Smart Mouth Waitress (33 page)

With my pillow over my head, I tried to relax and sleep, but my body rejected the notion.

After my father and brother were finally gone, I got up and had a very long, very hot shower. When I came out, I thought I was going to throw up, but clutching the cold toilet bowl for a few minutes brought my system back online.

While Haylee slumbered, oblivious, I tidied my room and brought the empty bottle of vodka back downstairs. I filled the bottle to the top of the Absolut logo with water and placed it back where it had been, in the laundry room. Haylee was nineteen, so she could legally buy alcohol, and I planned to give her some money so she could buy a replacement.

I opened the fridge, looked for orange juice, and found my cell phone on the shelf, next to the milk.

A fleeting image … Haylee putting my phone into “cold storage” to do me a favor … me, grabbing it back from her and phoning people … telling them
exactly
what I thought …

Oh no. No, no, no, no, no.

I grabbed my fridge-chilled phone. I had to check the outgoing calls.

No.

It was better to forget.

As I was holding it, my phone vibrated with an incoming call, and I yelped. Guilty conscience, much?

The incoming number wasn't one I recognized, but I still answered. I'm not one of those people who lets unknown numbers go to voice mail. Those people are so annoying! So what if it's a wrong number? Is it so much trouble to simply tell someone they have a wrong number?

A female voice ear-blasted me. “Hey! Peridot! It's Sunshine!”

I immediately dropped the phone, on my foot. She was still talking when I picked it up.

“... so I thought we could get lunch?”

“Sure,” I said, not knowing what I was agreeing to. “Why not.”

“The Whistle, at noon?”

I did not want to be at my workplace on my second day off, but I couldn't think of anywhere better, so I agreed.

After I ended the call, my phone buzzed again, with another number I didn't recognize. The universe was testing my phone-answering policy on that too-bright, too-early, knees-wobbly, stomach-queasy morning.

I answered, getting Andrew, who said Haylee wasn't picking up her phone.

“She's moving in with me,” I said. “We slept together last night and I rocked her world.”

Without missing a beat, Andrew said, “I hope you took pictures.”

That was my first-ever evidence that Andrew had a sense of humor and an actual personality.

I said, “You can come get her, if you can pry her off my bed. I'll warn you, it's memory foam. That shit's addictive.”

“I'll fight for my lady,” he said, laughing.

I told him to come on over and ended the call.

Andrew's so nice
, I thought. I have since discovered he plays classical piano—beautifully—and wants so desperately for people to enjoy ping-pong that he'll let you win your first few games. It's hard to focus on the ball when you're distracted by his little Tyrannosaurus Rex arms, but that may be part of his strategy. Personally, I think his arms would look normal-sized if he'd relax his shoulders a bit.

I know I've made fun of Andrew, but he's not the worst. Yes, he does smell like the underside of a sofa cushion, but he's sweet to Haylee.

In fact, because he'd accurately deduced we'd be hungover, he showed up with a shopping bag full of Gator-Ade, Tylenol, and no-name brand pink stuff in a bottle.

Haylee must have sensed his presence, because she came down the stairs just as he arrived, looking remarkably presentable, considering.

As Andrew was loading the laundry into his car—some of it folded creatively into triangles, which had been my idea—he told me he was glad we'd had such a good time, and that Haylee hadn't been herself the last few months.

I said, “She was a whole lotta herself last night.”

“I love to see my lady smile,” he said.

She was throwing up on my lawn when he said it, but that didn't make it any less romantic.

He ran to her side to hold her hair so she didn't throw up on it, and I thought to myself,
that's what I want
. Not the puking part, but the guy who cared about me.

I'd been raised to be a strong, independent person who could take care of herself, but I could still use a little backup.

Back inside the house, I closed one eye and clicked on the personal horror movie that was my outgoing calls screen.

Confirmation of my stupidness: outgoing calls to a ton of people, including both Marc and Cooper.

Small consolation: the calls were less than thirty seconds, so either I hung up quickly or only left short messages.

I had a lunch date, though, and perhaps meeting with Sunshine was the perfect solution. I could get the low-down on what was happening with the boys. It would be like ripping off a Band-Aid quickly. Ri-i-i-i-i-ip! By the end of lunch, I'd know what was going on.

When I walked into my room, which was painted an incredibly soothing blue-green shade (my compliments to the interior decorator!), the sleep that had eluded me earlier that morning tried to get me into bed and have its way with me. I resisted and had a second shower, since my skin smelled weird.

Picking an outfit to wear to lunch with Sunshine was the most taxing thing I'd attempted since a few nights earlier, when I'd had one of those nightmares where you show up for a class you didn't know you were taking, like German or something, and it's final exam day.

Sunshine was not going to out-weird me with a funky outfit, so I put on a plaid kilt with a puffy crinoline underneath, and a waffle-print little girl's undershirt topped by a black mesh 1980s top. I plaited my hair into an upside-down french braid that ended in a ponytail on the crown of my head.

“Too much,” I said to my reflection.

“Not enough,” she said, putting on deep, red lipstick.

Then I licked my lips and made sexy faces at myself in the mirror for several minutes. You know, like every girl does before she goes out.

Chapter 21

Before I left the house, I phoned the restaurant to beg them to reserve a table for me and Sunshine, so we wouldn't have to “wait with the hoi polloi,” as I joked.

Nigel, who had answered the phone, said, “Hoi polloi? Really. You know, in Canada, we don't have a class system. That's why my ancestors immigrated here.”

“And where did you say they immigrated from?”

“Nice try,” he said.

“Okay then, a table for two. Can you make my day?”

“Fine. But don't tell anyone I did something nice. I have a reputation.”

I thanked him as I locked up the house and started walking down.

Fifteen minutes later, I walked into The Whistle, thankful to get away from the searingly bright orb in the sky.

The restaurant was a moist din of voices, music, and laughter.

Maybe it was my hangover, but from the second I stepped into the restaurant, everything felt backwards.

Even coming in the front door instead of the back was an educational experience. I didn't get hit with the kitchen smell of dishwasher detergent and the bleach we soak the lasagne dishes in, but instead, I got a nose full of coffee, orange juice, and … oh, bacon. And it was good.

Skinny Nigel was working the dining room, wearing a knitted hat over his perennially messy black hair. The other server was Ginger, a redheaded girl. I understand
ginger
is an insult in the UK, but I think it's a great name for a redhead.

The next thing I noticed, after the nice aroma, was how Nigel and Ginger left me standing at the door for an eternity before they sat me. I made a mental note to be faster on greeting and seating during my next shift.

Nigel pinched my arm. “You're not wearing green,” he said.

I surveyed the crowd, spotting green shirts on many of them. “Oh, St. Patrick's Day.”

He pinched me again, hard, so I reached out and grabbed him in the general area where I figured his nipples were.

He giggled and said, “Twist harder.”

“I'm taking that table,” I said, pointing to the little one by the window.

“It's yours, Princess,” he said.

Once seated, I started to fidget. Sunshine wasn't there yet, and I wondered if she was one of those girls who's always late. Those people think their time is more important than everyone else's. I seethed with pre-emptive rage.

The table had some water spots on it, and I wanted to duck behind the waitress station and get a cloth to clean it better, but my skin was too heavy. I so wanted a big coffee. I don't drink coffee, except the frozen ones from Starbucks, but that day I wanted one bad, and Nigel was taking his sweet time getting it for me.

I made a mental list of things I noticed needing cleaning, such as the kids' smeared hand prints on the windows.

A gorgeous woman breezed in. She wore simple brown cords and a crisp, white, button-down shirt. It was Sunshine, but the blue had been completely bleached out of her hair, and she was a stunning blonde.

I felt about as appropriate as a wet fart at a wedding.

Here, I'd been trying to out-weird Sunshine and she'd out-normal'd me. She looked like an ad for Banana Republic.

“You're not wearing green,” I said. “It's St. Patrick's Day.”

She flicked back her nearly-white hair, revealing dainty green earrings. “Gotcha,” she said.

“Smart girl.” I gestured to the empty chair.

She reached her hand to me, and we squeezed fingertips awkwardly. “Sorry I'm late. My mother sends her regards,” she said, taking a seat on the chair across from me.

“I love this table you got for us,” Sunshine said.

“It's all about who you know.”

Nigel came by with a menu for Sunshine and gave us a rundown of all the things we weren't allowed to do, including dip our fries in mayonnaise.

“What if I brought my own mayonnaise from home?” I asked.

“There's a dollar charge for that,” he said.

After Nigel left the table, Sunshine asked if we, the serving staff, were allowed to make up our own rules. I assured her we didn't, and the mayonnaise thing was either a brand-new one, or Nigel was messing with me.

“I like the rules,” Sunshine said.

“People seem to dig the abuse. Lucky for me.”

“I enjoy being out of my comfort zone,” Sunshine said. “The restaurant must do really well. There's usually a big line-up.”

“The last few years have been difficult. My boss bought the place from the original owners because they were retiring, planning to become snowbirds. Arizona in the winter, that sorta thing. anyway, my boss thinks she overpaid.” As I spoke, a voice of dissent in my head questioned why I was divulging secrets about the business to Sunshine. Was I trying to impress her?
Shut up
, I told myself.

Nigel finally came back to take our order, bringing us our coffee. Sunshine sent him off to bring her skim milk, provided there was no additional fee. He graciously offered to go milk the cow we keep in the kitchen, and disappeared.

“Will I get my skim milk?” Sunshine asked me.

“Yes. You get everything how you want it, you just have to put up with the lip.”

“He's cute.”

“Nigel? Ew. I guess if you like those super-tight jeans that give you beetle legs.”

“So, you were saying … the owner thought she overpaid?”

That was when I noticed something unusual about Sunshine. She was a good listener. Rarely do you meet someone who brings you back to what you were talking about before the topic got sidetracked. If you ever meet someone who uses the phrase “you were saying,” make them your friend for life. By the way, don't expect to ever hear it from me.

I explained to Sunshine how I hadn't been working at The Whistle back in 2010, when HST kicked in and the tax on restaurant meals doubled. The Whistle used to have people lined up down the block on Saturday nights, but we were in lean times. The owner wanted to make changes, but was afraid to mess with the original formula.

“I think The Whistle is perfect how it is,” Sunshine said. “You shouldn't mess with perfection.”

I drained my cup of coffee as well as my glass of water. My bladder reminded me with some subtle pressure that it was not without limits.

“So, tell me what's on your mind,” I said, trying to sound casual.