Page 5 of Reality With You (Arden Beach #1)
“H ey, Lennon. Nine needs more bread and seven’s getting antsy for the check.”
Gordon, another server, peeked into the side station where Lennon was cashing out one of her tables. He had a large, full tray balanced on one of his thick arms.
“Already on it,” she said, fingers flying across the touchscreen computer. It momentarily froze—as it often did—and she released a string of curse words under her breath.
At least it kept her conversations with coworkers to a minimum as they were all busy rushing around.
The fewer opportunities there were to chat, the fewer opportunities there were for the topic of her squashed record deal to come up.
Even when it was time for her break, Lennon decided not to call Erin, opting to scarf down something to eat while she listened to music in the break room instead.
She had to make it through this double. She could have a breakdown later.
“They also just sat a huge party,” Gordon continued over the sound of the small printer finally spitting out a receipt. “We’re double-teaming, and I’m in the weeds.”
A huge party meant a huge bill and, usually, huge tips. “I got it. I’ll grab their drink orders,” Lennon said, ripping out the receipt. She placed it in the small leather folio to deliver to her table.
“Thanks, superstar. I’ll help you fill ‘em in a minute.” The nickname stung, but she swallowed back a reaction. He was about to race off when he poked his around the corner again and added, “Oh—and heads up, they’re a bunch of influencers .” The last word was delivered in a stage whisper.
Lennon grimaced. Some influencers made her shifts more fun, while others made her wish she’d stayed home. And, so far, luck hadn’t been on her side today.
She quickly rang in another table’s order, then dropped off the bill at one and the bread at the other before bracing herself for the party of fourteen sitting in the corner by the tall, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the sparkling New York City skyline.
They all looked to be in their twenties, dressed to the nines for a night out like they’d all come from, or were on their way to, a glamorous event.
Stopping at one end of the long table, she greeted the line of bored faces and launched into her well-practiced spiel over the hum of the busy restaurant.
As she mentioned their selection of wines, a female voice interrupted her.
“Oh, my God, Lennon—is that you?!”
Lennon searched the table for the source in the low lighting, and her eyebrows jumped up as she clocked the beautiful, lithe Cuban Dominican woman leaning forward at the far end. The familiar face glowed under the table’s tea light candles. “Avery?”
“Yes! I can’t believe it. I didn’t know you lived in New York,” Avery said.
“Did you move here, too?”
“No, I’m in town for Fashion Week. We’re all here for Rochefort.”
“Oh, wow. That’s … amazing,” Lennon pushed out with a smile while her heart dropped to her stomach.
Avery had been invited to Fashion Week. By Rochefort .
Lennon wasn’t plugged into the fashion industry, but she knew enough from working in a high-end restaurant in Manhattan to know it wasn’t easy to score an invite, especially from a huge, century-old luxury brand.
Half of the guests in the restaurant were wearing their signature logo and old-money aesthetic.
Avery must have been doing well for herself.
Jealousy stabbed Lennon in the gut, followed by embarrassment flushing up her neck as she stood there serving her rather than reuniting under more … equal circumstances.
One of the guests to Avery’s right, who sported a buzzcut and yellow-tinted sunglasses—inside, at night —cleared his throat, a drawn expression acutely communicating his boredom. “Can we get some like, drinks or something? I desperately need to not be sober.”
“Yeah, of course.” Lennon swallowed her pride and plastered on her well-practiced customer service smile, pulling a pen and pad from the black apron tied at her waist.
“We’ll talk later,” Avery promised.
Lennon nodded, her knuckles white around the pen.
The chaos of her shift kept her mind busy and adrenaline flowing, allowing Lennon to ride the waves without paying attention to what was happening beneath the surface. Until Avery Mora came slamming back into her life and dragged her beneath the current.
Lennon struggled to find her flow again, thrown off-kilter by the uncomfortable shit it kicked up in her subconscious.
It was hard enough being a spectator to strangers celebrating career milestones and coworkers landing auditions that took them out of rotation.
It cut differently to see someone she’d known most of her life, who was from the same neighborhood and grew up under similar circumstances—with a single parent—catapult miles ahead while Lennon remained stalled on the side of the road.
She did her best to pull her focus back to work, but the Rochefort table seemed intent on making that damn near impossible.
Two of them sent back their drinks to be remade, one had a long list of preferences that somehow nothing on the five-star Michelin menu could satisfy, while another wasn’t happy when the well-done steak she’d ordered was served with no pink in the center.
She then complained the second steak was cold—twenty minutes after it had been served to her.
She didn’t touch it until she’d taken several photos and videos of the food, herself, and the restaurant.
As Lennon turned away from the table to take the cold steak back to the kitchen, the young woman remarked loudly, “No wonder she’s just a waitress. What an idiot.”
Lennon bit her tongue, fighting back the urge to spin around and lob the steak at her. I need this job, I need this job …
The influencers stayed well past closing, racking up a massive bill with alcohol and unfinished dishes they took more photos than bites of, and keeping part of the staff there long after the rest of the restaurant cleared out.
Lennon and Gordon stood by the exhibition kitchen where the chefs and sous chefs were cleaning up.
“You think the one with the frosted tips and fake watch is drunk enough to sleep with me?” Gordon asked Lennon as they observed the group get progressively more drunk and the content they filmed progressively more unhinged.
“You deserve better,” Lennon remarked, watching the man he was referring to try to balance his phone in his hand as he recorded himself doing something called the “glass flip challenge.”
“After working this God-awful shift, I don’t even care. A blowjob is a blowjob, and he clearly doesn’t have a fear of choking.”
Lennon snorted. One of the guests raised an arm and shouted for someone to bring another round of shots.
“Your turn to tell them the bar’s closed,” Lennon said before Gordon could slip away.
“I put in my time trying to explain to the redhead with the blowout that the steak she wanted was actually medium and not well-done and the science of food getting colder the longer it sits on a table in an air-conditioned room.”
Gordon dramatically sighed before plastering a fake smile on his face and setting his shoulders like he was preparing to go into battle. As he sauntered over to the table, Avery returned from the bathroom. Instead of joining the others, she stopped beside Lennon.
“Man, they’re still going?” Avery released a soft groan, shifting in her four-inch stilettos as she smoothed out her light pink satin mini dress. She looked like an off-duty ballerina. “I thought this would be done by now. My feet are killing me.”
“I can’t even feel mine anymore.”
“I’m sorry they’re making you stay so late.”
“It’s fine,” Lennon said, her hand popping up from her crossed arms to wave it off. “I can make a bed out of the uneaten dinner rolls and napkins if it goes on much longer.”
Avery sighed. “These events can be so boring if you don’t click with anyone, and most of the people I’m with tonight are the type that give us a bad name. I’d leave, but I don’t want to send the wrong message to the brand.”
“You could say you’re sick,” Lennon suggested.
“Don’t tempt me.” A beat passed. She glanced at Lennon. “I’m sorry about what Britta said.”
“Who?”
“The one who complained about her steak. She was rude. I would’ve said something to her, but I’m at work, too. If I start any drama, it’ll get out that I’m difficult and—” Avery gently shook her head, her long lashes briefly fluttering shut. “It’s all a game, but you have to play it, you know?”
Lennon nodded, all too keenly aware of workplace politics.
“I heard about you and Dylan,” Avery said, compassion in her voice. “I’m sorry I never reached out. I didn’t know what to say.”
Lennon’s heart squeezed at his name. At all that came with it, its vibrations like a deep note reverberating in the air. “It’s OK. It was a long time ago, and I wouldn’t have wanted the sympathy anyway.”
“I was really surprised. I always wanted what you two had. I think it threw me into a bit of a crisis about the existence of true love for a while.”
“Sorry about that,” Lennon dryly joked. At least your crisis ended , she chose not to add.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” Avery said, sounding sincere. “Are you dating anyone?”
“Single as a Pringle.”
“Really? You must have beat them off with a stick once everyone found out you were available. I remember all the guys in high school drooling over you.”
Lennon blew a dismissive sound through her lips. “That must’ve been the other weirdo musician you knew in high school because it definitely wasn’t me.”
“You were too obsessed with Dylan to notice. All the boys were jealous that you were taken by the baseball star.”