Page 9

EIGHT

The last hour of work always moves slowest. I’m sitting in the breakroom waiting for my relief, Amanda, to show up. I’m praying she clocks in before I get sat another table, forcing me to stay here another half hour.

“You done with your shift?” Mario asks, hefting a tub of clean cutlery onto the table in front of me.

“Almost,” I say. “Waiting on Amanda.”

“At least roll some silverware, huh?” He says this with far more kindness than he would give to anyone else in the restaurant.

Mario likes me. I’m not sure why, but I suspect it has something to do with the fact he has daughters.

One just graduated WU with a degree in clinical psychology.

The oldest is in her final year of veterinary training.

“Fine,” I say, pulling the tub closer to me. The utensils gleam under the table light as I start sorting the knives and forks and spoons.

“I’ll join you,” he says. He grabs a thick stack of ironed table napkins and sits in the booth across from me.

“Sounds like you’re only looking for an excuse to sit down,” I say, raising an eyebrow.

He smirks. “Give an old man a break.” He lowers his voice and leans closer. “And I won’t tell Nikki I caught you back here on your lazy butt.”

I roll my eyes. Nikki takes the job far too seriously, riding my ass all shift.

She uses her limited control over other people to her full advantage, micro-managing every other person to make herself feel somewhat elevated.

She forgets Mario is the boss and that being on his good side trumps everything.

“Out of everyone that works here, why’d you make Nikki a manager?” I ask.

“She’s a good worker,” he says. “I can trust her.”

“She makes everyone’s life hell.”

“The place runs smooth, doesn’t it? She’ll lighten up after a while. Everyone leads with an iron fist before they find the best technique.” He pauses. “Why? You think the job should go to you?”

“Gosh, no,” I say, hoping my quick answer doesn’t offend him. “Although I’d treat the staff better. That’s for sure.”

“But could you put in the late hours? The long shifts? Drop whatever you’re doing because Amanda or whoever called in?” He waits, even though we both know my answers to those questions. “It’s tough work, and Nikki has earned her role, even if she’s not a peach all the time.”

Mario is right. It’s the problem that’s followed me wherever I go, every job I have.

It’s not what I really want to do, and so I can’t put my all into it.

Then there are people out there who try their best at anything, whether they like it or not.

Maybe that’s the key to happiness or success, and the reason why both have evaded me.

“So, tell me about your latest book?” Mario says, rolling the cutlery into a napkin and tying it off in the center. “Are you working on the next Jack Reacher?”

Mario means well, so I humor him, but my stomach still clenches with anxiety. I hate talking about my writing casually.

“In between manuscripts at the moment,” I say. “Sorry, no spies.”

“Come on. That stuff’s a lot more interesting than the other junk. All those housewives killing husbands and stalking people on trains.”

I laugh. “I can’t help those are the stories I like to write. Not to mention the stories that sell.”

“Well, whatever you put out there, I’ll be first in line to buy a copy, even if I shelve it and wait until the movie comes out.”

I shake my head. “Maybe it’ll happen one day.”

“It will.” He pauses what he’s doing and looks at me. “You just have to believe in yourself.”

A clanging mess of glasses hitting the floor interrupts our conversation. We both look to the front of the restaurant, although from where we sit, it’s impossible to see who dropped what.

“Better check that out,” Mario says. He exhales and stands slowly, stretching his back. “Shift’s almost over, kid. Cheer up.”

I nod, slowly rolling the silverware and making a clean stack of each new set.

A frightening vision flashes in my mind of me doing this exact same action in ten years’ time.

Being a writer doesn’t come with a clear career path, and the sad truth is, you can do all the right things and still never make it.

I know a few people still paying off their creative writing degrees who haven’t published a thing, and others who picked up writing as a hobby a few years back who are now bestsellers.

It’s impossible to know where I’ll end up on the spectrum of success and failure, and the unknown is terrifying.

I think about Victoria. She loves writing, is the type of person who writes something every day, just because she needs a release for the words inside her.

She has numerous degrees, has worked alongside some of the greats in the business, and yet, has still never found that success for herself.

Sure, her cozy mystery series has some loyal readers, but it’s not brought the commercial or financial success that most aspiring writers dream about.

She’s still teaching writing classes at WU, and although she claims to be happy with that job, there must be a part of her that wonders why she can’t channel all that knowledge into success, why she can teach and not do.

April and Danielle are different. Each has their own priorities that aren’t centered around writing—Danielle has her law practice and April her young family.

Yet, even with those achievements, it’s not quite enough.

Something inside craves more, whether it’s a creative outlet or the potential for future success.

They struggle to find the time to write, but what they do produce is engaging and vivid.

They’re talented, but is that ever enough?

Reluctantly, my mind goes to Marley, the newest member of the group.

I can’t decide why she irks me so much. She’s young and talented, embodies the stereotype of someone who becomes a bestseller on their first try.

Maybe it’s her flippant nature. The other Maidens, including myself, make it no secret that a lot of sacrifice goes into our work.

Marley makes it look too easy, and I resent that.

Or maybe my distaste is because she feels so familiar. She reminds me of a time when?—

“Becca, you back here?” Mario calls out. He’s standing in the doorway, blocking the entrance to the main dining area.

“Yeah.” I’m afraid he’s about to tell me I’ve been given a new table, that I’ll have to stay here that much longer.

“Amanda just clocked in,” he says. “Get out of here.”

My body relaxes. I gather the stack of newly rolled silverware and take it to the front.

Today wasn’t a particularly busy day, but I’m ready to return home and try to see what I can get done before this week’s meeting.

Really, I’m just ready to take off my apron and wash off the smells of frying grease.

It doesn’t take long for me to tidy up my section and print off my checkout. I hand over my records to the shift leader, trying not to think about the small amount of money I made today.

“Lucky me,” says a voice from behind. I stand to see Chaz sitting at the bar. “My favorite waitress is in.”

“Not for long,” I say, raising the car keys clutched in my hands. “My shift just ended.”

“Bad timing,” he says, perching onto a barstool. “Know anything new?”

“Same menu as yesterday,” I say. I nod at the badge clipped to his belt. “Still keeping Whitaker safe?”

“Doing my best.” He nods and gives me a mini salute with his forefinger.

I force myself to smile. “I’ll catch you later in the week.”

I walk out the front door, stopping when I feel the icy wind. It’s easy to forget winter is approaching when you’ve spent the past six hours on your feet inside a heated restaurant. My car is right next to the curb. I flip through keys, finding the right one, when something catches my eye.

The right front tire is suspiciously low. I bend down. When I look closer, I see that’s it’s almost completely flat. I run my fingers against the rubber, finding a long gash.

“What the hell?”

When I walk back into the restaurant, Mario is behind the bar, a dishrag over one shoulder. He looks up at me and smiles.

“Back so soon?”

“Looks like one of my tires has been slashed,” I say. “Cool if I leave it here until I can get it repaired?”

“Sure.” He takes the dishrag off his shoulder and uses it to wipe his hands. “Need a lift home?”

“No, my apartment’s only a few blocks away,” I say, scratching the back of my neck. “Just not sure when I’ll get a tow.”

“Do you have a spare?” asks Chaz. He’s sitting to my left, a full draft beer in front of him. “I’d be happy to change it for you.”

“I don’t,” I say. Even if I did, I wouldn’t go to Chaz, or any cop, for help. I don’t like feeling as though I owe something to other people. “I’ll have to order a new tire anyway and have someone install it.”

“You say it’s slashed?” Chaz continues, turning toward me.

“Looks that way,” I say. “I don’t remember hitting anything that could have done it.”

“There have been a few reports of vandalism in the neighborhood. Local kids still wanting to do some damage after Halloween,” he says. “You should make a report.”

“It’s not that big of a deal, is it?”

“It’s a crime. I’ll give you a lift to the station.”

“I really just want to get home,” I say, rubbing my forehead with my palm. “Can I do that after I call the tow truck?”

“Sure.”

“I’d check the cameras for you,” Mario says, “but they’ve been broken over a month and I can’t get the guy to fix ’em.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him. “Like Chaz says, it’s probably kids. I’m gonna head out.”

I exit the crowded restaurant for a second time, feeling even more dejected than I did a few minutes ago.

It’s a good thing I live so close, but I’m not happy about the fact all the money I made today will go toward a tow truck, and I’ll probably have to pick up an extra shift to pay for the repair.

Passing my car, I peer down at the useless tire, wishing I’d made a mistake, and that the large gash in the rubber has somehow fixed itself.

My mind recalls April’s story from last night, about the hell-bent wife who slashed her husband’s tires.

Dealing with the reality of the situation is far less entertaining, but I can’t help thinking of the irony that mere hours after April shared her story, someone came along and did the same thing to me.

Talk about life imitating art.

My body stills, something on the ground demanding my attention. It’s a piece of paper, near translucent and tearing thanks to the water puddled by the curb. I lift it, trying not to cause further damage, and stare.

It’s a black heart, the colors running, the image crying.

I look over my shoulder, distracted pedestrians paying me no attention, let alone the damp litter in my hands.

My hand clumps into a fist, crinkling the shrinking paper until it’s no larger than a nickel in my palm. I toss the wad onto the curb, leaving it where I found it, beside my slashed tires.