by S. F. Kosa
“If I screw up—” Layla began.
“Then don’t.”
Amber turned her around, and a moment later, Layla felt a brush run through her hair. She clasped her hands together and squeezed, fingernails digging into skin. She swore she could feel every single bristle slicing across her scalp, but somehow, with each stroke, she relaxed a little. The sensation was like a weight pressing down, down, down, submerging the words and thoughts that had been crowding to the surface a moment before. By the time Amber yanked Layla’s hair back into a ponytail, her cold sweat had gone warm.
Amber handed her an apron. She pointed to the pocket. “Tablet’s already in there. Just tap on the right table number, then the menu items. Keep an eye out for your table numbers at the counter and the bar so you can get stuff to the diners quickly. Lou hates it when stuff sits for longer than a minute, and I swear he times us. Check in on your tables just before they’ve got an empty glass, always offer another round, always offer dessert, and pretend like the sea scallop crudo has given you multiple orgasms. Lou wants us to push that one.”
Layla cringed at the thought of putting scallops, or any other seafood for that matter, in her mouth. She couldn’t imagine ever having liked it, but the nights she’d spent scraping the half-chewed and picked-over remainders off customers’ plates had only deepened her aversion.
Amber scowled as she read Layla’s expression. “I don’t care if the slimy little things give you hives, for heaven’s sake—pretend. It’s all about selling, okay?”
Layla tied on the apron over her shorts and pulled out the tablet as Amber continued to rattle off instructions. Her mouth moved a lot as she spoke, but her eyes and cheeks and brow were completely still somehow. Layla stared until a clatter from the kitchen startled her back to attention. The tablet was in her hands. The one she would use to punch in the orders. This would be fine. Just fine.
“Of course it will,” Amber said, making her realize she’d spoken aloud.
It was fine until it wasn’t. The hours whooshed by as she concentrated on making it through each individual minute. She mixed up a few orders and spilled a drink at the bar, but the patrons were mostly sweet. It was better than dishwashing, because there were no blank times. Every second demanded her complete focus, and it was all she could think about. Nothing else. Nothing but pressing the right button, picking up the right glass, saying the right words, and smiling the proper smile, even as she handed over plates of raw oysters and scallop crudo that made her stomach turn.
She had no idea how many tables she had turned over, and the faces of the customers were all a blur. The air had gone cooler as the night progressed, as the lanterns drooping over the space came on, the sky beyond went dark, revelers strolled past, and drag queens stalked by, waving regally and pausing for photos with admiring patrons. She liked watching them—there was no telling what the face beneath all that makeup really looked like. It was as if they came out of nowhere and disappeared just as easily.
The crowd thinned out as midnight approached, and she paused at the bar to sip a glass of water Jaliesa had set there for her. Her shirt and shorts were damp with sweat, and her ponytail had slipped down to the base of her neck, where her hair stuck to her nape.
“Almost there, girl, and then it’s time to count tips over a double G&T.” Jaliesa shook a silver cocktail shaker in each hand while her ebony curls jiggled around her face. “My favorite part of the night.”
Layla smiled into her water glass, enjoying the feel of ice on her tongue. Her mind was a quiet hum of white noise.
“Hey,” said Jenn, tapping her on the shoulder. “I just seated three at six.”
She took a final gulp of her water. “Okay.” She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Table six was in the back corner of the narrow patio. Seated there were one woman and two guys who looked about Layla’s age. One of the guys had his muscular, tattooed arm around the woman, whose curly black hair hung loose around her shoulders. The other guy, whose back was to her, had short red hair. They were dressed casually—shorts and T-shirts—not for clubbing.
She threaded her way across the patio and approached the table where the three of them were absorbed in conversation.
“—don’t really want to go back until Saturday, but my parents leave for Paris on Thursday, and there’s no way they’re taking Mr. Drillby to a kennel,” the redhead was telling his friends. He was talking fast, but his words were a little slurred, his voice a little loud.
“Hi there, and welcome to Haverman’s. My name’s Layla, and I’ll be taking care of you tonight,” she said to his companions, who had seen her standing there. “Can I start you guys off with something other than water?”
“I’ll have the house margarita,” said the woman.
“I’d love a Cape Cod Blonde,” said her partner, grinning at Layla while his companion rolled her eyes.
As his friend spoke, the redhead turned his head and looked up at her. The loose smile he’d been wearing dropped away. “Maggie?”
“Nope. Can I—”
“Maggie Wallace,” said the redhead. His eyes were bloodshot. He smelled like pot and whiskey. He grabbed her wrist.
The tablet in her hand clattered to the ground, and she let out a cry. She pulled her arm free of the guy’s sweaty grasp. People’s heads were turning. Eyes were on them. She scooped the tablet up, peering at the screen. It hadn’t cracked, thank God. “A margarita and a Blonde,” she said, breathless. “Anything else?”
The guy had turned back to his friends, who were giving him concerned looks. The tattooed guy had put his hand on the redhead’s arm.
“I swear it’s her,” the redhead was saying. “I was telling you. Remember?”
“He’ll stick with water,” the woman said.
“I’ll get those orders in right now,” she replied, but her voice had gone weird again. Strange and unfamiliar. It made her wish she didn’t have a mouth at all.
The redhead turned in his chair again. “You look exactly like her,” he said. “My girlfriend was talking about you the other day. Come on. Reina Ramirez. You know her, right?”
She realized she’d been shaking her head vigorously. She stopped when the tattooed guy said, “Let it go, dude.” He hadn’t released his friend’s arm. “Let the lady do her job.”
Before the redhead could free himself, she headed for the kitchen. Jaliesa’s mouth was moving as she walked by, but she couldn’t hear what the bartender was saying. Inside her head, there was a low buzz and snatches of a song that seemed familiar yet impossible to place.
“Layla?” called out Amber, poking her head into the back as Layla reached for her bag. “Wait—you’re leaving?” She pushed through the swinging door and dropped her tablet into the pocket of her apron. “What the hell happened?” She looked over her shoulder. “Did one of those guys grope you or something? Because—”
“No.” She tugged the Haverman’s shirt over her head, which was buzzing, buzzing, buzzing. She could make out Amber’s words, but only barely. The shirt fell from her loose fingers, where it landed crumpled at their feet.
“You’re kinda pale,” the waitress said. “Are you sick?”
“Yeah,” she replied. “I’m…done.”
“Oh, honey.” Amber sounded sympathetic as she watched Layla tug her stained blue shirt over her head. “I know it’s been a long night.” Amber sighed. “You really did great. We’ll set aside your—”
But she was already out the door, down the alleyway, unlocking her bike—one-two-zero-four—and pedaling down the road. She didn’t even know where she was going. All she knew was that she needed to get away.
Wednesday, July 29, to Thursday, July 30
The first time I saw Mina’s face was on December 17 of last year, on a poster outside the Brookline Booksmith. Join us for an evening with Mina Richards, I think it said. That part I don’t rem
ember so well, because I was too busy staring at her photo. Her eyes invited mischief.
“Look,” I said to Devon, who I’d just picked up from her mom’s—a cordial enough exchange but one that always left me in the mood for a strong drink. “There’s an author here tonight, signing her books. Kinda cool, huh?”
Bundled into her winter coat, a woolly scarf covering half her face, Devon said sternly, “You’re not supposed to write in books!”
“If you wrote the book, I think it’s allowed. Lots of people like to have an author sign a book for them. It makes it special.”
Devon looked intrigued. “Will she sign a book for me?”
I peered at the poster, which displayed the cover of the book in question. A man’s muscular bare chest featured prominently. “I don’t think she writes the kind of thing you like to read.”
“But she looks nice,” my daughter said. I agreed. Then I suggested that we go inside, get warm, and find a new picture book to read that evening. Always the bookworm and already starting to read on her own, Devon jumped at the chance.
“I’m tired of I Want My Hat Back,” she said. “But we can still read it sometimes,” she offered when she saw my face fall. I’d memorized every word of that one, and so had she, and we had taken to doing different animal voices as we read the story of a bear in search of his beloved, missing hat. Every time, it made me feel like I was about to win a Dad of the Year award.
“I’m sure we’ll find something just as good,” I said, even though I doubted it.
Pulling my gloves off and tucking them into my jacket pockets, I glanced around the bookstore as Devon guided me to the children’s section at the back. On one side of the space, the employees had a table set up with several stacks of books—all the same title—lined up along its front edge. Another copy of that poster with Mina’s picture was on an easel next to the table. Beyond the Threshold, the book was called. Obviously a romance novel. My mom had read at least four a week for as long as I could remember. My dad had loved to gripe that one day, he’d open his front door and be killed by an avalanche of smut, and didn’t she have anything better to do all day? After he died, my mom frequently joked that she was glad she didn’t have to sneak them into the house anymore, but she looked like she was about to cry every time she said it.
“We’re about to have our Mina Richards book signing,” said a woman over the PA. “Purchase your books at the front, and Ms. Richards herself will be over there at the table, ready to personalize them for you!”
Four or five women were already lined up at the checkout, each with at least one copy of Beyond the Threshold in hand. “Do you want to go look at books while Daddy buys Grandma’s Christmas present?” I asked Devon.
“Yes! You always rush me.” She happily let go of my hand, and I watched my independent daughter skip back to the kiddie section.
A few minutes later, I was standing in a short line, watching the author herself. She looked a little different from her picture. Her hair was longer, brown waves that fell past her shoulders. Her face seemed a bit fuller, as if she’d put on a bit of weight, but it looked good on her. She was younger than I was by maybe ten years, I thought (it turned out to be twelve). But those eyes—those were the same as in the poster. An eerie light gray, flashing with a vibrant, wicked playfulness. She was friendly with each fan, asking them how they were doing, thanking them for being there. Each time, it sounded like she actually meant it. She spoke with each person for a minute or so as she signed, and then it was on to the next fan, who she seemed equally happy to see. I had to remind myself of that when I reached the front of the line and her eyes skimmed up my body to my face. She grinned and let out a laugh so warm that I nearly melted right there in front of her.
“You’re my first guy,” she said, arching an eyebrow as she accepted the book I offered.
“Well, hey, I’m honored to be your first,” I said, then automatically recognized that what I’d said could be read as anything from charmlessly awkward to hideously creepy. “I mean—”
“I’m a romance author, mister,” she said. “And that’s totally the line I would have written.” She winked at me, and right then, I knew. I had to know her.
“Are you on a book tour?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I actually live nearby, and these folks are kind enough to have me in for my new releases. Publishers rarely pony up for tours anymore, especially because a lot of my sales are ebooks.” She pursed her lips. “That was probably more information than you actually wanted to know.”
So, so wrong. “We’re neighbors,” I said. “I didn’t realize there was a famous author living in the area.”
“Oh, come on. There are at least twenty famous authors living in the area! This is Boston!”
I put up my hands in surrender. “I’m clearly not as hooked into the literary scene as I should be.”
“Get right on that.” She held up the copy I’d given her. “Who can I make this one out to?”
“Sherri.” I spelled out her name. “My mom. She loves this kind of book.”
“This kind of book. Hmm.” She bowed her head as she scrawled something on the page, quick and sure, no hesitation at all. A moment later, she handed it back to me.
For Sherri, it read. Your son says you have excellent literary taste.
I laughed. “She’s gonna love this.” Then I handed her the second copy I’d purchased.
“And who is this one for?” she asked, waving her Sharpie. “Sister? Girlfriend? Wife?” She was so goddamn cute, eyes and cheeks, that smile. When her gaze flicked to my bare ring finger, it felt like a triumph.
“None of the above. This one’s for me. Literary research.” I glanced over my shoulder to find a line of women beaming at me, the novelty. “I’ve never read a romance novel, but right now, I’m feeling inspired.”
“I see,” Mina murmured. “Can I personalize it for you, then?”
“What?” My voice had gone hushed, too. I leaned forward, almost in her space. Her perfume smelled like lavender and vanilla. It temporarily scrambled me.
I know, because she told me later, that I was staring at her mouth.
“I meant, what’s your name?” she asked after a few seconds, looking like she was about to laugh.
“Oh. Alex.”
She hunched over the book, shielding the words with one hand. “You’ll have to wait until later to read this, Alex. It’s top secret literary research stuff.” She closed the book and handed it back to me with a conspiratorial look. “Thanks for coming.”
It took every brain cell I possessed to make it to the back of the store and find my daughter, whose existence I had all but forgotten for a moment there. Her scarf, coat, and mittens were strewn along an aisle, and she was squatting at the end, surrounded by at least a dozen picture books. I bought Devon five of them, hustled her out of the store, and took her out for sushi because, for some reason, that is my otherwise-picky five-year-old’s favorite food.
Once we were safely seated, I had ordered a bottle of sake, and Devon had buried her nose in one of her latest literary acquisitions, I pulled out Mina’s book and opened it up.
For Alex, it said. I’m honored to be your first.
And underneath that, she’d written her phone number.
In that moment, I knew I was already in love with her.
My fingertips brush over Mina’s rings as I sink into her desk chair. I pick them up and hold them in my palm. I remember putting each one onto her finger, the first at Race Point, right on the frigid beach in March, with icy ocean water seeping into the fabric of my jeans as I knelt in the wet sand, with the waves pounding and the wind howling, with Mina’s wild laughter and her mittened hands on either side of my face. Mina doesn’t just smile when she’s happy; she full out laughs, something that used to confuse me. But by the time she broke into uncontrollable giggles at the alt
ar, right after I slid the wedding ring past her knuckle—with my mother watching, looking as baffled as the minister, and Mina’s mother watching, looking as if she wanted to sink through the floor—I knew what it meant. As Mina doubled over, red-faced and out of breath and still bubbling with laughter, I thought I might explode with happiness and triumph.
And now here I am, and these two rings feel so heavy that I have to put them down again. They plink into the bowl, rattle, and go still.
Why would Mina take them off? Me, I take off my wedding ring when I work out, because I don’t want the weights to bend it out of shape. I take it off to shower, too, and at night. The few times I’ve forgotten to wear it out, Mina has given me grief for it, and with an impish smile, she’s insisted on placing it back on my finger herself.
But Mina never takes her rings off. She wears them all the time. Or at least I thought so.
It’s another thing I’ll have to be careful about when she gets back. We’re not going to fight about something this stupid. It’s not like taking off the rings means we’re not married anymore. That’s what I always say to her when I forget.
It shouldn’t hurt like it does.
I help myself to another glass of wine, and then I wait. I read the opening pages of a book I find on the shelf—believe it or not, a thriller about a man whose wife goes missing. The police, of course, suspect he’s killed her. After a chapter, I have to put it down.
By the time it gets to be six o’clock, I’m in a terrible mood, and predictably, that’s when my mother calls. “I got an email from Drew asking me to invest another $200,000 in Biostar,” she informs me. “I expect to hear that kind of thing directly from you.”
What the hell? Drew is panicking—and he went around me. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” I say. “I was going to call you tomorrow. After the board meeting.” I have to smooth this over. She’s my mom, but she’s also an investor—one who talks to other investors.