoes for him, too. They had laces down the front and spiky little high heels—not high in a clubbing context, but high for waitressing. I fully planned to change into my regular comfy pirate boots after I saw him for the day, but I wanted to show off how nice my legs looked in the heels. My calves had such a great, compact curve in those boots, and the height made me feel sexy.

Even Toph and Donny in the kitchen had agreed I was “almost an eight” in those shoes, as well as the short, black dress I'd borrowed from my mother's closet. I'd accessorized with feather earrings, and I wore my hair parted down the middle, in soft, wavy layers with no fly-aways thanks to a liberal coating of various gunk from the drugstore. 

The weather was quite rainy that Monday, so we had our rented floor mats—the black ones, not the tacky red ones—down the center aisle of the restaurant. What I didn't realize was Courtney had already tripped once on the rug where it overlapped another one, and what I thought was a shadow on the floor wasn't a shadow so much as it was a carpet-cave, waiting to catch my toe.

Unsteady on my brand-new heels, I tripped a little as I left the safety of the waitress station behind the bar, then I teetered at the halfway point. Marc stood just inside the door, waiting to be seated.

His face changed expression, his attention moving to my legs. They tingled, from knees to ankles, under his gaze. I heard Tyra Banks and her cohorts in my head, telling me to
work it, girl, work that walk
.

You won't be surprised to hear that I tripped and fell, my foot catching on the shadowy edge of the floor mat. All five-foot-seven of me, and all one hundred and mumble-mumble pounds became a projectile, launched right at Marc.

Bless his reflexes, the guy caught me as easily as one of those Frisbee-catching dogs grabs a practice throw. And he dipped me, as easily as Johnny Castle dipped Baby in
Dirty Dancing
. The restaurant, which was about a third full, erupted with cheers and clapping.

Held in his strong arms, I melted as Marc gave me a deep, passionate, tasty kiss.

Actually, that last part didn't happen. 

Still, our physical encounter was rather intimate, because it involved exchanging bodily fluids. After catching me, a few people did clap, and Marc made a funny, wincing expression, then sneezed right in my face. We were both so surprised, I screamed and he dropped me. Hard.

Hands grabbed at my clothes—Courtney's hands, pulling the hem of my black dress down to cover my underpants. I was wearing one of my boy-shorts pairs that my brother had given me as a joke for my last birthday. They were gray with red piping, in a Y shape down the front, just like a men's pair of gonchies. They gave good coverage of the bikini area, but were not the sort of thing you want a cute boy to see you in.

As Courtney and Marc helped me to my feet, I could think of nothing but my underwear and how horrible they were. I would go home that afternoon and immediately throw them in the garbage, but for the moment, I was trapped in my humiliation.

With a disapproving tone, Marc said, “Those carpets are a hazard.”

I said, “So are tile floors that are all wet from people like you tracking in rainwater.”

We stared at each other for a moment while the diners around us went back to their breakfasts, satisfied with the entertainment value received.

Marc started to laugh. “I'm so sorry I sneezed on you.”

“It was refreshing.”

He took off his glasses and wiped at his eye, still laughing. “It's just a bit of allergies, I don't have a cold, I swear.”

“If I get a cold next week, I'm blaming you.”

“I'll bring you chicken soup,” he said.

“For real?”

“Yes. I keep my word.”

“I'm sorry you had to see my horrible underpants. Most of them are much better. By which I mean my underpants.”

He pressed his lips together tightly, the edges of his mouth curving up.

I said, “Try not to think about my underpants.”

“I'll try,” he said.

I showed him to his favorite seat by the window. “Do you like peaches? Donny's been trying something, and it's not on the menu. Perhaps you'd like to sample it, be our first guinea pig.”

“I'll devour whatever you bring me,” he said.

Even though it was pouring rain outside, somehow a tiny shaft of sunlight came in and glinted off his tortoiseshell glasses frames and brown eyes.

I was in love. I mean, I was in crush, which feels a lot like love.

Barely a week earlier, I'd decided to give dating a try, casually, and maybe mess around with some fumbling boy my age. What I hadn't expected was that I'd fall madly
in crush
—like
look-at-his-Facebook-profile-photo-ten-times-a-day-madly
—with an older guy I barely knew.

Back
in the kitchen, I begged Donny to make the magical dish that could potentially make Marc fall in love, or in crush, with me.

“I don't just make it for anyone,” he said.

“Fine. What do you want?”

“You babysit my kids one night.”

“Fine. Done deal.”

“On New Year's Eve.”

“That's almost a year away!” I said. “What if I have plans? What if my boyfriend wants to take me out dancing?”

“He can come over and you two can dry hump on my couch after the kids are in bed.”

“You'll be home by two?”

“I'll be home when I'm ready to come home. You know this dish has magical qualities. You know it can make people fall in love. Now do you want it or not?”

I leaned over to the pass-through window and peeked at Marc, framed in the front window.

“Make it,” I said, shaking Donny's hand.

Chapter 9

The dish began with Donny's home-style banana-chocolate-chip loaf. He cut it into thick slabs and dipped it in a mixture of egg and cream, then threw the sizzling slices on the grill, along with a chunk of salted butter. The smell of cinnamon infused the air.

Once grilled to golden-brown perfection, he arranged the slices on a white plate and topped them with a mixture of lightly-stewed peaches and candied pecans. He garnished the plate with a single ripe gooseberry in its paper lantern leaves.

Careful not to fall again, I walked the plate out to Marc. Conversations stopped as people turned to see what they were smelling.

I set it before Marc without a word.

“I don't know if that's edible,” he said, pointing to the gooseberry.

“There's an orange berry inside. Really sweet and good.”

“I don't know if I can eat all this food,” he said.

I pictured myself being jumped on by Donny's kids on New Year's Eve and momentarily regretted the deal I'd made.

Marc grinned. “But I'll sure try!” He grabbed his fork and knife and dug right in.

My own stomach growled, but he didn't seem to notice.

I scurried off to fill the water pitchers with fresh ice and water. Courtney snuck up on me at the bar sink and said, “Marc and Perry, sittin' in a tree.”

The music playing over The Whistle's old speakers wasn't up very loud, so I told her to shush and not embarrass me.

“Remember, you have to ask him out,” she said. Using her fake Chinese accent, she said, “You ask out nice boy or I am disappoint.”

I giggled. “I like the speed things are going. He can just come in Mondays and I'll feed him two thousand calories each time, and pretty soon he won't be able to get away from me if he tries, because he won't fit out the door.”

“Bad plan. Ask him out.”

“He's the guy. The guy should ask the girl.”

“He's a smart one,” she said. “He knows it's your job to be somewhat nice to people at your job. He doesn't want to be yet another pervert hitting on you at work.”

“I've never been asked out at work. I'm not you. I don't laugh nervously at everyone's jokes and get three phone numbers a day.”

“Exactly. But you found a hottie who's interested, so make the most of it. He asked you to the art show, so the ball's in your court. Your move.”

“What do I say? Shall I ask him if he wants to fornicate with me in the back of my mom's Land Rover?”

“Dummy. Start with a walk or something.”

“Outside, with all the bugs?”

“Yes.” She waved her hand excitedly. “Get him to walk around Stanley Park with you.”

I scrunched my nose. “That's a couple of miles at least. We'll be too exhausted to fornicate.”

Courtney giggled. “You have to stop talking like that.”

“I'm being authentic. This is how I talk.”

Someone on Courtney's side of the restaurant whistled for service, so she took off like a rocket. She showed up late fairly regularly, but she was always responsive to her customers when she was on-shift, which kept her from getting fired. That, and the owner rarely fired people.

When Courtney came back, she looked at me solemnly and said, “I've been a terrible influence on you. Before I came out as a lesbian, I did a lot of things to hide my secret. I kept people away.”

“You didn't keep me away.” I did not understand where she was going with this.

“With other people, I did. I'd make up strange things so people would think I was weird, not gay. When we were at slumber parties, talking about our crushes, who did I say was my crush?”

“You'd always say something gross, like an inanimate object, or Ryan Seacrest. Then later, you'd agree with someone else's crush.”

“Exactly. The weird stuff was to buy me time. I was so deathly afraid I might say a girl's name that I practiced saying anything but what I felt.”

All the water pitchers were filled, and I was starting to get that waitress sixth sense that some tables needed their plates cleared.

I grabbed a bar cloth and edged away from the counter. “I'm glad you're more comfortable now, but what's this got to do with me, or cute Marc out there?”

“Everything. You said Marc was talking about authenticity. I wasn't being authentic back then. You know, you and I both do this thing, where we keep people away by always tipping them off balance.”

“I don't want to keep people away. I've got nothing to hide.”

She shook her head. “Never mind. We can talk about it later. Britain explains it way better than I do.”

“Britain can eat my sweaty balls.”

Courtney pointed at me with one petite finger. “Right there. You're doing it.”

I rolled my eyes at her ridiculousness. “Whatever.”

After clearing a few tables and wrapping up some bills, I took a stroll by Marc's table with more coffee. He was slowly putting the last morsel in his mouth and moaning for my benefit.

I said, “You didn't really have to eat it all.”

“Mmm,” he said.

“Feel better now?”

“Mmm.” He nodded.

“So, what was getting you down the other day?” I refilled his coffee cup and put my left hand on my hip in what I hoped was an adorable waitress pose. My feet in the high-heeled boots were killing me, so I smiled to mask my pain-face.

“The usual. Career-choice woes, university dilemmas.”

“I wish I could help with that. Maybe you could talk to me about it sometime.”

“I'd love to talk to a working Engineer, actually.”

Just like that, opportunity fell into my lap.

“My dad's an Engineer,” I said. “A big ol' nerdy one. He works for the city, on the pipes. Not the poo pipes, mind you, but the fresh water ones. Not that there's any shame in working sewage treatment, obviously.”

“Really,” Marc said. “It sure would be cool to pick his brain.”

“You should come for dinner sometime. Like tomorrow night.”

“To talk to your dad? That's generous of you, but I couldn't impose.”

“Are you kidding? He'd love to talk about pipes. He'll show you his special Engineer's ring and everything. He loves that stuff.”

Somebody at a nearby table whistled for service, then someone else commented loudly on having seen a waitress with coffee pass by a moment ago. I did not like to hear so much whistling during a shift. Even though it's acceptable and part of The Whistle experience to whistle for service, I took pride in anticipating people's needs even before they had them.

I glanced back, looking for Courtney, but she must have been in the washroom. I didn't want to tear myself away from Marc without completing my task of asking him out.

Marc checked the time on his phone. “I'm late! I have to run.” He threw down a twenty to cover the bill, along with a business card.

“Dinner? Yes or no,” I said.

He pointed to the business card. “Email me your address and tell me what to bring tomorrow.”

“Will do,” I said as he dashed out the door.

Someone whistled again and a bunch of people laughed. The crowd was turning on me. I ran around amidst their jeers, refilling coffee cups.