The Hangover

by Lively, R. S.

I nod, trying to hide the blush taking over my cheeks by tilting my head down. I’m normally on top of everything. I never get an order wrong and always do a great job with every customer. But on days like this, I’m the girl who drops everything, slips and falls, and ruins people’s dinner or lunch. Even breakfast if I’m lucky enough. I have my good days and bad days, and this has already started as a pretty bad day.

  Grabbing my notepad and pen, I stride into the main dining area, walking over to two men who just arrived. They are sitting in a back corner booth, both wearing suits that seem more expensive than what this diner is worth. One man has dark brown hair, which I thought was black, but when the light hits it deep shades of brown and mahogany shine. The other man I can't see since his back is to me, but he has dirty blonde hair, and it’s slicked back with some product that probably cost more than the shoes I am wearing.

  I plaster a big fake smile on my face and stroll to the silver table. “Hi, my name is Whitley. I’ll be your waitress this morning. Can I start you with a coffee?”

  The man with dark hair smiles, blinding me with his perfect white teeth. I have to take a deep breath to stop my heart from getting flustered because he is beautiful. He has pale skin, dark green eyes that remind me of a forest that I'd like to get lost in, and— a ring on his finger. Of course he’s married. All the pretty ones are.

  "You know what? Coffee sounds great. What about you, Logan?" he asks his friend who’s looking at the menu.

  "This diner is in a good spot. The owner must get a lot of business," the blonde says, still not making eye contact with me.

  I smile again, plastering on the fake so I can get through the day. "Tops is a good guy. The diner does well. He bought this property around forty years ago and has been cooking ever since."

  “Has he?” the man asks, tapping his finger against his chin.

  “Don’t mind my friend. He’ll have a coffee too.”

  I nod my head, blowing a piece of my red hair out of my face as I write down their orders.

  "Do you need to write that down? It's just two coffees."

  “Logan! Don’t be rude.”

  He never takes his eyes off the menu. "I'm not rude. I heard the click of her pen and scribble. I was asking a question."

  I curse my pale skin. I felt the moment my blood rushes to my cheeks, turning me into a tomato. I open my mouth to answer the rude man, but his friend cuts me off.

  “You don’t have to answer him.”

  I push my hair behind my ear and clear my throat. “No, it’s fine. I write it down because I’ve got a lot of customers and a lot of tables, and it’s important to make sure I get their orders right. I don’t want to forget anything, not even the simplest things. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be right back with your coffees.”

  Holy hell, I don’t waste another minute getting out of there. I spin on my heels, and as calmly as I can, I march behind the counter, pouring the coffees that they ordered. I debate for a moment if I want to spit in the one that is for Logan, but while building up my saliva, I decide against it. It would mean bad business for Tops, and I don’t want that for him.

  “I see that look in your eyes, Red.”

  I giggle every time Tops calls me that nickname. It isn't because I have red hair. It's because when I get mad, my face turns cherry red. "I don't know what you're talking about, Tops. I'm pouring these very kind gentlemen a cup of coffee and then bringing it to their table like the good waitress I am."

  “Mmmhmmm.” He shakes his head as he gives a customer their change.

  “I can hold in my wrath.”

  “I bet you a milkshake that man will be wearing his food. You always seem to spill over the ones that piss you off.”

  I gasp, dropping my jaw for an added effect. "Jefferson Tompkins! I'd never do such a thing."

  “Can’t bullshit a bullshitter, girl. Let me know if he gives you any trouble.”

  I roll my eyes, putting the two steaming cups of coffee on a tray. They are a bit too hot to grab. “He’s harmless, but he is an ass. He started asking about your property. It was weird.”

  The fun twinkle in his dark brown eyes disappears, and his hand stops me from going out the small door that leads into the main dining area.

  "Tops?" I ask. This isn’t like him.

  He bends down. “Who did you say that man was?”

  I shrug my right shoulder. “No idea. Logan something? He seems to have a lot of money, though. I better get out there before he thinks I forgot about him.”

  Tops stares into space as if he’s lost in thought. "Sure, go ahead."

  "Tops, you okay?" My brows pinch together as I look at him. He has sweat building on his forehead, and is staring at the stack of white dishes next to the dishwasher.

  His hands start shaking, but he gives me a typical Tops smile. One without worry and stress. “I’m fine. Go give the man his coffee.”

  I am not convinced. That reaction was out of the norm. Something was going on, and I have a feeling it is because of that mean man in the booth.

  "If you insist." I slide my gaze to my target and start walking, which isn't a big deal, but every time I make it to a table without spilling coffee, I think of it as a victory. "Here are your coffees. Here's some cream and sugar just in case you prefer something other than black. Are you ready to order?"

  “How much do you work, Whitley?” Logan asks, grabbing his coffee. He stirs one cream and two sugars in it with a spoon, never taking his eyes away from the whirling hurricane of caffeine.

  "Um, not to be rude, but that's not your business."

  I can only see the side of Logan's face, and it is such a good side. He has a scar at the end of the left eyebrow, but that seems to be the only ‘flaw' he has, minus his jerk personality. In the looks department, he is beautiful. His eyes are illuminated by the sun shining through the windows. I can only see the side of his left eye, but it glimmers like pools of honey as the light hits it. Despite everything, I find myself attracted to this man. The thought fills me with a little disgust. I do not want to want this man.

  “It will be once I finish the paperwork to buy this place. Now, I’ll have the −−”

  “Excuse me? You think you can come in here and threaten my place of employment with your slime−filled fingers?”

  “Slime−filled?”

  "Yes, slime. How dare you. If you were to buy this place, I'd quit, because there would no way in hell I'd work for someone like you. Now, will you tell me what you want to eat? The sooner I serve you, the sooner I can never see you again." I click my pen, staring at my notepad. I'm trying not to let any tears fall. It happens every time I get mad or get in an argument. I want to cry.

  "Both of us will have the cheeseburger special," the dark-haired man says with a bit of grit to his voice, like he’s warning Logan not to say anything else.

  I scribble it down and spin on my heel to put the ticket on the carousel for the chef. The nerve of that man. I grab Tops, pull him into his office, and slam the door. He falls into his leather chair out of habit, since he sits in it every day doing paperwork. I stare at the man that has been my boss for two years and feel my bottom lip start to tremble. I turn, showing him my back as I try to compose myself.

  “Aw, Whitley. What’s wrong?”

  I sniffle and tilt my head up. I lock my eyes on the old wooden door in front of me, staring at the grooves that decorate the wood. Each one is different, adding depth to the original oak door. This door is so meaningful to Tops’ Diner. It has been here since it opened. Tops has never had it replaced, but if this Logan guy bought the diner, what would that mean? The first tear breaks and slides down the apple of my right cheek. I wipe it away, but another tear takes its place, and before I know it, I’m sobbing, never taking my eyes off the door. It’s like I’m breaking up with this chunk of wood, telling it goodbye forever.

  “Whit, what happened? I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me what happened.”

  I twirl on my heels, stomping towar
d him and pointing my finger. "Are you selling the diner?"

  His shoulders sag, and he leans against his worn leather chair. He takes his hat off, tossing it onto the table, disrupting piles of paperwork. Tops sighs. "I didn't know how to tell you."

  “Are you kidding me? When were you going to tell me? When the ink dried on the contract? Tops, you can’t sell this place to that man! He is vile. He is rude. He will change everything we love about this diner and turn it into something else. You can’t,” I beg, grabbing his hands. “What can we do? What do I need to do?”

  He squeezes my hands as he leans forward. “You’ve always been the one with the heart that was too big for this world. You’re too good. Red, there isn’t anything you can do. I’m behind on payments. If I don’t sell, well, the bank will foreclose on it. If I do sell, we can continue to work here. I wouldn't be the owner, but I'd still do what I love every day. It's in the contract."

  I scoff, shaking my head. "You believe that man? He is a shark in a suit. He isn't a nice man. Do you think he won't try to weasel his—his—evilness into this diner? I love this diner. I don’t want to see it go south.”

  Tops gives me a sad, crooked smile, showing his deep dimple on his right cheek. “He isn’t what we are used to, no, but he is a very successful businessman. He owns his own real estate development company—” Tops suddenly seals his lips shut. I can see the regret passing over his face that he let that slip.

  "Are you kidding me? A real estate developer!" I scream at the top of my lungs. There is no way everyone outside the door didn't hear me. I am about to unleash my anger goblin. I don’t want to, but I can't stop her from coming out in situations like this.

  "You have got to be kidding me!" I hiss, the blood rushing to my face. I'm sure I look like a damn tomato right now, but I don’t care. "So, not only is he an ass, but he tears down historical buildings, like this place—which, don’t be surprised if that's what he does—and trees! Tops, he tears down trees. You know how much I love trees!" I hold my hand against my heart, curling it into a fist.

  His eyes soften at me, causing his grey eyebrows to pull down. "I know you do, but this isn't an offer I can pass up. I'm in debt, Red. Debt that you can't do anything about. It means a lot to me that you would if you could. I'm surprised he’s even interested in it. This isn't the usual business he goes for, but he likes the location, and it makes good money. Just not enough to counter my other debts."

  That’s news to me. “What other debts?”

  "Nothing to worry your little red head over."

  “Tops! What other debts? I’m not leaving this office until you tell me. I’ll let that millionaire’s−−”

  “—Billionaire,” Tops corrects me.

  I lift my brows this time, impressed that a man that looks as young as Logan would have that kind of money. I am not going to let that show, though. “Whatever. I’ll let his food get cold. Tell me.”

  He sighs again, rubbing his face with his hands. His eyes are bloodshot, and the bags under them could tell a story if they could speak. “Medical bills, Whitley. I’m sick. It’s why I’m not here as much anymore.”

  I grab his hands and tighten my grip as the air rips from my lungs. “How sick?” my voice rasps. I don’t want to hear the answer, but I know I have to.

  "I have lung cancer, Red. It's spread into my liver. They say there is still a chance, but for me to beat this thing, I have to sell the diner."

  I rip my hands from him, covering my mouth as sobs break free. Bile rises to my throat, but I can't keep it down. I lunge for the trashcan that next to his desk and let it all out. It isn't much, since I ate a banana. This can't be happening—not to Tops. I've known him since I was a kid. I've only worked here for two years, but I've been drinking his milkshakes for almost twenty.

  "No. No, you can't be sick. No!" I cough, dry heaving into the bin. Tops is like a grandfather to me. I never had the opportunity to meet my grandparents on both sides of the family. They died before I was born.

  "It's just how life is, Whitley. I can beat this thing, but I'll need my favorite girl's support. I need you to back me on this, Red."

  He hands me a tissue, and I wipe my mouth with it. I sit there for a second, trying to gather my thoughts. A lot has happened today. My brain can't process it all, but I nod my head anyway.

  "Of course, Tops. I'll always be here. I'm going to go. Food needs to be delivered." I stand, wiping my hands down my apron to get the wrinkles out. Maybe I need to start ironing it. This is just a mess.

  “Whitley.”

  I mean, I can’t come to work looking like roadkill if the new owner is a billionaire.

  “Whitley.”

  What’s this spot on it? I scrape my nail over the stain, but it doesn’t budge.

  “Whitley!” Tops yells.

  I jerk my head up to see he is right in front of me and hugs me. No words are said, and after a minute, I pull away, wiping my eyes with the balled−up tissue in my hand. I give him a sad smile and grab the handle of the door, turning the knob until it opens. The smell of fried food hits my nose, making new tears surface. I see the burgers on the counter, and I straighten my back, wipe my eyes and nose one last time, and grab the billionaire's plate.

  As I walk toward their booth, my steps turn angry and volatile. Just because I’m supporting Tops doesn’t mean I have to be nice to Logan. I plaster on a smile and turn to the dark−haired man and set his plate down with care. I turn, seeing the man in question typing away on his phone, probably ruining someone else’s life. I drop his plate on the counter with a loud thud. The dish almost falls into his lap, but he stops it, and his left-hand grips the bar so hard his knuckles turn white.

  Aw, did I make the rich asshole mad? Good. I turn my nose up and walk away, wishing that my clumsiness could have hit me in front of him, throwing food onto his lap and ruining his pretty-boy suit.

  Sigh. A girl can dream.

  Logan

  I light a cigar as I sit in my office, contemplating if I really am going to purchase the diner. I like Tops’. It’s a good place. It's in a prime location, and everyone loves Mr. Tompkins, the owner, and the food is great. The one thing that needs to change is the staff. I didn't get a good look at the girl that served us, but she seriously irritated me. She was cute, though. I stopped myself from asking her out because I didn't want to mix business with pleasure, and from the sound of her voice, that's precisely what would have happened. Her voice is like what I imagine heaven would taste like: light and full of hope.

  “Logan!” my mother slurs, shouting from the kitchen.

  I rub the bridge of my nose, sighing deeply. She is on one of her drunken binges again. Ever since my father died a few years back, my mom hasn't been able to get over it. She has been in a permanent state of grief and allows alcohol to consume her. When she's out, she yells for me to get her more. Her favorite is bourbon. My favorite for her is vodka because after a few shots, she goes right to sleep, and I don't have to hear her bitch at me about how I’m doing nothing to help her or my sister, or that I'm useless.

  I know better than that. I am the one that took over Stone Enterprises after Dad's passing. Not Mom or Kate, but me. My dad groomed me for this job every day from the time I was a boy to the day of his death. I’ll never forget that day. I was spending the morning on a job site, talking to the crew about what needed to be done, when I received a phone call. My dad had been in a car accident. I couldn’t believe it. It was such a shock that I dropped the phone out of my hand.

  When I arrived at the hospital, nobody looked me in the eye. My mom was crying and collapsed to her knees. It was then I knew Dad had died. No one needed to tell me. Actions spoke louder than words, and I still believe that to this day.

  “Logan, damn it! Go get me some bourbon!” my mother yells, stumbling into my office, naked and holding a cigarette in her hand.

  I avert my eyes, place my cigar in the tray, and stand, grabbing the long black robe I keep on hand for her. She h
as a habit of getting so drunk, she forgets to get dressed.

  The cotton robe feels like handcuffs as I stride toward her, keeping my eyes cast at her feet. "Here, Mom. Put this on. No one wants to see you naked."

  She snatches it from me and starts going on and on about how horrible I am, like she always does in her drunkest moments. "Your father wants to see me naked! You don’t even love me, Logan! Wait until he hears about how you treat me. He will never let you take over the company, not with how you treat your mother." On her way out of the room, she slips and falls into the door, making it slam against the dark green wall. A picture frame falls and shatters against the ground with an audible crash. I sigh.

  My mother hisses, as I bend over to retrieve the picture. I shake the glass off, each small piece falling onto the floor, clanking against the other parts.

  I won’t admit it to her or anyone but seeing that particular picture break sends an edge of pain through my heart. It’s the last photo taken of all of us as a family before Dad died. My sister was healthy, my mom wasn’t a drunk, and I was Dad’s business partner. Life was good. Everyone was happy. These days, happiness seems like such a foreign thing to have.

  I squat to pick up the robe on the floor and take tentative steps towards my mom. The cigarette smoke makes me wince as it invades my lungs. She taps her finger on the white stick, making the ash fall on the floor, but I don’t say anything. What’s the point? I take the cigarette out of her hand and insert her arms in the robe, tying the belt around her waist.

  “Where’s your sister? I suppose you don’t care about her either.”

  The words are hard to decipher since they are slurred, but I've been doing this a long time and have become very fluent in the drunk language. I've also become immune to the welts her whip of words leave behind.

  “We haven’t heard from Kate in a few weeks. She’ll show up. She always does. Now, I have work to do. Why don’t you go upstairs and rest? I’ll have Frankford bring you some vodka.” It will be water, but my mom won’t know the difference.