Bittersweet
Page 15
“A little break from all that rabbit food once in a while is a good thing in my book,” says one of the other guys.
“Whatever. I can’t wait to get out of this godforsaken town for Labor Day weekend, is all I’m saying,” I hear a female voice say, but I can’t tell if it’s Bethany or her sidekick. I do hear quite a few words of agreement. My blood suddenly starts to boil, but I jump when I hear the bell for order up. I look over at the pass and see all their appetizers lined up on the side. I grab two per arm and then go over and set them in the middle of their table with some force.
“You need a little help?” Greg asks quietly, but I ignore him. Only the idea of not wanting to upset my father stops me from tipping the food into Bethany’s lap, and his too.
“Here you go. Some delicious local food fresh from our kitchen,” I say with thinly disguised sarcasm, which I have a feeling only Greg caught. “Give me just a minute, I’ll be back with the rest.”
When I set the last of the plates down, I put my hands on my hips and force a smile. “All right. Now, those greens are cooked in a good dose of bacon grease, gives them that extra-delicious homey—excuse me, home-cooked—something. Go ahead, try some,” I say, staring at Bethany expectantly.
She doesn’t even bother to smile now, and I glance at Greg. He looks up at me, then away—probably because he can see the disappointed anger in my eyes. He knows I overheard them, but he’s still not saying anything.
“I don’t eat bacon,” Bethany says.
“Sure? You don’t know what you’re missing,” I retort. “Greg, how about you? I know you like local flavors, right?”
“Cathy…” he begins quietly.
“Am I wrong?” The others are staring at us now, only one or two of them half-heartedly picking at the food in front of them. Bethany’s eyes are narrowed, trying to figure out my not-so-subtle subtext. Greg looks increasingly uncomfortable, so mission accomplished as far as I’m concerned.
“No,” he murmurs. “This all looks great.”
“Doesn’t it?” I’m guessing he’s not finding my sarcasm so endearing now. A pretty big part of my heart constricts at how this has all panned out, but I ignore it. “Well, you folks enjoy your appetizers. I’m due a break, but one of my colleagues will be along with your entrees in just a little while. Thank you so much for coming to JJ’s.” I turn on my heel and walk away, hearing their whispers trail behind me.
Maybe that was a bad idea—but given the rage still coursing through my veins, it could have been a lot worse. To take my mind off it, I throw everything I have into concentrating on the customers who actually give a shit about this place, and then get one of the other waitresses to cover my tables while I go outside for some fresh air. I still can’t believe Greg just let her talk about us like that. Is he really so desperate to keep in with the stupid cast—with goddamn Bethany Keeler? Maybe I was completely wrong about him. I swallow back tears as I look through the window surreptitiously. Greg and Bethany are sitting close together, with him doing a lot of head-shaking (and jaw-clenching), until finally she seems appeased. He flashes her his million-watt smile, and that constricted part of my heart doubles in size.
As I head back inside, avoiding looking their way now, I hear their chairs scrape back against the tiled floors that are no doubt far too déclassé for Keeler and her hangers-on, and gather they’re all finally leaving. I duck into the kitchen to avoid them as they go, but I glance through the pass just in time to see Greg help Bethany shrug on her sweater. She looks over her shoulder and smiles up at him, but I can’t see his expression because his back’s to me. I do see him pull out his wallet and add several bills to the tip they’ve left on the table. Great, so a few extra dollars is supposed to make up for their obnoxiousness, and his—
My thoughts halt as I see Greg turn around and come toward the open kitchen door. I swallow hard and rush to the corner of the room, but I hear Bob’s cheerful voice greet him.
“Hey, Bob,” I hear Greg say. I keep my back turned, pretending to help with some plate garnishes. “Thanks a lot for tonight.”
“Yeah, your friend’s a little fussy, ain’t she?” Bobby says evenly, though I know he’s pretty pissed off because he told me so.
“Yeah, I’m sorry. It’s all macrobiotic this, carb-free that in their world. Grub was fantastic as always.”
“Should find yourself a real Southern woman who appreciates good food,” Bobby chuckles, though I know what he’s doing. I want to tell him not to waste his time. Out of the corner of my eye I see them shake hands with a little laughter, but then they quieten, and I can tell some kind of non-verbal communication is happening. I try to blend into the chrome surfaces, unsuccessfully.
“Cathy?” Greg says, and I turn around, folding my arms and avoiding his eyes—but already I know that if he just told me he was sorry about tonight, I would forgive him. Like I said, I’m a sucker. Eventually I take a chance and look up at him. He shoves his hands in his pockets, his eyes never wavering now they’re on mine. He actually seems kind of mad, but suddenly I can’t tell if it’s at me or himself. Maybe both. He takes a breath, but then his cast-mates call for him. He sighs. “I better go.” He starts out, then pauses. “Bye,” he says quietly.
He goes back to the others, and I see Bethany link her arm through his as he holds the door open for her and her assistant to pass through. She shoots a look back over her shoulder, her eyes searching until they rest on mine.
I quickly turn away, feeling shitty and tired and really pissed off about it all.
And then, in some sad space in my mind, I realize that Greg actually said goodbye to me.
Chapter Twenty-One
Labor Day weekend is living up to its name so far. I managed to grab two days in a row off after the whole debacle of Greg and Bethany and all their TV buddies coming to the restaurant, but now I’m paying for it—it’s all hands on deck for the annual Joe Johnson’s Labor Day cookout. Even Carl’s been roped into setting out flags and helping offload the shit-ton of folding chairs my dad’s rented. Mayor Castellano always closes off the street and lets us spill out over the parking lot and onto the sidewalk; there are two grass verges nearby and the whole area will soon be heaving with people.
For now, given that the sun has barely risen and I’m on my fourth cup of coffee, I know it’s going to be a long day. I haven’t been sleeping great, and even with a pep talk from Max about letting sleeping dogs lie and cheat and good riddance etc. etc., I can’t help feeling bummed out about the way Greg’s flipped a 180 and become the most distant guy in Dogwood. I’ve heard nothing from him since that night—no texts, no calls, nada. Anyway, now most of the cast has gone home for the long weekend, I’m guessing he’s either back breathing smoggily superior New York air, or maybe even snuggled up to Bethany on a flight to La La Land. The thought makes the coffee churn in my stomach.
But my mood brightens a little when I see Hal pulling his truck out of the way once the last of the chairs has been offloaded. He offered to help out this morning, before he heads to Roanoke to see his grandmother for the weekend. She’s the sweetest lady, and she was sick this past spring so I know he’s been anxious about her.
“Hey, Cath, let me grab one of those,” he says, seeing me struggling with three sacks of disposable napkins, plates, and cutlery.
I smile at him gratefully, and then laugh as I notice him eyeing Bobby painting marinade onto rows and rows of rib-racks.
“Man, I can’t believe I’m missing out on Bob’s barbecue,” Hal says longingly. I witnessed him demolish two giant steaks, a dozen chicken wings, and a foot-long rack of ribs like it was nothing last year, so I know he’s in pain.
“I’d say I’d save you some, but from the sounds of it this year’s going to be the biggest yet,” I say, actually feeling proud—and glad at the boost for JJ’s. “As long as Joe hasn’t blown the budget on all these chairs and decorations, we should do pretty well today.” I know he’s ordered all prime meat despite my advice t
o go a little cheaper, so I start to redo some of the signs to hike up the price of the burgers and wings some more. Sometimes I think my dad imagines we’re just feeding people out of the goodness of our hearts.
Hal sets the sacks down by one of the serving tables, then runs over toward Carl and they start to play-fight, until my dad tells Carl to get back to work putting ice in the coolers.
“Take it easy on the kid,” I call, and shake a finger at Hal too. “He only just got over the flu, remember?”
Joe puts an arm around Carl’s neck and ruffles his hair until he cringes, then waves over at me. “He can handle it, big sis,” he calls with a smile, but the crease in his brow as he lets Carl go and hustles off to another table tells me Joe’s feeling stressed about today going right. I for one am going to do everything I can to make sure my dad doesn’t get too riled up.
Two hours later, Bobby finally fires up the two giant grills and people start to arrive. In spite of Joe’s protests, I charge a dollar-per-paper-plate fee before people even fork out for the food—but nobody seems to mind. The delicious smells drifting off the barbecue are already making my mouth water, and I know as soon as they sail down the street we’ll have people lining up around the block.
Sure enough, the street in front of the restaurant is soon heaving with people, and the hot noon sun makes me glad that I put on sunblock and that Joe splashed out on some umbrellas for more shade once the spots under the trees get too crowded.
“Cath, can you be a doll and grab the rest of the burger patties out the fridges?” Bobby calls over to me, tightening the bandana he’s tied around his forehead to catch the sweat. He looks pretty stressed out, and for Bob to look stressed means things are really getting hectic. I grab a beer from the cooler and throw it over to him.
“Sure thing,” I say quickly, and smile as he presses the cold bottle to his neck and winks.
I hustle back inside, glad of the shade. Even in shorts and a strappy vest I’m roasting, and I vaguely think I should find Joe and make sure he’s staying hydrated, before remembering that he’s a grown man. I will force Carl to drink some water though—he won’t escape my mothering. I sigh at that thought, and then decide to grab a quick drink from the faucet in the kitchen myself, bending over to let the water from the sink run cold before pressing my lips to the stream. But I straighten up quickly, water dripping from my chin, when I hear a voice behind me.
“Hey.”
I wipe my chin quickly, cursing silently when I see the drops darkening the front of my pale-blue top. “Greg? What… What are you doing here?”
“Bobby asked me if I could come grab the rest of the marinade, and the steaks.”
I stare at him. Does not compute. “No, I mean… Why are you here? I-I thought everyone was heading home for the weekend.”
The image of Bethany snuggled up to him in first-class vanishes in a puff of air, and I’m not quite sure what to make of the relieved lightening in my stomach.
“Oh, I’m not… I mean, things back home are…” He takes a breath. “I just decided to stay here. Then I was happening by, saw the cookout, and Bobby roped me in right away. So I better, uh…” He heads over to the fridge, and I do the same, but hover, watching Greg’s back as his white T-shirt clings to his muscles there. Guess he’s a little hot too. I wait until he’s found what he needs before I reach in quickly and grab the tray of beef patties. He leans away from me like I might burn him. The uncontrolled thrill I had at seeing him here rapidly ebbs away.
“Well, thanks for grabbing these, but I can take them out to Bobby,” I say, though even with my octopus arms I know I’ll need to make two trips, so that was a dumb thing to say. “I mean, you don’t have to help out. Really,” I add sternly, remembering his attitude to JJ’s last time I saw him.
“I don’t mind,” Greg says simply, and walks out the kitchen with the stuff before I can protest.
I follow him back to the grill, where Bobby quickly gets one of the other chefs to start cooking another batch of burgers, and points to the marinade. “New York, get going with these steaks, would you? We can use all the help we can get here,” he says quickly, looking at the line stretching back, people holding their paper plates patiently.
“Sure,” Greg says, and pulls on a pair of the thin latex gloves from the box on the table nearby. I can’t help standing there for a moment, a little dumbfounded. I don’t get it—only a couple days ago he was acting like this place was beneath him when his Bittersweet buddies were around, but now he’s rolling up his sleeves and getting dirty with us?
But I don’t have time to dwell on it—the lemonade dispenser is empty, and we need more ice, and plates, and napkins, and… I hurry through the crowd, stopped every couple feet by a classmate from high school, a friend of my dad’s, or one of the Bittersweet crew members still in town and glad of some good grub. I glance over to the grill every so often to see Greg following Bobby’s instructions and acting for all the world like he’s not in town to star in a big-time TV show. I’ve never been more confused, but much as I hate to admit it, it’s really endearing that he’s helping out. Of course, I’m predisposed to find him endearing, in spite of everything. But I don’t get it—why the shitty behavior before?
If I really allow myself to think about it though, I think I know why, because he tried it before. I have a feeling he wants me to see him as that asshole guy, pushing me away for whatever reason so that “we” don’t happen. I know my reasons for having some doubts about the idea—heartbreak-phobia, actor-phobia, abandonment-phobia… But I’m no closer to truly knowing his. He told me he was still broken from the last time, but it’s almost embarrassing how much I want to put the pieces back together for him. To just be around him, to talk … to kiss … to—
I jump as I feel fingers tickle my ribs from behind.
“Meeeaaaat,” Maxi drones into my ear, like she’s a zombie with an alternative diet.
“Hi,” I say, smiling at her and Todd as she wraps her arm around his waist. “Grab some plates, guys. You’re lucky you got here while there’s still some left.”
Max nods eagerly and starts over toward the grill, but then turns back to me, mouth agape. “Hold up. Is that who I think it is?” she says when she can maneuver her jaw again.
I sigh. “Yep. He’s not going back home apparently, and Bobby loves the guy, so there he is. Being helpful.” I shrug and shake my head.
Maxine regards me, and then we both look over at Greg as he smothers more corn on the cobs with butter. “O-kaaaay,” she says slowly. “Well, I don’t get it, so I can only imagine how you’re feeling.” She reaches over to touch my arm sympathetically. “Want my advice?”
“Always.” Oh, god, or maybe not…
“Just go with your gut and do what you think is right.”
I tilt my head to one side. “Seriously? What happened to cutting his balls off?”
She grins and grabs Todd’s hand again as his eyes widen. “As long as he’s being a sweetie like this, his balls can remain intact. But that could just be the hunger talking.” She starts to drag Todd away. “Come on, honey bear, let’s go get some steaks. See you later, C,” she calls over her shoulder. Girl really loves her beef.
And Greg really is being kind of a sweetie. So why’s he been so sour to me?
Chapter Twenty-Two
If I never see another gnawed chicken bone or sauce-smeared napkin again, it will be too soon. I haul another sack of garbage into the dumpster and use my arm to wipe the sweat from my brow. Even now the sun’s beginning to set, I can feel the hot day clinging to me like a wet shower curtain. I can’t wait to get cleaned up.
“You’re a prince among men,” I hear Joe bellow from across the parking lot, and I turn around to see him pumping Greg’s hand in both of his while Greg looks embarrassed. He stayed all day, helping Bobby with the grill and even helping us with the clean-up. But he hasn’t said a word to me since the kitchen. Not that I’ve gone out of my way to talk to him either…
Easy, right?
My eyes in the mirror say something different, but I ignore them too.
Still, I decide to hover until I don’t hear my dad’s voice thanking him for the hundredth time, and figure Greg’s gone. I smooth back my ponytail and press a paper towel to my face, making sure I don’t look too blotchy and red from the heat, just in case, but when I head back out, I sigh with relief as I see Greg is already halfway down the street, heading back toward Hazelwood. Suddenly I realize I’m dog tired.
“Joe, you need me for anything more tonight?” I ask, and my dad breaks away from the guys winding down with a beer, and Carl with a Coke. He ambles over to me and kisses my forehead, contentedly humming one of his favorite tunes. He’s obviously in a good mood, and it’s really nice to see. I squeeze into his side a little before I pull away.
“Thank you, sweetheart. You’ve done more than enough. But if you want to stick around, I’ll get the jukebox going, little after-party for the staff…?” Joe grins and does a little shuffle with his ample frame, and I can tell he’s been making more than a few trips to the beer cooler over the course of the afternoon. But then he glances away, and I know his eyes are following Greg. “But maybe you have plans?” he says slyly. I cringe. If only he knew how wrong he was. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says. “Oh, and great idea for the plate charge.” He grins, pointing to two large jars full of dollar bills over on one of the folding tables.
I tap my head with one finger. “There’s more ideas where that came from,” I say. “You’ve just got to let someone else make some choices once every now and then.”