by Steph Nuss
Finishing, Jo stepped back and admired her work. “Perfect! Now, mascara.”
“Great,” Max said, playing the role as best he could as he pressed his lips together.
It wasn’t until Jo was looking through her mascaras that she noticed me. “Hey, Miss Whitley!”
“Hello, Jo. How are you today?” I stepped into her room and her spirit filled my heart with joy. Max looked over his shoulder at me and waved, never once showing an ounce of embarrassment, like most guys would in his position. Sitting in the small chair, his bent knees were too long for the table, and he had to sit hunched over so she could reach his face. He looked like a bull in a china shop, capable of destroying her neat, little setup with one move.
“I’m good,” she stated, pointing to her table. “Just getting ready for a tea party.”
“I see that,” I said, taking the seat across from Max. I waved my hand up and down at Max and asked her, “And who do we have here?”
“This is my friend, Maxine,” Jo said, opening her black mascara. She wiped the excess mascara off the wand. “She doesn’t know how to do makeup, so I’m doing hers for her.”
“That’s so nice of you,” I replied, running my eyes over Max’s getup. “She looks so pretty.”
“Thank you!” she cheered, waving the mascara wand. “Max, open your eyes wide and look up.”
Jo applied the mascara to each set of Max’s eyelashes, and jealousy washed over me as the lash boost technology made his already long lashes even more lengthy and beautiful. If I used that same product on mine, it wouldn’t do a damn thing.
Why do men always get the best eyelashes?
Once she was done, she stepped back and admired her artwork proudly. “I think she’s done.”
I nodded. “I think so, too.”
“Good deal,” Max said, rubbing his palms together.
Jo gathered up the makeup they didn’t use and deposited it into her pink makeup bag, while Max and I threw the used samples away in the trashcan. I could tell the way Jo eyed the used samples in the trash that she hated throwing away a half-used, sample-sized tube of lipstick, but she let it go without an argument.
Wiggling her fingers in the air, she said to Max, “I’m going to wash up before tea.”
“Okay, I’ll be here,” he replied with a nod.
She entered her attached bathroom, stepped up on the block in front of the sink, and rubbed her hands with soap as the water heated. I turned my attention to Max and caught him staring back at me from across the small table. Underneath all the makeup, the celebrity was still there with his smoldering gaze and charming smile.
If only his fans could see him like this, I thought, smothering a laugh. Women everywhere would lose their minds.
A hot guy having an imaginary tea party with a girl who insisted on making him look pretty.
I had to admit, watching him interact with her turned me on. It made me understand what all the fuss was about. Except while most admired his body, I admired his character and the lengths he would go to entertain a little girl stuck in the hospital.
“What’s so funny?” he asked in a soft voice.
“Nothing,” I lied, shaking my head.
He pursed his pink-stained lips together, and I absolutely lost it and started laughing so hard my cheeks hurt.
“What?” he asked genuinely.
“Really, it’s nothing,” I insisted, standing. I walked around the table and put my hand on his shoulder. Leaning down, I whispered in his ear. “Thank you for letting her make you pretty even though the whole world already thinks you are.”
He chuckled. “She told me earlier that I need to do a better job shaving. The girl’s good for my ego.”
Laughing, I nodded. “That she is, and she isn’t wrong.”
Jo entered the room again and I moved toward her to give her a hug. “Okay, Jo, I have to continue making my rounds, but it was good to see you. You tell Maxine if you need anything, okay?”
“I will,” she said, wrapping her small arms around my thighs. “Bye, Miss Whitley.”
“Maybe you could teach Maxine the correct way to serve tea. I’ll have some lemon cookies brought up for you.”
“That would be perfect!” she exclaimed. “Thank you!”
“You’re very welcome.”
I walked to the door, but before leaving, I glanced over my shoulder once more and found Max peering back at me while Jo rambled on about the importance of serving tea properly. He waved, shot me a sweet smile, and then he gave Jo his full attention again.
And just like that, the wall I’d built around my heart the day Adam died crumbled into a pile of debris I had no idea what to do with. If I was this smitten over watching him interact with Jo, how would I handle seeing him with Zane?
The thought scared the shit out of me, because there was a very real chance I’d fall for him.
Chapter Six
The next Friday, my driver, Manny, dropped me off at the Eichler Shelter located in Lower Manhattan. I’d called earlier in the day to inquire about volunteering, and the receptionist told me to arrive at four o’clock to help prepare dinner. Dinner started at five and ended at seven, but people were already lining up outside the front door. I found the side door that the receptionist mentioned earlier with the words VOLUNTEERS ONLY in red lettering on the front. I pushed the metal door open and found myself in the cafeteria. Six long white tables that reminded me of the tables in my old high school cafeteria were stretched out across the large room. A stainless steel serving center was set up just before the kitchen, with a glass front that curved over the top of the empty warmers waiting for its finished products.
Next to the serving center, I saw a young boy, who’d been wrapping white plastic silverware in napkins, staring at me. He either recognized who I was, or was scared of strangers, but I’d put money on the former.
“Holy moly!” he whispered loudly, jumping down from his seat. He ran into the nearby kitchen and yelled, “Mom! You have to come here!”
“Zane …” The mother’s tone carried a hint of annoyance. “I can’t right now.”
The voices carried me closer to the kitchen.
The boy peeked his head back out and looked at me with big blue eyes before hurrying back into the kitchen. His obvious excitement made me laugh as I glanced into the kitchen. The scent of Italian food invaded my senses and my stomach growled. The grin on my face grew when I recognized a familiar face. The boy tugged on her shirt, and she glared down at him.
“I’m busy putting together these salad bowls, Zane,” Whitley said, her brown hair tied in a messy bun on top of her head. White gloves covered her hands, and a blue apron was tied around her waist. “Whatever it is can wait.”
A large bowl of mixed lettuce sat on the countertop in front of her with a tall stack of Styrofoam bowls next to it. She filled each bowl with a handful of salad and lined a big, tan tray with the readied bowls. Tight blue jeans hugged her hips and a gray t-shirt with a school’s logo on the front clung to her small breasts. It was nice to see her out of her professional work clothes and into something more relaxed. Other adults worked around her, rushing to get everything done on time. One lady filled small cups with different salad dressings. A man stirred a large pot of spaghetti noodles, while another one worked on browning a large amount of meat.
“Mom!” he insisted, pointing toward the door. “Look who’s here!”
She stopped what she was doing and glanced over to where I stood in the doorway. A weak smile spread across her beautiful face before she looked down at her boy.
“You didn’t tell me Max Waters would be helping us today!” Zane cheered, his body buzzing.
The boy’s enthusiasm and loud childish voice caught the attention of the other volunteers, causing them to stop what they were doing.
“I didn’t know he was going to be here,” she said, laughing lightly.
Even though she did know. She’d heard Sophie tell me about Fridays at the shelter.
>
Walking farther into the kitchen, I knelt down in front of Zane so that I was eye level with him. His small body stood before me rooted to the floor in shock. His enamored eyes took in every part of me, like I was going to disappear if he blinked. So, I offered him my hand. “What’s your name?”
“Zane,” he answered, his small hand grasping mine tight. “Zane Eichler.”
Eichler. Like the Eichler Shelter.
I smiled and shook his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Zane. I’m Max, but you already knew that.”
“Yeah … Oh, and this is my mom, Whitley,” he said, pointing up to her proudly. “Are you here to help us serve tonight?”
I stood and looked around at everyone in the kitchen. “I am. What do you guys need me to do?”
Whitley quickly introduced me to the others and then nodded toward five large loaves of Italian bread that were sitting on top of the other island countertop. “You could start by cutting up the bread.”
“I’ll show you where the knife is at!” Zane offered.
“No.” Whitley caught him by the back of his shirt and glared at him. “You’ll go back to wrapping silverware. Let the adults work in the kitchen.”
“It’s plastic, Mom!” he muttered on a groan. “Why does it need to be wrapped?”
She rolled her eyes as she pulled off her gloves and nudged him out the door. “Because it’s easier to carry that way. Now, get to work!”
The rest of the staff laughed at their mother-son banter, and then continued what they were each working on. I followed Whitley around the kitchen and washed my hands in a large metal sink. She showed me where I could find a set of gloves, and she grabbed a set for each of us and then led me over to the island of bread and pulled a large knife out of the drawer.
“Have you ever used an electric knife before?” she asked with a cringe.
I scoffed, taking the knife from her hand. “What’s with that face, Gonzalez? Of course I’ve used an electric knife before.”
“Really?” she asked incredulously.
“Yes.”
“Okay,” she said, mildly impressed. “So, you’ll want to cut the bread in even slices. Not too thin, but not too thick. We want it to go a long way.”
I eyed the loaves wrapped in plastic and nodded. “Not too thin, but not too thick. Got it.”
Her eyes sparkled, like she was impressed that I’d shown up. “Okay, you’re all set. Let us know if you need anything.”
***
Minutes later, I was working on my second loaf of bread when Zane entered the kitchen again. He pulled a tall metal stool over to the island I was working at and perched himself across from me.
“Zane,” Whitley called out, shaking her head. “What are you doing? Max is busy.”
“I’m just watching, Mom.” He looked at me and rolled his eyes, just like his mother. “I promise I won’t be in the way.”
Glancing over at Whitley, I waved her off. “It’s cool.”
“See,” Zane insisted. “He said it’s cool.”
Whitley glared at both of us and went back to her salad bowls as I focused on my bread. Smiling to myself, I enjoyed the attention Zane provided, even if it annoyed the hell out of his mother. I could already tell I was going to like him, and not because he recognized me, but because he wanted to spend time with me, something his mother wasn’t too keen on doing just yet.
But I hoped I could change her mind.
“So, how old are you?” I asked, sawing off another slice of bread.
“I’m eight,” he answered. “But I’ll be nine soon.”
If he was eight and Whitley was somewhere in her twenties, then—
“Did you know this place is named after my dad?” he asked quizzically.
The mention of his father caught my attention and it took everything in me not to look over at Whitley. I heard one of the other guys clear their throat as a sliver of tension entered the room. “No, I didn’t know that. That’s pretty neat.”
“Yep!” he exclaimed, his voice proud. “He used to help out here when he was in high school. This is where he met my mom.”
“Oh, yeah?” I asked, hoping he continued. Whitley had been cast as the female lead opposite me in my nightly dreams, so I was eager to learn more about her, even if it was from her son.
“Yeah, but Mom wasn’t helping at the time. She actually lived here back then.”
What? Whitley was homeless at one point?
Again, the need to look at her and silently ask if he was telling the truth grew stronger, but I held back because part of me knew he was. Everyone in here probably already knew the ending to the story except me.
“Where’s your dad now?” I asked, concentrating on the loaf in front of me as I started the blade up again.
“He died,” Zane answered matter-of-factly.
His words made my grip slip on the knife, causing the blade the stop again.
I peered up at his sweet, boyish features and smiled weakly. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“That’s okay. He died before I was born.” He shrugged nonchalantly and picked a breadcrumb up with his finger, and I went back to working on slicing the loaf. “He was trying to stop a robbery at a store when the bad guy shot him. So, he’s kind of like a superhero, right?”
Holy. Shit.
I swallowed around the lump in my throat and nodded reassuringly. “Y-yeah, Zane, I think so.”
Zane went back to picking at crumbs, and silence and tension enveloped the kitchen as everyone focused on their individual tasks. Speechless, I mentally thanked him for giving me the time to let his words marinate as I cut through two more loaves of bread. Whitley had been homeless, probably gave birth to Zane sometime in her teen years, and lost his dad at the same time. Not to an illness or a freak accident, but because he was being the good guy, the one attempting to stop the bad guy. Questions ping-ponged through my mind the more I thought about it all. How’d she become homeless? How did she manage to get back on her feet? Was she still in love with Zane’s dad? Did she have any help raising Zane? How did she raise such a well-mannered kid? In the short time I’d spent with Zane, he never once complained about being here to help others. Most kids his age just wanted to be at home with their video games.
But most importantly, I thought, when was the last time Whitley did something just for herself?
“Who’s your favorite superhero?” Zane asked, interrupting my thoughts. “And you can’t pick any of the Secret Warriors!”
“Um,” I said, uncertain. “I don’t know. It’s hard to just pick one.”
“Okay, fine,” he mused, tapping his finger against his chin. He snapped his fingers and asked, “Marvel or DC Comics?”
Easy, I thought, glancing up from the cutting board. I shared a look with him that said we were both Marvel boys, and then we both shouted in unison, “Marvel!”
Zane crawled up onto his knees and high-fived me, and we both laughed, causing the rest of the kitchen to laugh along with us, allowing some of the tension to disappear.
Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced at Whitley and saw the woman next to her pat her on the back in comfort. Now, I felt bad for encouraging Zane to talk about his family, but at the same time, it was obvious he wanted to tell me about them. He never once hinted that he was sad about never meeting his dad. He talked about him and his mom proudly, as he should, because they’d both done heroic things.
“Zane,” Whitley called. “Go turn on the warmers so we can start setting the food out.”
“Okay!” he said, hopping down from the stool.
I watched him leave the kitchen and then felt a nudge to my side.
“One more loaf of bread, Waters,” Whitley said, pointing to the table.
I focused my attention on cutting the last loaf, while the others filled metal trays with the cooked spaghetti and meatballs smothered in sauce. Whitley and the other woman carried trays of salad and dressing out to the cafeteria and then came back in to help with the
main dish.
By the time I was done cutting the bread, Whitley had joined me at the island and started lining the slices onto another tray. I didn’t know what to say to her about what Zane had told me. He hadn’t talked quietly, so she’d heard everything he said. Instead, I kept my head down and my hands busy as I worked on filling the tray with bread.
“Do we want to put out the individual containers of butter?” the woman asked Whitley.
“Yeah, that’d be good,” she answered, pointing to the fridge. “They’re in the tub on the bottom shelf.”
“Thanks!”
Whitley and I filled two more trays of bread while the others prepped the serving area with plates and trays.
“So,” she finally said, “we’ll have two servers and two runners when we serve the meal. The runners make sure to restock items when the serving line gets low. Zane will be at the end of the line handing out dessert to those who want it. Do you want to be a runner or a server?”
Part of me was relieved she was keeping our conversation work-related. Part of me hated it. “Server.”
“Okay, tonight we’re just having spaghetti and salad. It’s a meal that goes a long way and it’s filling. But whichever you’re serving, it will go like this. They’ll get a couple of ladles full of spaghetti, a bowl of salad and whatever dressing they choose, and one piece of bread. Claire’s labeled the dressings. We have low-fat Ranch, regular Ranch, Thousand Island, and Italian. Whenever you’re getting low on something, just wave at one of the runners.”
“Got it,” I said, nodding. “Are you serving or running?”
“I’ll be a runner tonight,” she said. “Claire’s husband, Todd, is going to be the other server. Claire and I will make sure they’re taking one bread and switching out the trays when they get low.”
“What will the other guy be doing?”
She smiled. “Joe will clean off tables so we can feed more people.”
“There’re really that many people who come here?”