Chapter Two Book 2
Chapter Two
Getting up this morning was torture after lying awake most of the night. The alarm sounded like a tornado siren, but a shower always makes me feel less comatose. Auburn hair pulled back, blue uniform zipped, tennis shoes on, I lock the door behind me and walk the half-mile to the diner where five semis are parked nearby.
“There’s my star waitress!” Mr. Lewis’s voice, gravelly from forty years of smoking, booms from behind the counter where two men sip coffee. “The sun is shining, and business is good!” He says that same thing every morning, rain, shine, customers or not. He’s the happiest man I’ve ever met, and I think I’ll actually miss him when I leave here. Of course, that might be a while since I’m making decent money despite the lack of life in this town. Mr. Lewis’s diner does well since it is the only stop along this deserted stretch of highway.
“Morning, sir,” I reply, smiling and nodding to the two men at the counter. “I guess Julie’s not here yet. Should I start filling the shakers?” I ask, tying an apron with only a few stains around my waist.
“Julie’s gonna be late, honey,” he says, patting my back. “Think you can handle it awhile all alone?” He doesn’t wait for my reply, already knowing my answer, and starts through the swinging door to the kitchen. “Alejandro is sick—least that’s what he says—so I’ll be manning the grill today. I think he doesn’t want to sort through the supply shipment I got last night. He’s sleepin’ in the back room.”
Connected to the diner is a small storage area where, between toilet paper rolls and stacks of industrial-size ketchup bottles, stands an old army cot. I slept there a couple of nights when I first arrived in town. I’d coasted in about 2:00 am on fumes and spent my last $2 on a bowl of chili and a glass of tea. Lucky for me, Mr. Lewis was working alone that morning. He offered me a slice of apple pie, and I burst into sobs. I guess he knew a stray when he saw one because he offered me the cot then a temporary job. Julie’s sister, Gwen, one of the other waitresses had started her maternity leave the day before I arrived, so my timing was perfect. That’s the only thing about these last three months that has actually been easy.
When the morning sun begins to peek in the front windows, the truckers start to wander in for breakfast, and my shift officially begins with an order of ham and eggs from a big, bearded man. By noon, my feet ache. Customers have steadily streamed in all morning, and for a Thursday, we are really busy. Thankfully, I haven’t had time to think about my family or feel sorry for myself, and I already have $30 in tips.
“Vivian, I’m so sorry!” Julie yells, rushing past me, throwing her purse behind the counter and tying on her apron. “Joey got called in to work an extra shift, and I didn’t have a sitter till Gwen got back from the doctor.” She grabs an order pad and tucks it into her apron front. “He couldn’t not go. We really need the money, and he makes double what I do, so . . . I’m late,” she rambles while she looks for a pencil.
“That’s okay, not a problem,” I assure her and point to a table of three who need to place their order while I deliver a grilled cheese and fries to a man at the counter. Grabbing the pencil stub from behind my ear, I move on to a table near the side window where an old guy in an oil-stained cap is sitting.
“I want a steak, medium rare—not well done and not totally rare. But I better see blood when I cut into it, or you’ll be getting it right back, girlie.” He scowls at me while I smile sweetly. I really want to tell him where he can shove that medium rare—not well done—steak, but I need those tips even if it means being nice to grouchy, dirty jerks. “And sweet tea. You know what that is means, girlie? Sweet, as in real sugar, none of that fake crap!”
“Is that all?” I’m scribbling the order and marking it ‘rush’ so that we can get this guy out of here quickly when I feel a tingle trip down my spine. The hairs on my arms stand up. I’ve felt that tingle before. Then it thrilled me; now it scares the hell out of me. I slowly lift my head to look out the window, knowing already what I’m going to see.
The sun glares off the windshield of an SUV, obscuring the faces within. The driver’s door opens and strong fingers grasp the top of the door as he swings his long legs out. The tingle is so strong now it borders on painful. As the door closes, I see his face, aqua eyes clear even at this distance. Easton is walking toward the diner.
Getting up this morning was torture after lying awake most of the night. The alarm sounded like a tornado siren, but a shower always makes me feel less comatose. Auburn hair pulled back, blue uniform zipped, tennis shoes on, I lock the door behind me and walk the half-mile to the diner where five semis are parked nearby.
“There’s my star waitress!” Mr. Lewis’s voice, gravelly from forty years of smoking, booms from behind the counter where two men sip coffee. “The sun is shining, and business is good!” He says that same thing every morning, rain, shine, customers or not. He’s the happiest man I’ve ever met, and I think I’ll actually miss him when I leave here. Of course, that might be a while since I’m making decent money despite the lack of life in this town. Mr. Lewis’s diner does well since it is the only stop along this deserted stretch of highway.
“Morning, sir,” I reply, smiling and nodding to the two men at the counter. “I guess Julie’s not here yet. Should I start filling the shakers?” I ask, tying an apron with only a few stains around my waist.
“Julie’s gonna be late, honey,” he says, patting my back. “Think you can handle it awhile all alone?” He doesn’t wait for my reply, already knowing my answer, and starts through the swinging door to the kitchen. “Alejandro is sick—least that’s what he says—so I’ll be manning the grill today. I think he doesn’t want to sort through the supply shipment I got last night. He’s sleepin’ in the back room.”
Connected to the diner is a small storage area where, between toilet paper rolls and stacks of industrial-size ketchup bottles, stands an old army cot. I slept there a couple of nights when I first arrived in town. I’d coasted in about 2:00 am on fumes and spent my last $2 on a bowl of chili and a glass of tea. Lucky for me, Mr. Lewis was working alone that morning. He offered me a slice of apple pie, and I burst into sobs. I guess he knew a stray when he saw one because he offered me the cot then a temporary job. Julie’s sister, Gwen, one of the other waitresses had started her maternity leave the day before I arrived, so my timing was perfect. That’s the only thing about these last three months that has actually been easy.
When the morning sun begins to peek in the front windows, the truckers start to wander in for breakfast, and my shift officially begins with an order of ham and eggs from a big, bearded man. By noon, my feet ache. Customers have steadily streamed in all morning, and for a Thursday, we are really busy. Thankfully, I haven’t had time to think about my family or feel sorry for myself, and I already have $30 in tips.
“Vivian, I’m so sorry!” Julie yells, rushing past me, throwing her purse behind the counter and tying on her apron. “Joey got called in to work an extra shift, and I didn’t have a sitter till Gwen got back from the doctor.” She grabs an order pad and tucks it into her apron front. “He couldn’t not go. We really need the money, and he makes double what I do, so . . . I’m late,” she rambles while she looks for a pencil.
“That’s okay, not a problem,” I assure her and point to a table of three who need to place their order while I deliver a grilled cheese and fries to a man at the counter. Grabbing the pencil stub from behind my ear, I move on to a table near the side window where an old guy in an oil-stained cap is sitting.
“I want a steak, medium rare—not well done and not totally rare. But I better see blood when I cut into it, or you’ll be getting it right back, girlie.” He scowls at me while I smile sweetly. I really want to tell him where he can shove that medium rare—not well done—steak, but I need those tips even if it means being nice to grouchy, dirty jerks. “And sweet tea. You know what that is means, girlie? Sweet, as in real sugar, none of that fake crap!”
“Is that all?” I’m scribbling the order and marking it ‘rush’ so that we can get this guy out of here quickly when I feel a tingle trip down my spine. The hairs on my arms stand up. I’ve felt that tingle before. Then it thrilled me; now it scares the hell out of me. I slowly lift my head to look out the window, knowing already what I’m going to see.
The sun glares off the windshield of an SUV, obscuring the faces within. The driver’s door opens and strong fingers grasp the top of the door as he swings his long legs out. The tingle is so strong now it borders on painful. As the door closes, I see his face, aqua eyes clear even at this distance. Easton is walking toward the diner.
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