by Meghan Quinn
“Are you paying attention? Were you watching what I just did?”
Oh shit. I peel my eyes away from her blonde bun and focus my attention on the sundae glass in front of her with a perfectly swirled strip of ice cream flowing all the way to the narrow tip of the bottom. How the hell did she do that?
“Uh . . .” Say something smart, something intelligent, say something that’s not going to piss her off. “You have nice hair.” Her eyes narrow on me and I cringe. Nope, not the right thing to say.
“Were you staring at my hair this entire time?”
“If I said yes, would you take that as a compliment?” I give her my most charming smile with an added push of my glasses up my nose.
“No. I would think you were a creep.”
Hmm . . . really not making a good impression here.
“Okay, then, uh, I blacked out for a second.”
Setting the sundae glass on the counter, she repeats, “You blacked out for a second.”
“Is my sundae ready?” Sherry interrupts.
Not even bothering to look behind her, Sadie holds up her hand and snaps, “Not yet, Sherry.”
Leaning forward, I whisper, “I thought we didn’t want to piss off the waitresses.”
Raising an eyebrow, she asks, “That’s what you paid attention to?”
Taking a deep breath, I try to reel this conversation back in. “Listen, I think we got off on the wrong foot. It seems like you’re angry at me for some reason.”
“Not at you. Mad at life.”
Well, that explains things.
Before I can even offer something remotely empathetic, she rolls her eyes and says, “Now pay attention. In order to create a good sundae, you have to flare the ice cream with the scoop to create a corkscrew to fit it down to the bottom, and then you do the ball scoop on top.”
For the next two hours, I stick closely to Sadie, watching her flare technique, trying to keep up with the orders, restocking of toppings and ice cream, as well as serving dishes, and ignore the fact that no matter how many jokes I crack, I can’t seem to break through the wall she’s built up around her.
Tossing a rag on the island in the middle of the fountain area, she says, “There’s a bit of a lull right now, why don’t you restock the chocolate and then wipe down the counters? I’ll man the counter and ticket machine.”
“Okay.”
Taking her direction, I head back to the freezer where the ice cream is, bypassing the grill and the waitstaff station where side salads are prepared and soup is poured. Sal is at the dishwashing machine, listening to his music while bobbing his head away. As I scoot by, he gives me a head nod, just like all the other times and I return the gesture. I never formally met him, just a nod in passing, but he seems like a nice older man. Apparently he’s been working the dishwasher machine for ten years. Doing dishes for ten years, now that’s dedication.
The freezer is full of food ready to be fried and ice cream ready to be scooped, not to mention it’s cold as balls. Luckily, it’s not one of those freezers you see in movies and TV shows where people get stuck. No, there is a handle on both ends, which is reassuring because now I don’t have to worry about some creepy initiation of someone locking me in the frigid cube.
Sifting through the boxes of ice cream, I find the chocolate and head back to the fountain area, nodding at Sal and nearly running into Denise, the head waitress, who Sadie specifically told me not to fuck with.
I don’t know what she thinks I’m planning, but fucking with people is not on the to-do list while I’m at work.
“Watch out, sweetheart. You don’t want to trip and fall on your first day, now do you?” Denise asks, carrying her tray away from me.
Tripping and falling on the slippery floors is also not on my to-do list. Although, I do see why the non-slip grip shoes are required.
Making my way back to the fountain area I find Sadie talking to a customer at the counter. Letting her handle the order, I get to work on replacing the chocolate ice cream, which requires scraping the sides of the old carton, pouring the remnants on the new carton, and changing the boxes out. It doesn’t seem like an ordeal, but it is.
In the midst of my scraping, I can’t help but overhear Sadie’s conversation with the customer who I’m assuming is a friend by the casual chatting and the way Sadie isn’t taking her order.
“Thanks for bringing my cough syrup. I need it.” Cough syrup? Sadie doesn’t seem to be sick. Maybe it’s preventative.
“Rough day?” the girl with the short brown hair and eclectic clothing asks.
“Yeah.” From the perch of me pretending to mind my own business, I can see Sadie sneak a glance at me and then speak softly, but not softly enough. “I have to train this annoying guy today.”
Annoying! When have I been annoying today?
Flashbacks of our few hours spent together float through my mind.
Jokes about sensitive ice cream.
Walrus straw guy.
Fingering the ice cream.
Bumper cars in confined spaces—yeah, she didn’t like that one all that much.
Maybe there were some annoying instances . . .
“He’s cute. What’s his name?”
Cute, huh? I would go with hot, handsome most of the time, elegant only when I’m in the shower, and of course sexy when I’m reciting all the elements from the periodic table, but I will cut the girl a break since she doesn’t know me yet.
“You have a boyfriend,” Sadie whispers.
“I know, but I can still look. What’s his name?”
“I don’t know. Adam?”
Adam? Now that is insulting. I know her name. I know her favorite ice cream—strawberry—because I asked five times until she told me. And dare I say it? I know what her face looks like if she has to pee because every time she’s wandered off to the bathroom, she’s scrunched her nose right beforehand. Scrunched face equals Sadie has to pee. I’m observant, I understand this, but she should at least say the right name while talking to her friend.
Knowing I will probably regret this, I lift from the freezer, ice cream scraper in hand, and jerk toward Sadie just in time to slip on some melted ice on the floor shooting me across the fountain and straight into Sadie.
But not just Sadie; straight into her chest—her billowing, womanly chest. It’s a satisfyingly soft cushion for my head but from her instant outrage, I’m going to guess she’s not keen on me using her breasts as a pillow.
“What the hell are you doing?” she asks, trying to back away, difficult when I’ve got her pinned against the counter.
Fumbling to get some kind of grasp on my falling body, scraper still in hand, I give her a bit of motor boat—not on purpose—and muffle in her breasts, “I’m sowwy.”
“Get off me.”
“I’m twying,” I say, finally getting a grip on the counter behind her and standing tall. Glasses askew, hat on the floor, and a smothered feeling on my face, I straighten my apron and clear my throat. “My apologies.” Her friend is laughing, hand on her stomach, as I push my glasses back on my nose. “Although, I’m grateful for your sturdy bosom for catching my fall. It might have been a twisty straw to the eye, and I’m not sure my glasses would have held up on such an impact.”
Sturdy bosom? Shit, Andrew, don’t fucking say words like bosom. And for the love of God, don’t say a woman has a STURDY bosom. Say words like tits. Tits are more manly.
“Tits,” I mutter.
“Excuse me?” Sadie has the look of horror on her face.
Fuck, did I say that out loud?
“I think he said tits, Sadie,” her friend cuts in, thumbing through the straw holder. Yup, I said tits out loud.
“I heard him, Smills,” Sadie mutters under her breath.
Glaring at me, looking for an answer, I shrug my shoulders, because I have nothing. No way of digging myself out of this one. Funny how your brain can literally stop working the minute you need it the most. Come on, old fella, kick it into
high gear. Come up with something witty, something snarky, something that will put a Band-Aid over this rather raw and embarrassing incident.
But, good fuck. I just had my face in her chest. What man could come back quickly from that?
“Well . . .” Sadie has her arms crossed over her bosom, waiting for an answer. No. Her arms are crossed over her breasts. Shit. Shit.
Nerves crawl up the back of my neck, igniting my ears into lava levels of heat. Crap. Just say anything.
Clearing my throat, I pat her shoulder and say, “Sturdy tits.”
And here I thought it couldn’t get any worse, at least my hand didn’t pat down her breast to see if her nipples were made of steel, or to see if her areolas consist of chain-link mesh. You have to look at the positive.
Leaning forward, Sadie moves in, inches from my face, a slight hint of vodka on her breath—huh? “Plant your head in my ‘bosom’ again, and I will be sure to use your dick as a straw for a milkshake.”
Gulping, I ask, “Can you make it a strawberry milkshake when you do? I tend to favor the pinky flavor.” She lets out a long huff of breath and just to make sure I’m securely buried in my grave, I add, “And it seems like your cough syrup is full of alcohol.”
“Thanks to you,” she mutters, brushing past me, knocking my shoulder in the process.
Real smooth, dickhead.
Silence falls over the fountain area, leaving me with Sadie’s friend. Pointing a straw at me and then sticking it in her mouth, she says, “I like you, Adam.”
Tossing her purse over her shoulder she heads for the door. “It’s Andrew.” To myself, I repeat, “It’s Andrew.”
Yup, great start to your first day at your first ever job. I’m a real winner.
Chapter Four
SADIE
“Sturdy tits is here, everyone,” Smills calls out from her lawn chair circling the bonfire.
Walking up to her, I plop down on the grass and say, “Don’t call me that.”
“I don’t know; it’s really starting to tickle my fancy. Sturdy tits, it fits you.”
I let my hair loose from the messy bun I had it in all day and bring my knees to my chest, looking past the flames. What a freaking long day.
“Why are we calling Sadie sturdy tits?” Saddlemire, Smilly’s boyfriend asks as he sits next to me, beer in one hand, a tonic in the other for me.
“Oh, she didn’t tell you on the drive over here? Why would you deprive him of such a story?”
Sipping down the classic Gatorade and vodka combination, I say, “Maybe because I didn’t think it was worth mentioning.”
“Anything about tits is worth mentioning,” Saddlemire answers.
Rolling my eyes, still looking out into the fire, I say, “The new kid I had to train today slipped and fell into my chest, then proceeded to tell me I had a sturdy bosom.”
A burst of laughter pops out of Saddlemire as well as Smilly. Glad I could amuse everyone.
“Oh shit, he really said bosom?”
I nod as Smilly says, “He did. I was there. When you left, Sadie, I told him I liked him. You should have invited him out here tonight. He looks like he could be a good time.”
“No,” I answer point-blank. “I’m not in the market for new friends.”
“Who’s talking about friends?” Smilly asks. “He’s a looker. He’s got that whole hot-nerd vibe going for him. Bet you he’s got Clark Kent superpowers under those glasses of his. Never know until you take him to a phone booth and strip him down.”
“Not going to happen.”
Shoving my shoulder, Saddlemire says, “Look, she’s blushing. She likes him.”
“I do not,” I shoot back.
“Oh my God, you so do. Sadie likes Adam.”
“It’s Andrew,” I correct, causing both Smilly and Saddlemire to open their mouths in surprise and laugh. They exchange knowing glances. Annoying glances.
“You so like him.”
“They’re practically engaged,” Saddlemire adds.
“I’m telling you right now, I don’t shop registries so don’t expect me to get you something from one.”
“I do,” Saddlemire points out. “Do you want the vacuum cleaner or the gravy boat?” Shrugging, he takes a sip of his beer. “Hell, I’m going for the bath towels.”
“No, get the bed sheets. That way we can take advantage of them when we house-sit for them.”
“Smart thinking.” Saddlemire winks at Smilly and then they both take a sip of their drinks.
Annoyed, I stand and say, “I’m out.”
“Aww, come on, Sadie. We’re just teasing.” Pausing, Smilly smirks. “I’ll make sure Saddlemire gets the gravy boat. I know how important it is to you.”
Flipping them off in the least ladylike way, I brush off my butt and head toward the house where I know I’ll find Emma straightening up and taking care of all the drunks in the group. Despite drinking my “cough syrup” at work, I have zero buzz. The minute Andrew figured out I was drinking at work, I felt so damn guilty. I stopped. Hence the shitty attitude I have right now.
Andrew.
Ugh, why does he have to be so . . . so . . . annoyingly attractive.
Yes, I admit it; it doesn’t hurt the eyes to look at him. It’s the exact opposite actually. It’s that damn smile of his, so innocent, so sweet and caring. No guy should have a sweet and caring smile. They should be devastating, almost cocky, not sweet and caring. And his eyes. They were kind, inquisitive, and interested in every freaking word I had to say. Every word I had to say about making sundaes. MAKING SUNDAES. Who cares that much about ice cream? It was almost like he didn’t care about the topic, but rather just enjoyed listening to me, which made me uncomfortable. I don’t want someone caring about what I have to say. I especially don’t want someone I can’t read in my circle. Is he actually intelligent beneath the sweetness? Or as dim-witted as I thought on first meeting him?
I have my people. Anyone else in the mix will just throw my life into a tailspin.
You must be thinking, what a bitch, right? This girl has a nice guy who has done nothing but act genuine, and yes, he might have motor-boated me a little, gave the balloons a little helium lift, but he didn’t mean to. I get it, he’s a good guy; it’s obvious. But this is what I know . . .
I know the value in relationships, platonic and romantic, and I don’t take advantage of them. I don’t just walk into them on a whim, pulling in the positive. I can’t. Being burned does that to you.
Broken woman, you ask?
You can say that, but I like to say realistic.
I’ve seen what a relationship can do to a person. I’ve seen it happen to my dad. I’ve seen his world get flipped upside down by my mother. I’ve seen a woman cut ties with all her children for a life never to be talked about. I’ve seen it firsthand. My dad curled up inside himself, and pushed my sisters and me into therapy. Rather than talking to us. Rather than listening to our thoughts.
I’ve had the comfort of trust and love ripped right from my hands and heart.
I don’t live in the sky, dreaming of all the possibilities this world has to offer me. I’m a realist, someone who sees the world as it is: dull and grey with limited potential.
That’s why I keep things to myself. I have my friends. They know my past, they accept me for who I am, and they let me be the realistic, slightly crotchety girl in the corner. No need to change anything about that. It works.
Opening the screen door, I make my way into the house where I call out Emma’s name, looking for a ride home. I know she won’t mind taking me to my car at work. She usually doesn’t stay too long at these parties.
“In the bathroom, Sadie,” she calls out. “Might need your help.”
Setting my drink down, I head down the narrow hallway and turn the corner to the bathroom where I see our pretty and very smart friend, Amy, naked ass in the air, bent over the tub and drinking from a straw. With a small wave, she says, “Hey Sadie, come on in.”
Let
me explain. Amy is going to school to become a doctor. She shared the valedictorian title with me in our graduating class. She’s incredibly intelligent, very book smart, but give her a drink and she becomes the hot-mess express, selling tickets for everyone to see.
“Amy, what do you have going on there?” I ask, resting my shoulder against the doorway.
Lips quirked to the side in disappointment, she says, “I sat in some poison ivy.”
“How did you do that?”
Emma pulls her head from under the sink cabinet and shakes a bottle of calamine lotion. “She saw fireflies and decided to chase them.”
Yup, your future MD right there. Frightening, isn’t it?
“They’re like fairies.” There’s a mystical awe in her voice.
“They’re bugs whose asses light up. Come on, Amy.”
Shrugging her shoulders, she continues to sip from her drink, not a worry or care in her right now. She’ll regret it tomorrow morning. She always does. It will be the classic Amy Apology. She sends out her group text apology for “acting immaturely” and then begs us not to mention anything to her mom, who would scare the stash off Hitler. It’s okay to have a Hitler reference here; she’s that scary.
“Do you plan on leaving anytime soon?” I ask Emma, who’s doing a very gentle job dabbing at Amy’s ass. Why she has poison ivy on her actual butt, I have no clue. I really don’t want to know.
“Didn’t you just get here?” Emma asks.
“Yeah, but I’m not feeling it tonight. I need a ride back to my car.”
“You’re leaving?” Amy whines. “We haven’t even had s’mores yet.”
“Next time.” I plaster on a fake smile and then say, “I’ll wait for you in the car, Emma.”
“Okay, give me a few minutes.”
Making my way past plastic cups, bottles of Hawaiian Punch, vodka, and a keg, I navigate toward Emma’s red Jetta parked off to the side so no one could block her in. You can always count on Emma for a ride.
“Leaving so soon?” That deep, rough, rustic-filled voice. I stop in my tracks. Of course he would be here. Why wouldn’t he? He never misses a get-together with our friends.