The Reason I Stay

by Patty Maximini

  A woman at one of my tables raises her hand, calling me at the same time that his phone rings. I nod and turn to walk to the table as he takes his call. I’m two steps away from him when the words, “Hey, sugar,” come out of his mouth.

  I want to vomit. I want to cry. I want to kick him in the nuts. I want to punch my own gut for slacking at work because of this douchebag.

  My hands shake as I take the woman’s order and walk back toward the kitchen. Unfortunately, I have to walk by him on my way, and though he winks at me, I also hear him say, “You know I miss you too.”

  Jen and our other coworker, Anna, are at the window placing orders. They both look at me with big-ass smiles on their lips that disappear once they see my face.

  “What happened?” Jen asks.

  I shake my head, and clip the order on the wheel. “I don’t want to talk about it. But one of you needs to handle booth nine.”

  Jen’s brows furrow as she looks at me.

  Anna turns her narrowed blue eyes from me to Mathew. “I thought there was something happening between y’all.” I shake my head. “‘Kay, I got him. Do I need the bat?” I shake my head again. She walks away, her blond ponytail swaying back and forth.

  Jen opens her mouth to ask what’s happening again, but I raise a palm at her. “I just need a minute.”

  She looks behind me. Her eyes narrow as she points her chin toward the hallway leading to the bathroom. “Sure.”

  After all the breaks I took today, I give myself three minutes to feel sorry for myself. I throw some water over my neck, call myself stupid for breaking my three-year man-hating streak with him, and avoid the mirror in case I decide that punching it will be the same as punching my own face. Once all of that is over, I take a deep breath and walk out of the bathroom.

  The moment I step out I see Mathew is standing in the corridor right in front of the bathroom’s door. His back is against the wall, ankles casually crossed, and hands inside his shorts pockets. Instinctively, I want to turn around and walk back into the bathroom, but this entire day has revealed a new Lexie, one he’s brought out of hiding, and one that makes me cringe just thinking about. I’m done with it.

  I walk straight past him without even acknowledging his presence. “Wait a sec,” he says, but I continue to walk, and then he materializes in front of me. “Why do I have a new waitress?”

  I glare at him. “I don’t know, sugar. Ask your date, maybe she knows.”

  The son-of-a-bitch has the nerve to give me an ear-to-ear grin. I take a sideways step to get away from him, but he shadows me. I try to move around him again, but he continues to block my path.

  “I have to go back to work,” I blurt out, frustrated.

  “And you will, as soon as you tell me why I have a new waitress.” He’s looking me straight in the eyes, and I’m doing everything to avoid looking at him. “Because I think I’ve made it pretty clear that I come over to see and to talk to you, not to some other waitress.”

  “And I must have made a pretty convincing point about needing you to be an asshole, because you’re being one. A huge one.” I finally look him in the eyes. Mine are, hopefully, full of anger, while his are pure blue cockiness. “A date, Mathew? Here? Really?”

  He shrugs, and tilts his head. “I don’t know why you’re so mad about it. I thought you didn’t care. You don’t even like me.”

  The son-of-a-bitch!

  “And I was beginning to believe that you did,” I deadpan.

  Mathew takes a step toward me and reaches for my hand. His fingers skim over mine, sending shockwaves all over my body. I want to pull away, but something won’t let me. I’m betting on stupidity.

  “Good,” he whispers, so close his minty breath fans on my face. He moves from one foot to the other as he continues, “Because I do. A lot. In fact, you’re the only woman in this town I’m interested in taking on a date.”

  And now I’m confused. I swallow a dry lump in my throat and try to find my voice to call him out on his crap, but Mathew takes another step closer to me. At this proximity, his gaze and his eyes feel more intimate than the fingers he laces with mine. He’s so close that I can feel the heat of his breath with even the tiniest exhale. But it’s his eyes, and the way he’s looking at me that get me the most. I can no longer pull my own away; it’s as if he’s drawing me to him, reading my entire story, discovering the depths of who I am and refusing to let go of the hold he has on me all at once. But in the storm of blues and grays that color his irises, I also see the smallest hint of vulnerability.

  My gaze falls to his lips—those lips—that are so close I could kiss them with the smallest movement of my head. Momentarily, I forget how much I hate that I can’t fight this attraction I feel for him, and as my head starts to spin, all thoughts of dates and sugar slip from my mind.

  A sound comes from behind me. I can’t make out what it is, but it makes Mathew’s lips dance with a barely there smile. Then, he twists his head, and calls over his shoulder, “I found her.”

  Still a little stunned, it takes me a while to return to earth. When I do, he’s standing next to me, revealing Kodee, who is wearing a pretty dress instead of her usual shorts and tee, skipping toward us. I look at Mathew’s smug face, a question mark no doubt clear on my furrowed brow.

  Through smirking lips, he mouths, my date. And then he presses his fingers a bit tighter around mine at the same time that Kodee reaches us.

  Without even a greeting, she places her hands on her hips, and blurts out, “Jen told Gammy you have bad shitters, but you’re still gonna be able to be our waitress, right? Anna doesn’t know how I like my lemonade, Lexie.”

  Several things follow at once. Mathew belts out a laugh, I reprimand Kodee for her mouth, and mentally curse Jen. Despite it all, as the three of us walk back to booth nine, where Jill and Larry Valentine are waiting, I can finally breathe.

  Considering the late hour and how busy we tend to get on Thursday nights, I stop by their table as often as I can, which isn’t often at all. During those visits, we all talk a little, and my heart melts at the sight of Kodee so happy. Mathew gives me the wondering eyes and makes comments filled with innuendos, but I don’t play into them.

  The truth is that between him staying, this afternoon, whatever game he played on me tonight, and the mystery that is “sugar,” I’m thoroughly confused, scared, and unwilling to let myself care for him any more than I already do, because he could crush me with a finger. But in spite of that, when I pass by their booth to go help Jen and Anna remove tables to turn The Jukebox from diner to bar, my body goes numb when his hand touches mine.

  I look down and see a square of white paper between his fingers, so I take it. I wait until I’m at the back room where we store the tables to open it.

  I stare at that simple line for a while, considering if I should reply or not. I have no idea what’s happening between us. Regardless of my uncertainty, I take a pen from my pocket.

  I fold the paper and inconspicuously hand it to Mathew as I walk back to remove some chairs. When I return from the storage room, Mathew calls me over for the check, and hands me another folded napkin.

  Thrilled and scared shitless by that note, I don’t give myself time to overthink all the infinite ways this could end badly. I quickly ring Mathew’s check and pull out my pen from my pocket.

  The moment I hand him the check and see the smile on his lips, I no longer care if my heart will be broken or not. Whatever this is, I’m in.

  Lexie stops right in front of me with a bottle of Jack and a clean tumbler in her hands. “It’s your last chance, and she’s insisting.”

  I don’t even look at the redhead at the other end of the bar who’s been eye-fucking me and offering drinks for the past three hours, and though normally I’d be all over her—literally—I’ve been refusing them all night. The reason for that is quite obvious: Lexie. However, since I returned from walking the Valentines home, she hasn’t spared me more than a few seconds. I get that she�
��s been busy behind the bar all night, but she had time to chat with Jen and Anna, and to talk to some douchebag sitting with his douchebag friends by the jukebox, so I don’t see why she doesn’t have time for me.

  “No thanks,” I reply.

  Lexie’s lips flutter into a hint of a smile as she sets the bottle and glass over the counter and shakes her head to the redhead. With a pout and a last lingering glance my way, the woman walks out of The Jukebox.

  Even though I’ve offered Lexie almost as many drinks as the redhead offered me, and she’s refused them all, I can’t resist offering one more. “Are you going to make me pout and walk out like she did, or will you let me buy you a drink? Last chance.”

  “Working.” She points her chin to the table with the douchebags, seriously tempting me to go over and kick their asses for no other reason than being here.

  I sigh and fidget in my seat, convinced that I took my be-an-asshole-until-she-admits-she-likes-you plan a little too far, and lost her interest in the process. I hate myself for it, but what I hate even more is that instead of saying “fuck it” and running after the redhead, I’m sulking and wondering why she can’t ask Jen or Anna to handle those dicks so she can finally talk to me.

  It’s official. I’ve turned into a fucking girl.

  Decided to stop this pathetic behavior and save whatever self-respect I still have left, I take a breath and stand up. When I look at Lexie to say good night, she’s got a deep frown and wide eyes.

  “Are you leaving?” She looks from me to that table, and then back at me. “I thought you were gonna stay a while.”

  The disappointment in her voice brings me an immeasurable amount of relief.

  I cock a brow at her. “Should I? You haven’t paid attention to me all night.”

  Lexie shakes her head as if she’s frustrated, and without replying, bends over to pick something from under the counter. When she straightens up again, she places a sheet of paper in front of me, and taps her finger over it a few times. My eyes drift toward it as she walks to the register at the back of the bar without saying another word.

  The paper she gave me is a spreadsheet. It seems like the shift and duties division for the week. I look at the box that says “Thursday night” and see that Lexie and Anna are listed as working the tables and Jen as working the bar.

  As soon as it sinks that she switched duties so she could stay close to me, my eyes bounce back to her. She smiles and winks at me as I drop my ass back on the barstool. I have no doubt that this is the day hell froze over. After all, a woman is being smoother than I am—which has never happened before in my life—and I have a fucking case of the butterflies. This just isn’t right.

  From my seat I watch her talking to those ass-clowns. One of them, a dude with a bulldog’s face and black hair, keeps trying to grope her. My fists clench involuntarily. I consider jumping up and going over there, but Lexie slaps his hand and points at the door. The vein popping in her forehead makes me remember last Saturday, when I was on the receiving end of her rage. That’s not a welcome memory, so I push it aside, and focus on feeling proud of her for standing up for herself.

  Lexie shakes her head as she walks over to where Jen is mopping the floor. My eyes, however, remain with the idiots. They seem to argue for a while. A tall man with sandy hair does most of the talking; he looks from Lexie to bulldog-dude a lot, before slapping some money over the table and guiding the group out.

  When I return my eyes from the door to Lexie, she’s making her way over to me. Her hair and dress sway around her, making her look like an angel, and in that second I’m completely convinced that I’ve never seen anything as pretty as she is. Our eyes stay locked together until she’s seated in the barstool next to me. Her body is turned toward me, and her crossed legs demand my attention. She’s got the most beautiful legs I’ve seen: long, silky and perfect.

  “Do you mind drinking from that one?” Lexie asks, calling my attention back to her face.

  She’s holding the bottle of Jack she left over the counter earlier, and points at my used tumbler. I shake my head. “Not at all.”

  With a smile, she pours me a double and another for herself in the clean glass she left beside the bottle. We both pick up our glasses.

  “What are we drinking to?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. You’re the one buying it, so you tell me.”

  I arch a brow at her. “Okay, here’s to you finally being off work and accepting my drink.”

  She laughs and clicks her glass with mine. We both take a swig of our drinks. Her face twists, and she lets a throaty groan that does things to my body as she swallows the amber liquid. That sound is almost as sexy as the sight of her drinking my drink, one most women can’t handle. I decide then and there that this won’t be the last time we drink together.

  “Technically I’m still on the clock, so I’m only taking this one. I gotta clean the tables and the bar before I’m officially off-duty,” she tells me, and takes another sip. “But at least now we’re alone. No people to gossip about how I’m accepting drinks from a patron during work hours.”

  I take my eyes away from her for a second to look around at the completely empty room. Even Jen is nowhere in sight. I like it.

  “I’ll help if you drink another.”

  She angles a brow at me. She does that a lot. I’m starting to understand the nuances in that expression. So far I’ve been able to identify two different types of arched brow: the one that rises all the way up is always paired with a grim line in her lips, and is a clear sign that I’m being a jerk; and the one that goes halfway up, just enough to accentuate the soft curve and bring more attention to her green eyes . . . I’m gathering that this second type, the one I’m looking at right now, is related to flirting.

  With a ghost of a smile on her lips, she asks, “You want to help? Like, help cleaning?”

  Actually, what I want is to spend more time with you than just one drink. “Sure.”

  She tilts her head at me and narrows her eyes, as if she’s not buying it. “You know I’m not sleeping with you, right? Trying to get me drunk won’t help with that.”

  I’m glad I swallowed my last gulp before she said that, otherwise I’d have spat whiskey all over her because I belt out a laugh. I can’t help it.

  When my outburst ends and I open my eyes, she’s staring at me with Arched Brow Number One. “Is the idea of sex with me laughable, Mathew?”

  I fight the urge to laugh again. “It’s Matt. And absolutely not, but the idea that I’d have to get you drunk for that is.”

  The moment those words exit my lips, I know I said shit. I close my eyes, trying to come up with a way to fix it, but a coaster hits my forehead, demonstrating I’m past the point of salvation. The words that follow prove that point further.

  “So you’re calling me easy?”

  I laugh again, but this time it’s due to my fucking nerves. And once more I wonder what the hell is wrong with me. I don’t get nervous like this.

  “No, you’re the opposite of easy. Actually, you’re the hardest woman I’ve ever met, which I really like. I just know how persuasive I am.”

  A smile dances on her lips, and she takes another sip of her drink. “So why do you want to help me clean a bar?”

  I shrug, trying to look nonchalant. “There are a lot of reasons why.”

  “Like?”

  “Like needing some good bar karma, and wanting to buy you one more drink,” I counter with a low tone and a side-smile. “Maybe I’ll even convince you to dance a song with me.”

  We stare at each other in silence. I take a sip of my drink, and she smiles as her eyes drift down to my mouth. Her pupils dilate. The sight makes my body shiver and tighten. I drink slowly, reveling in the blush that creeps up her neck and cheeks. It’s hard to explain how much I like her reactions to me. She can keep her shit together better than me, and as weird as it sounds, it drives me a bit further into Crazyville.

  After a while, she parts her
lips and takes a breath, making my eyes drift to her mouth, which is now moving. I force myself to focus on her words. “. . . do you need good bar karma?”

  In a sliver of second, my brain goes from being filled with thoughts of her lips and my lips and the fun they could have together to being flooded with memories that never bothered me until now.

  I shake my head, forcing the thoughts and the frown I feel forming between my eyes away. “I’ve participated in the wreckage of four bars since I turned twenty-one.”

  Lexie narrows her eyes but keeps a smile on her lips. “C’mon.”

  “I’m not proud, but it’s true.”

  She peels her eyes from me and looks down at her glass. “What was it? Fighting?”

  There’s very little in life that makes me uncomfortable in an emotional way. I’ve been naked in public, I’ve been caught having sex on a couch that wasn’t mine, and I’ve had people talking good and bad things about me, but none of those things has ever made me uncomfortable or fidgety. This subject does. Discussing it with Lexie, a woman who is good and the absolute opposite of me, makes me even more so. However, there’s something about her that makes me open my mouth.

  “Mostly, yes. Every bar has a girl with wandering eyes, and a boyfriend. That shit never works out for anyone. But usually it’s just guys being too drunk and stupid. I’m good at keeping my shit together when I’m drinking, but not always, and my friends back home . . . well, they tend to get a little out of control.”

  I’m ready for her to look at me with judgment in her eyes, or to swallow the remains of her drink and tell me to go away, but she does neither. She looks back at me with a kind gaze and a barely there smile. “I’m thinking you may need something a bit more extreme to fix your karma. Cleaning the men’s room, perhaps?”

  I look at her with wide eyes that scream hell no—or at least, I hope they do—and slowly shake my head.