Sliding my hand into my pocket, I pull out my pen and writing pad just as I reach the table.
“Hi, I’m Lyra and I’ll be your server today. Can I start y’all out with some drinks?” I glance up at my customers, and my eyes are immediately owlish. “Nash,” I breath out, doing my best to ignore the tiny flutters inside my stomach.
Who put him in my section? Teresa is a local, so there’s no way she’s unaware of the strain between our two families. Now it’s up to me to state the obvious and fix the mistake.
“Um, this is my section you’re sitting in…” I hint, attempting to give him an out.
“So I’ve been told,” he smirks.
I glance over to Teresa—who’s eyeing us curiously— before tentatively checking over the rest of the dining area. Every other section is completely full, which must be why he was placed here.
“I want some juice,” Ari speaks up.
I smile at him, realizing the little guy is obviously hungry which has put Nash in the precarious position of taking the first available seat.
“Okay, uh, I’m sure I can get one of the other girls to take an extra table. They’re always eager for a few extra bucks,” I laugh hollowly as I meet his gaze.
Nash’s eyes narrow at me as I back away from the duo. Of course, I notice right off the bat that their bright green hue a little duller than usual, a tint of redness to them like he’s had a rough night. His shiny russet hair is tousled carelessly, making me think he’s ran his hands through it for hours on end.
Yeah, he definitely doesn’t want the added stress of having to deal with the girl whose father ruined his life.
“I asked for her to put me in your section,” comes his cool reply, his gaze still a little icy.
“Oh.” I blink slowly, trying to wrap my head around his admission. “Why?” I find myself asking before I can stop myself.
“Because I wanted you to be my waitress.” He leans forward, lowering his voice as he speaks slowly like he’s talking to someone who’s incapable of understanding. Which I guess, technically, I am.
Maybe he’s had a bad morning and wants to make me his punching bag. It’s the only thing that makes sense, and I can’t even be mad at him for it. Half the town has done it at one time or another. You would think after nearly a decade passing by, the animosity everyone feels toward us Knightley’s would die down.
Regrettably, that isn’t the case.
Get your shit together, Lyra, my inner-monologue suggests.
“Okay, well, what can I get y’all to drink?”
If I could use one word to describe myself in this moment, it would be shaky. My voice quivers as I ask a question I’ve asked thousands of times in my waitressing career. My insides are quaking. My heartbeats register in my ears as erratic and irregular. My unsteady hand puts pen to paper.
My letters look like they’ve been written by a doctor who’s pushing through the final hours in one Hell of a long shift—running off of nothing but energy drinks and vending machine-fare. Luckily, I’m the only one who needs to be able to read the drink order, but I’ll definitely need to get my shit together for real before attempting to take their breakfast order.
“Is anyone else joining you?” My gaze lands on the empty seat across from the, and my tone comes out annoyingly meek. I bite down on my lip to make sure it’s not trembling too.
“No.” Nash’s reply is immediate, and he comes off a little standoffish. As if thinking the same thing I am, he clears his throat, quickly adding a little more kindly, “It’s just the two of us.”
I nod, fighting back the urge to ask where his fiancée is and if he’s okay since he looks a little rough and apparently isn’t in the greatest of moods…but maybe he’s just like my brother when he’s gone too long between meals. As in, having the personality of a bear that’s just come out of hibernation.
Regardless of the reason, it’s none of my business, and it wouldn’t be polite to pry. At least, that’s what I’ll keep telling myself.
I offer a kind smile as I step away from the table, throwing out a “be right back with your drinks,” as I walk toward the kitchen.
As soon as I’m off the floor, it’s as if I can breathe a little easier and like my anxiety triples at the same time.
Ugh, who cares if he requested me?
I have a mind to give him to one of the other waitresses anyway. I know Mindy would take him—she’s always eager to wait on all the good-looking guys who come in, yet I can’t find it in myself to give him up.
While filling the drink order, I settle on the alternative of giving myself a good mental pep-talk, kindly reminding myself of how far I’ve come in building up my self-confidence. Some hottie with piercing green eyes won’t cause it to falter. I mean, he’s only the guy I’ve had a constant-crush on from the age of eight.
“It’s just regular ol’ Nash out there. He’s just like all the other fish in the sea—nothing special about him,” I mumble to myself, resorting to the tried-and-true tactic of using ordinary and dull terms to describe him in the hopes it’ll trick my mind into believing it’s true. “I can do this. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
But what about the last time he was in town? What about the fact you threw yourself at him and he turned you down cold?
The annoying little voice in my head, otherwise known as self-doubt, has this uncanny ability of rearing its ugly head at the most inconvenient of times.
That was practically a lifetime ago, I answer, finally gathering up the courage to head back out. He’s probably forgotten about that incident altogether. My waiting on him and Ari is going to go smooth as butter.
I always have been phenomenal at telling myself lies…
~XoXo~
Confidence is my main concern when I head back out with the tray of drinks. My head is held high, my shoulders rolled back as I attempt to exude poise.
That is, until I step on a wet spot on the tiles, sliding the last few inches to the table and coming to an abrupt spot once I hit the edge of it. It’s all I can do to keep the glasses from sliding off the edge and all over the two of them. I can’t, however, keep the coffee from sloshing out and plopping right onto the front of Nash’s crisp white shirt.
I stare in wordless horror, my stomach still knotted up from the near-fall.
He glances at the obscene stain marring his shirt expressionlessly, then his piercing eyes turn to mine, filled with amusement.
Amusement that quickly transforms into annoyance.
I want to shrink back into myself and disappear.
I gulp.
“Shi—” I stop myself before uttering the dirty word in front of Ari. “Oh, God. I’m so, so sorry.”
Nash blots at the wet spot with a napkin, although it’s a futile point, tossing the towel down in defeat when he realizes this.
“They must not put potential employees through a training period here,” he mutters out of nowhere, focusing his attentions on unwrapping a straw and shoving it through the hole in the top of Ari’s cup.
“No, actually. They don’t usually,” I admit, not sure where he’s going with this, yet still pretty certain it’s a jab at me.
“Clearly. Or else someone as graceful as you would never have landed the job,” he muses, a smirk tugging at his beautiful mouth—make that kissable mouth.
I narrow my eyes at him, huffing irritably. I should be relieved he’s teasing me instead of blowing up about his shirt. I want to kiss said mouth with my fist instead.
“Right, well, what can I get y’all to eat?”
I jot down the order, focusing extra hard on making sure my writing is legible and trying not to sweat it when he watches my every move. It’s like he’s scrutinizing the way I hold the pen, the way I stand while I’m doing it, and probably even my facial expressions.
I adjust my stance accordingly, turning my body so that my bad side is hidden from his view. I hate when people stare so intrusively, not so much because I’m self-conscious, but becau
se I’m scared of how they’ll react if they end up seeing more than they bargained for. There’s more here than meets the eye.
His gaze continually slides over me everywhere like I’m some piece in a museum that he’s just been dying to study. Or more likely in this case, I’m the star-attraction of the freak show. Maybe I should do a little curtsy before leaving—you know, since I’m obviously serving as some sort of entertainment for him.
As soon as I repeat the order back to him and he verifies I’ve gotten it right, I make my escape to the kitchen, desperate to get away from him.
I’m even more irritated that Jimmy gets the food out in an ultra-timely fashion and I’m literally marching right back out minutes later.
Except this time, he has company.
Shit.
I set the plates down without a hitch, giving his Aunt and Uncle a tight-lipped smile that isn’t returned. No surprise there.
“Will y’all be dining today? Can I get y’all something to drink?” I hate how meek my voice sounds.
I’m not a mouse. I’m not that girl anymore, damn it.
Marlowe eyes me coldly while his Uncle Randall ignores me altogether, choosing to ask Ari some question about his favorite books.
“I’ll take a coffee. My husband will have the same. That’s all we’ll need. We wouldn’t be able to stomach our food today.”
Then, of course, just to add more salt to the wound, she asks her nephew rather pointedly, “Nash, how can you stand to eat your food? Don’t you know you can request another section to sit in?” She glances about the packed restaurant as if I’m not even standing here. “Or at the very least, they can get us another server.”
My stomach twists at her brash cruelty even though I should be used to it by now. I hate the way she makes her disdain for me so obvious. I know our family history is rocky, but I’ve never personally done anything to her. She wasn’t even that welcoming to me back before all this happened.
Still, every time she runs into me, she goes out of her way to let me know I’m the dogshit stuck to the bottom of her designer heels. I’m the vile obscenity mucking up her husband’s otherwise perfect little town.
How long does it take to form immunity to something? I’m not sure I’ll ever know the answer.
Nash turns his attention to her, his face stoic but his voice soothing and reassuring. “No. This is fine.” How sweet, I foolishly think. He’s going to take up for me. Then, he opens his damn mouth and blows all my misplaced faith out of the water. “We’re pretty much halfway to finished with our meal anyway. There’s no point in changing everything around at this point.”
I’m seething, and I don’t even know why. Why do I let these people affect me? Why do I never learn my lesson?
Fuck. This.
The lioness has just been unleashed.
I stare straight at Nash, delivering my next words with a nice serving of passive-aggressive bitchiness. “Before I go back in the kitchen to fetch the drinks like a good little serving wench, do you need anything? Your coffee heated up? You know, to help melt your icy heart.” I flash him a toothy smile.
Once again, he surprises me with his ability to whiplash the fuck out of a person. It’s like he has multiple personalities, and they go way beyond running hot and then cold.
“I’m great. Thanks so much for your help.” He smiles—genuinely—and his tone is one of consideration.
For the third time I find myself walking back into the kitchen completely dumfounded.
What in the world is going on here?
I watch from the window, keeping my distance unless my presence is a necessity. His Aunt and Uncle never once touch their drinks, so I don’t have to worry about refilling them at least. They’re probably worried they’ll catch some of my rottenness. Who the Hell knows the reasons behind their absurd actions.
When it’s obvious Nash and Ari are wrapping up their meal, I take it as my cue to drop off their tab.
I slide the slip on the edge of the table, checking to be sure they don’t need anything else.
They don’t.
Pushing myself to remain cordial, I do what’s expected of me by telling them I hope to see them again—I don’t.
Marlowe scoffs at the statement as I’m backing away, but Nash utters a thank you.
I head to clean off a nearby table.
“Don’t you touch that, Nash. I’m picking up the tab,” I hear his Uncle scold.
“Then I’ll leave the tip,” Nash concedes.
“Nonsense. Why would you do that?” His Aunt’s shrill voice questions. “We’re handling this meal. All of it.”
I glance their way in time to see him giving a shaky nod and uttering his thanks. I don’t miss the fact his Aunt lays an entire one-dollar bill down on the table.
Bitch. They have more money than anyone else in this town.
Everyone gets up and heads toward the register at the front, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
As I’m carrying the dirty dishes from the table and taking them to one of the bus pans around the corner, I hear Nash speak up. I spy on him through the crisscrossed divider as he heads back to the table again, uttering something about forgetting something.
Anger swirls through me when I catch him glance over toward the kitchen doors as if to look for me, before swiping away the cheap tip and pocketing it.
What the Hell? I’m shaking, two seconds away from bursting from my hiding place and confronting him about the petty shit. What good would that do though? Besides, it was only a dollar. Big freaking deal.
When they’ve all made their way out the door, I wait three or four extra minutes after witnessing their departure, before approaching my table, bus-pan in hand and ready to clean up. I toss all the trash and plates first, saving the bread basket for last. When I pick it up, I immediately notice there’s a napkin with writing on it, folded neatly around a bill.
Sliding the bill from the napkin, my stomach flips when I find a freaking Benjamin nestled in my palm—which has to be the biggest tip I’ve ever gotten here by far, and from someone I spilled coffee on no less.
Worried it’s more likely to fall out of my apron, I quickly stuff the money in my pocket before studying the note.
Stars,
This doesn’t feel like adequate repayment. I’m still declaring that I owe you one… but thanks again for yesterday. Call me sometime to set up that playdate for Ari and your niece. Or, when you think of some way I can be of service to you.
—Nash
Um, my dirty ass self can think of a million ways you could be of service to me. Shit, he’s got a girlfriend, I need to shut that line of thinking down immediately.
My thoughts form a maze inside my mind as I reread the note over and over, unsure what exactly to make of it. I’m particularly shocked that his number is scribbled at the bottom. I should probably throw it away and move on; consider us square. Besides, I forcefully insisted I didn’t want repayment for helping a kid, yet here I stand with a big-ass tip burning a hole in my pocket while this note is burning a hole in my head.
This neurotic thing with him has to end somewhere. Why not now? I’m cutting the tether and letting him go. I’m considering this the official “ending things on good terms” with Nash. After all, we used to be good friends before the accident, then everything turned all rocky and strange. Maybe this is the universe’s way of smoothing all that bad blood out, to give our old friendship closure.
Cosmic karma of sorts.
I step back into the kitchen, putting the full bus-pan on the counter beside the dishwasher. I drop the handwritten napkin-note on top of an egg crate thrown in the trash, swiftly turning away and exuding true strength of washing my hands of Nash when I take a step in the opposite direction.
Only to turn back seconds later and pluck the note right back out. Knowing my dumbass, I’ll end up adding it to my shoebox of sentimental knick-knacks. I’m anything but predictable—except when it comes to him.
Chapter Six
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Lyra
Freshman Year
Wom, wom, wom. I stare at Mrs. Sylvia’s lips as they move, but it’s like I’m underwater. By the time the words travel from her mouth to my ears, all I hear are random cartoonish sounds that make no sense.
In the back of my mind, I know I should be paying attention. There’s a history test coming up tomorrow, and I’ve gotten zero studying done. Still, I could care less at the moment. Maybe I’m being a little overconfident, but I’m certain I can just give myself a crash course before school in the cafeteria tomorrow morning and still ace it. It’s always worked before, so I don’t see why I won’t this time…
Besides, focusing on trivial history crap is a mute point when there are more pressing matters at hand—like Winter Formal being next weekend, and who I’m going to go with. I’m starting to sweat bullets because no one has asked me yet, which is something I can’t seem to wrap my head around. I’m definitely not unattractive and I know several guys like me…so what gives?
Yesterday, in gym class, it even seemed Hugh Samuels, one of the only three freshman who made it onto Varsity football, was leading up to the big question. I don’t see why else he would rub the back of his neck all insecure like while bringing up the dance if he wasn’t going to ask. But, per usual, my best friend, Nash, butted in with impeccable timing, scaring him away.
My stomach takes a tumble just thinking his name. No, not Hugh. Nash. I’ve had this constant crush on Nash since sometime in the third grade, but I’ve finally come to accept we’ll never amount to anything more than we are now. If that’s the only way I can have him in my life, then I’ll just have to start burying my feelings, possibly even distracting myself with other, more available, options.
As if on cue, someone taps my shoulder before pressing something insistently against the back of my arm which is currently propped against my desk. I roll my eyes, sliding the opposite hand over slowly, ensuring I don’t garner any unwarranted attention from our teacher, before grabbing it.
Recompense For Love: Book Three of the Against All Odds Series Page 5