It's Kind of a Cheesy Love Story
Page 20
It’s not until I zoom in that I see that it’s not fine. Not at all. The glass on the front door is busted, as are several of the windows. The ones that aren’t are dark with soot. The corner of the roof, right where the kitchen is, is blackened from flames or smoke. My stomach sours as I picture what the inside must look like, and of course my mind goes to the most apocalyptic scenarios imaginable. The register melted, the tiles cracked, all the tables charred with chairs tipped over, their vinyl seats burned away.
I text Julianne for more details, but she says this is as close as she can get. The fire department is still blocking people from even pulling into the parking lot. She’s parked at Margaritas across the street. She saw a flash of Del talking to someone official-looking with the fire department, but she hasn’t been able to talk to him yet, and he isn’t answering his phone.
Downstairs, I pour myself a bowl of cereal, but I can’t bring myself to eat a bite. Instead, I sit at the kitchen table and watch the Froot Loops get soft, their rainbow colors bleeding into the milk until the whole thing is a bowl of rainbow mush.
Dad shuffles in, his curly hair pointing at all angles. Mom is an early riser, probably already at the gym, but Dad is committed to what he calls “the weekend lie-in,” bedhead and all.
“Any news?” he asks, pulling the box across the table to fill up his bowl.
“Julianne sent this.” I hold out my phone. He squints at the grainy photo on the tiny screen.
“It might not be as bad as it looks,” he says.
“Or it might be worse.”
“The important thing is, nobody got hurt. That you didn’t get hurt.”
But I’m pretty sure that Del is hurt. And Julianne certainly seemed hurt when she was crying on the phone last night. I keep coming back to the realization that I feel hurt, too, and not just because the fire is probably my fault. The thought of Hot ’N Crusty being gone, of not clocking in for my next shift, of not cracking jokes with Jason or playing the table game with Julianne and the guys … it feels so much worse than I thought it would. When I started this job, all I could think about was how much I wanted Hot ’N Crusty out of my life. But now that it really might be, I feel like I’ve lost a member of my family. I flash back to my mother’s tears last night. Maybe I actually have.
“Where’s Mom?” I ask.
“She had some deliveries to make,” he says. “A wedding cake and cupcakes for two different birthday parties. Then Michelle Obama arms.” He’s referring to Mom’s commitment to weight lifting. She discovered it last year and is bound and determined to sculpt her biceps to FLOTUS levels.
“Can I borrow the car?” I ask.
“Where are you going?”
“Where do you think?”
Dad sighs, running his hands through his hair, which only makes him look even more like a mad (social) scientist.
“You have only yourself to blame,” I tell him. “You raised me like this.”
“Fair enough,” he says. “But promise me you’ll stay out of the way. I don’t want you charging into a danger zone.”
“I promise,” I tell him.
I hope he can’t tell I’m lying.
* * *
I drive straight over to Hot ’N Crusty. The fire trucks are gone, but Del’s car, an old red BMW that he loves like it’s brand-new, is still there. I expect there to be barricades to the parking lot, or maybe crime scene tape, but to my surprise, I’m able to roll right up to the front door. I park and head for the door, now propped open, despite the metal frame being completely empty of glass. I step gingerly inside.
“Del?” I call, and immediately cough. The smell of fire is overpowering at first—way stronger than any firepit Colin has ever stoked—but I get used to it pretty quickly. The dark tile floor is shimmering with a number of puddles left over from what I’m guessing are fire hoses. My eyes burn with tears that I hold in. I force myself to look around, to take it in. It might be the last time I see it.
On instinct, my gaze travels over to the wall where my birthday photos hang, and the framed news stories. Several of them are now lying cracked on the floor. The ones that remain on the wall are askew, and it looks like water leaked in, the edges curling, the photos wrinkled and blotchy. I have to bite the inside of my cheek hard to keep from crying out at the sight.
It looks like the dining room escaped the flames, though. Mostly it’s just wet, which can’t be good for the ceiling tiles or light fixtures. The tables are all upright, most of the chairs still upside down on the tabletops, though a few have fallen down and lie askew. The fire looks like it was mostly confined to the kitchen, which causes my stomach to clench. There are scorch marks that shoot out from the frame around the swinging door, which swings open when Del strides through it.
“Beck!” he cries, leaping at the sight of me. “What are you doing? You shouldn’t be in here, it’s not safe!”
He rushes toward me, his shoes crunching over broken glass and splashing through a big puddle right by the register. He waves me back through the door, stopping next to me on the sidewalk.
“Del, I’m so sorry,” I say, and then I can’t hold back the tears anymore. They come pouring out of me like someone’s turned my emotional faucet on high and hot. Del frowns and steps forward, his arms open, but he stops short of wrapping me in a hug. I collapse against his big barrel chest anyway, crying into his polo, which smells like a campfire.
“It’s okay, Beck,” he says, patting me gently on the back. “Nobody got hurt.”
“But it’s my fault,” I sob, the words catching in my chest. I didn’t plan on confessing, but now it seems like there was no way I’d keep this to myself. Del’s done so much for me. I can’t lie to him.
“What do you mean?”
I sniffle and step back, swiping at the tears on my cheeks. I can’t bring myself to look him in the eye.
“I did the closing checklist with Joey last night,” I hiccup, trying to get the words out. “I can’t remember if I actually checked all the ovens. I was … distracted.”
He sighs. “That doesn’t mean the fire was your fault. The fire department isn’t even sure where it started yet. They suspect it was probably electrical, but, hell, it could have been arson. I know that Stefano’s would love to put me out of business.” He chuckles at his joke, but it’s forced. His eyes look tired and strained, like he’s trying to hold back his own tears.
Of course it wasn’t arson. Who would want to burn down Hot ’N Crusty? Honestly, the only person I can even think of is me.
“Beck, don’t beat yourself up. These things happen. It’s just a building. All we can do now is move forward.”
Move forward. I latch onto the notion like a touchstone. Suddenly it’s all I want in the whole wide world. Like the sooner Hot ’N Crusty is back in action, the sooner my life will be normal again.
“When can you reopen?” I ask.
“Well, I’ve got to talk to the insurance company first. It’s all going to be dependent on what they say. There’s a lot of damage to the building and the equipment. It’s going to be expensive, so I can’t do anything until they figure out their end.”
He doesn’t sound optimistic, which is the most shocking of all of this. Because Del is always optimistic. The fact that this has him defeated already scares me. And it makes me sob some more.
“I wish I had more answers, but I think right now we’re just going to have to wait.”
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
My whole life feels like it’s in a holding pattern. I spend the weekend wondering if I still have a job. Wondering if I still have Tristan, though that one seems to be increasingly clear. He’s still not answering my texts, and my calls continue to go to voice mail.
Come Monday, I watch for him in the cafeteria, right by the back door. And sure enough, here he comes, a carton of milk and a bag of chips in his hand. I step right into his path before he can walk through the door.
“Can we talk?” I ask.
“Yeah, let’s go outside,” he says, and I follow him through the door. I follow him along his route until we end up in the woodshop. I vaguely knew it was here, but I’ve never been inside. It’s empty except for Coach Driskill, who’s sitting at his desk in the far corner, his feet up on his desk, headphones in, while he flips through a magazine.
“It’s his planning period,” Tristan explains. “So what do you want to talk about?”
“Come on, Tristan. I want to talk about the other night.”
“You mean when you acted like you were embarrassed by me, and then just ended up embarrassing yourself?”
The words sting. “Yeah. That.”
“Okay. So talk.”
“I just … I’m sorry. You were right, I was way out of line. I knew as the words were coming out of my mouth that it was the wrong thing to say. I don’t even agree with it! I think it’s awesome that you’ve got your own business. Your furniture is amazing, and you’re going to be wildly successful. There is no universe in which college will change any of that.”
“Then why did you say it?”
I sigh. “I don’t know. Maybe … maybe you were right?”
“Right about what?”
“Right about me being anxious around my friends.”
“If your friends make you so anxious, then they’re not your friends.”
It would be easy to agree with him. It’s the logical conclusion, after all. But even now, after everything, it doesn’t feel right. They are my friends. Natalie’s been by my side since forever. Cora is unfailingly encouraging and kind. And even Tamsin, Queen of Snark that she is, showed up for me at a moment’s notice. They are my friends. Maybe I just haven’t been theirs.
As if he can read my mind, he sighs, leaning forward on a workbench, his hands pressing into the wood.
“I just don’t want to do this, Beck. I like you, but all this figuring out is exhausting. Can we just go back to the way it was before?”
“You mean when we didn’t know each other and all you did was say snarky things to me?”
He cocks a third of a grin. “I’ll be, like, fifty percent less snarky this time.”
I guess we could do it. We’ve kissed and then become friends once before. It’s not at all what I want, but I don’t know how to fight for it. Or how to fix what’s broken. I just know that I don’t want to lose him, no matter what small piece of him I have.
“Hopefully we can get back to work soon,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say. “It’s weird not being all together in the kitchen.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t hold my breath,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“Beck, I need to find another job. I don’t make enough money with the business yet to justify going full-time.”
“But HnC is going to reopen,” I say, but for the first time, saying it out loud doesn’t feel completely true.
“Beck, even if they started the remodel tomorrow, it would still be a two-or three-month project. And Del hasn’t even started dealing with the insurance. It could be a year before he reopens. I can’t afford to sit around waiting. I need a paycheck.”
It hadn’t occurred to me that he’d find a job. That anybody would have to. Maybe that was me being naive, or even hopeful, but now the idea that we wouldn’t all be back in the kitchen, that I wouldn’t have that end point to fix everything—everything—really scares me.
* * *
I spend the rest of the day tracking down the others. I find Julianne first, finishing up her lunch period over a book.
“I already put in an application at Margaritas and the Deluxe Diner downtown,” she says as she places a folded napkin in her book and slams it shut. “I have to save for college. My scholarship only covers tuition. I’ve still got to pay room and board and books. Do you know how much college textbooks cost?”
I find Jason next, slumped in front of his locker, poring over his chemistry book. He tells me he’s already been accepted to Dartmouth with a full tuition scholarship, so he’s not as worried about a job. But apparently Greg’s cousin works at the movie theater and is trying to get them both jobs working the snack bar. Frank, of course, applied to the same places that Julianne applied. They’ve been dating officially since homecoming.
As for me, I start helping Mom with her baking. She officially applied for a business license, and Sweet Jessie’s is up and running. She can’t really pay me much, but my help is allowing her to take on some bigger catering jobs, and she throws that cash my way.
One Saturday I’m helping her with her second wedding. She was hired to do the cake, plus a whole dessert table and some cocktail snacks (her homemade cheese straws are a huge hit). I’m in a pair of black pants and a black shirt so that I won’t show up if I happen to find myself in the background of any wedding photos. I’m helping Mom deliver and set up all the goodies, and then we’ll be around for the reception to replenish trays and portion out the cake after the ceremonial cutting. The cake is gorgeous, a three-tiered masterpiece with a rustic finish on the frosting and hand-painted pink peonies on the layers. There are boxes and boxes of matching petits fours and sugar cookies, plus some mini gluten-free cupcakes and chocolate macaroons. Mom’s acquired her own collection of silver trays and tiered displays from scouring estate and garage sales, and we start artfully arranging everything, with the florist filling in across the table.
“Mom, this looks really amazing,” I say. “Make sure you get a picture.”
“Ugh, I’m so bad with the social media stuff,” she says. “I always forget until after everyone’s telling me how good everything tastes, at which point it looks like the table’s been attacked by rabid dogs.”
I quickly whip out my phone and start snapping photos—wide shots and close-ups of the individual goodies. “There. Done,” I say, stowing my phone back in my pocket.
“Excellent,” she says. “Now make sure that thing’s on silent. I don’t want your texts blowing up during the father of the bride’s toast.”
“Mom, don’t say ‘blowing up.’”
She rolls her eyes at me, but she’s grinning. I miss Hot ’N Crusty, but I am enjoying this time with Mom. It’s cool to see her be a big boss lady outside of our house. I always knew she was—Dad says the reason our house isn’t a smoldering pile of ashes with us standing hungry in the yard is because Mom is the best. And he’s right. I’m just glad that now, other people know it, too.
With everything set up, we head back to the kitchen to wait for word that a tray is getting low or we need to rescue the cake from a drunken groomsman (as happened last weekend at her very first wedding gig—I thought Mom was going to have a straight-up heart attack). I scroll through SocialSquare, double tapping a photo of Tamsin, Cora, and Natalie at a dance competition in Hillsdale. Things are still weird between us, but I’m trying. Maybe liking a photo isn’t much, but it’s something.
Still, I miss my geek fests with Julianne and the guys, and I open my phone to text and ask when we can all get together. I can’t let myself believe that without the actual HnC building, our friendship is toast.
“Petits fours are going like hotcakes,” a cater waiter calls into the kitchen. “Time to refill.”
“Can you get it, Beck? I need to start laying out the plates for the cake,” Mom says, clearing off a giant prep table. Until I started working with her, I had no idea how involved it was to cut and portion out an entire wedding cake, but it’s a job that needs to be planned with military-style efficiency. I try my best to stay out of the way and do only as I’m told.
“Yep,” I say, shoving my phone back into my pocket. I grab a box of petits fours and head out the door to the dessert table, where I carefully replace everything that’s been eaten—which is a lot. I’m just finishing up and closing the empty
box when I turn and see a pair of familiar faces at a nearby banquet table. It’s hard to miss tall, skinny Bert with the papery skin and tiny, hunched-over Birdie with her cotton ball nest of white, wispy curls.
I’m about to greet them like old friends when I remember that I don’t actually know them—I just recognize them from their eating at HnC every week. And because they’re the culprits of the great stuffed crust caper. But I doubt they recognize me at all. That is, until Birdie looks up and her face lights up brighter than the spotlights on the dance floor.
“Oh, look, Bert! It’s that nice cashier from Hot ’N Crusty!” she says, her voice singsongy. “How are you, dear?”
I amble over, tucking the box under my arm, feeling warmed by their greeting. That they remember me, and that they didn’t call me the bathroom baby.
“I’m good,” I say. “How are you doing?”
“Oh well, we’re just fine, which at our age is pretty durned spectacular.” She winks, and I like her immediately. “Of course we’re still so heartbroken over the fire! I just can’t believe it. Do they know what caused it?”
“They think it was electrical,” I reply, thankful Del delivered that news so I could finally sleep at night again. They haven’t found the exact cause, but it definitely wasn’t because I left an oven on.
“I do hope Del is about to reopen. We so miss our weekly visits. There’s no better pizza in town, right, Bert?”
Bert grunts.
“Well, we won’t keep you, dear. We just wanted to say hello,” she says, patting my arm.
I smile and start to walk away, but then I pause. Because she said something that’s niggling at me, and this may be my only chance to find out the answer. So I turn back and stoop down for a little private confab.
“I just have to ask, Birdie … What’s with the stuffed crust pizza?”
Birdie flushes so red I actually worry for her health. Next to her, Bert wrinkles his nose in a little-boy grin. Something tells me he’s the brains behind this operation. Birdie was just the wheelman.