Page 12

12

The first day at the temp job goes as well as it possibly could. I mean, considering my job is basically to do filing and data entry for people who are five years younger than me.

After spending the entire day stuffed in an office, I decide to get off the subway early and walk the last mile back to the house. It’s not a run through the park, which is what I’d prefer, but that’s not an option in my work clothes. Also, the summer is finally coming to a close, and the weather is great. Although my Upper West Side neighborhood isn’t nearly as colorful as it was around my very first apartment, which was in Greenwich Village, the walk still clears my mind. I’m in such a good mood that I drop a dollar into the coffee cup of a guy begging for change in front of a liquor store.

After I’ve been walking about half a mile, I realize I’m only one avenue block away from Cosmo’s—the diner where Whitney waitresses. Before I can overthink it, I make a detour, weaving my way through the commuter pedestrian traffic to get to the diner. It’s barely five thirty, which means it won’t be very crowded at the restaurant. If I want to chat with Whitney for a minute, this would be a good time to do it.

Cosmo’s is similar to a lot of the other Greek diners in the city—a medium-size restaurant with booths lining the walls and tables in the center of the room, with a faint aroma of burgers on the grill wafting through the air. The menu posted on the wall of the diner next to the A+ from the health department claims to have such ethnic dishes as moussaka and stuffed grape leaves, but it’s clear that 99 percent of the patrons come here for a burger and fries.

I scan the room until I spot Whitney near the back, dressed in another pair of blue jeans and a snug T-shirt with the words Cosmo’s Diner emblazoned on the chest, her hair pulled back into a sensible bun.

She spots me at the same moment as I see her, and her face lights up as she gives me a cheery wave. She hurries over to where I’m standing, tucking a small pencil into the groove over her ear.

“Blake!”

“Hey, Whitney.”

She rests a hand on my biceps, which are very decent given how much I worked out during my unemployment. I don’t flex for her though.

Okay, I flex a tiny bit.

“How are you doing?” she asks. “How was your first day at work?”

“Not too bad.”

I scratch my forearm. Toward the end of the day, I started to feel itchy again, the same way I was at Becky and Malcolm’s place. I wonder if I’ve developed an allergy to one of the components of the dress shirts during my time away from work. Does that kind of thing happen? Or is it stress? God knows I’ve been under enough of it.

“You’re going to do great,” Whitney tells me, her hand still on my arm. “I promise.”

“Uh, thanks.”

She glances over her shoulder at the mostly empty dining area. “It’s pretty dead right now, as you can see. Can I get you a table? Our lemon meringue pie is to die for.”

“Actually,” I say, “I wanted to talk to you for a moment. Is that okay?”

“Sure.” She frowns, looking concerned. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes.” I pause for a moment, rethinking if it’s a good idea to discuss this with her while she’s working. But I’m already here, so I plow forward. “Actually, no. Not exactly. Look, remember how I told you that you could use my stuff? Like, the soap and shampoo and cereal?”

She narrows her eyes, finally letting go of my arm. “Yes…”

“I actually don’t think it’s a good idea for us to be sharing anymore,” I say. “I had no idea how much you’d use, and honestly, I’m a little shocked. I think it would be better to keep things separate from now on.”

She blinks at me. “You came here and interrupted me at work to tell me that ?”

I scratch my arm again. “It was weighing on me.”

“Well,” she snaps at me, “I am so glad you got that off your chest.”

She’s not taking this as well as I would have hoped. In retrospect, it was a dick move to come to her work and complain to her here. But in my defense, she’s always working double shifts, and I had no idea when she’d be home. I didn’t want to have this conversation at midnight.

“Listen,” I say, “maybe we should label our stuff to make it easier.”

“You don’t need to stick a label on your cereal, Blake.” She sneers at me. “I won’t touch it again. I promise.”

“I just think it’s easier to keep things separate,” I say in an attempt to placate her. “I mean, you’re our tenant. It’s not like we’re friends or anything.”

Whitney jerks her head back like I hit her. She pulls the pencil out from behind her ear, and for a moment, I’m scared she might stab me with it. She takes a deep breath.

“You’re right,” she says slowly. “We are not friends. Good point.”

I had good intentions coming in here, but I’m screwing up this conversation big time. I struggle to figure out what to say to make this right, but at that moment, a family comes through the door of the diner.

“Excuse me,” Whitney says to me, her tone brisk. “I have to get to work.”

Well, that was a disaster. But on the flip side, I said what I had to say. Whitney was somehow offended, but the truth is we’re not friends. She’s just some girl we’re renting a room to. And as soon as I get back on my feet, she’ll be gone.

In any case, I don’t think she’s going to be bringing home cake tonight to celebrate my first day of work.