Until Cece

by KD Robichaux

  “Sounds good,” she replies, and I head for the door. Then it dawns on me… “Oh, crap. I was going to order something to go for dinner.” I start back toward the menu still sitting on the bar.

  “If you’re not picky, I have a family-style order that didn’t get picked up by Door Dash if you want to just take that home. It’ll just need to be reheated in the oven. I was going to save it for one of our other waitresses, but she called in sick,” Stephanie offers.

  My mouth falls open once again. A job plus free food I don’t have to cook? Hell to the yes, this is going to be amazing. “I’ll take it!”

  5

  Winston

  “Don’t be mad,” Stephanie says by way of greeting as soon as I step foot into the back office.

  I eye her suspiciously. “One, when have I ever been mad at you? And two, what did you do?”

  She cocks an eyebrow. “One, that time I turned away the fresh produce guy who came by with his card, because I thought you enjoyed going shopping for all the ingredients yourself. And two, I hired a waitress who will be here in the next twenty minutes.”

  I cross my arms over my chest and stare down at her as she sits in the desk chair. “As I explained, I do love shopping for all our ingredients myself, but having produce delivered directly to the restaurant means the fruits and vegetables would be at least a day fresher on top of being less expensive. Luckily you kept the card and I was able to lure him back.” I uncross my arms and lower myself into the seat across from her desk. “And why would I be mad about you hiring a waitress who can start so soon? I told you to place an ad this morning.”

  She winces. “Well, you see, what happened was…” She pauses, looking a little embarrassed. “She had a damn good sob story. Like, the best, and I couldn’t tell her no, even though she has zero past job history or higher education to speak of.”

  I groan and sink down into the chair until the back of my head is resting on the top of it. “Let’s hear it.” I sigh.

  “Homemaker who’s been a stay-at-home mom of three for a decade. Husband and her separated, and now she’s trying to find a job for the first time,” she summarizes.

  “Damn. That is good. Does she fit, you think? Mom of three who had to have gotten pregnant young if she’s never had a job before and didn’t go to college. I’m picturing like… The Whites of West Virginia or something,” I admit.

  She snorts. “She’s as far from The Whites of West Virginia as you can get. I got the whole perfect Pinterest mom vibe from her. I bet her entire house is farmhouse themed and she buys every item from the Hearth and Hand Collection at Target. Or better yet, I bet she orders everything from Magnolia itself.” She pauses, seeming to rethink her words. “At least, she did before her pig of an ex cheated on her. Now she’s gotta somehow start from the bottom to provide for her and her kids.” She shakes her head.

  “Fuck, he cheated?” I join her in shaking my head. “Yep, no way I would’ve been able to tell her no either. You’re off the hook.”

  “Yeah, she kinda let that slip when she was practically word-vomiting her whole story when I was just about to tell her we needed someone experienced. So like, don’t bring it up that you know, okay? The poor thing was embarrassed enough,” she tells me, and I nod.

  “No worries. So she’s coming in today? You staying to start training her, or do you need to go?” I ask, looking down at my Apple Watch and seeing it’s close to 4:30 p.m.

  “I’m good to stay today. My girlfriend is working late tonight at the art gallery, so it’s no big deal.”

  I smile. “How is Hannah?”

  Stephanie grins. “Amazing. One of her own paintings sold last week and she’s been in the best mood ever since. And I’ve been reaping the benefits of that good mood.” She wiggles her eyebrows, and I chuckle, ignoring the tiny modicum of jealousy that sparks. What would it be like to be in a relationship that was full of love and passion like Stephanie had with her partner?

  I’ll never know.

  “That’s awesome,” I say. “Keep an eye out if she paints anything you think would look good here in the restaurant. Or hell, if she wants to just hang some here with a little for sale sign by it, she knows we get a shitload of traffic. I’m sure her pieces would sell in a heartbeat.”

  “Oh my gosh, she’ll die. Thanks, boss. I’ll let her know.”

  I sit up in the chair and then stand. “No problem. Let me know when you take a break with the new girl. I’d like to meet her before the dinner rush starts.”

  “Will do,” she calls after me as I head to the kitchen to take inventory.

  Cece

  My heart is racing faster than I ever remember. The only time I’ve ever been this nervous in my life was during my c-sections, which is ridiculous, since it’s just my first shift at my new job. It’s not like I’m having major surgery to bring another life into the world.

  I mean, how hard can it be? I’ll take someone’s order, give it to the cook, and then take the meals to the table when they’re ready. Easy.

  I blow out a breath as I finish tying my new nonslip sneakers I got at Walmart and grab my purse from my passenger seat. I left my house fifteen minutes ago to the sound of my girls and sister yelling on the front porch like cheerleaders, rooting me on and chanting for me to have a good first day. It brought tears to my eyes, seeing how I’d been expecting my little ones to be bummed I wouldn’t be home tonight, and instead they were excited for me. Totally blew my mind in the best way possible.

  But now that I sit in my SUV in the parking lot of the restaurant, I can’t help but feel guilt over the fact I’m not home right now taking care of my own children, feeding them a meal I cooked myself instead of one given to us by the restaurant before me. Is this what moms who have always gone to work every day feel each time they leave their babies?

  Or maybe I’m just overly emotional because of all the unexpected shit going on in my life and I’m just being sensitive.

  Shaking off my funk, I open my door, get out, and close it behind me, pushing the button to lock it up as I make my way to the door of the restaurant. When I enter, it’s still dead because of the time. Still too early for dinner, which is a relief, because it means I’ll have a little time to absorb what Stephanie has to teach me before the chaos ensues.

  Just like it did before, the moment I step inside, a sense of home washes over me. It’s the weirdest thing. It’s the type of feeling I get when I go visit my family back in Montana, or when I’m at home and sink down in the tub of my giant bathroom with a good book. Like a weight lifts off and feel like I can breathe a little easier with the familiarity. Which is strange since I had never stepped foot inside this place before today. Maybe it’s just the relief that this place and the woman who hired me are giving me the first spark of hope for my new normal to not be so daunting after all.

  “Cece! You made it, and five minutes early,” Stephanie calls as she steps out of the back and behind the bar.

  I smile as I make my way to her. “Yeah, it was really strange. I thought I’d have to spend a few minutes consoling my kids that I wouldn’t be home tonight because I’m starting my new job, and instead they practically shoved me out the door.”

  She chuckles. “Well, that’s a relief. Sounds like they’re excited for you.”

  “I think the reaction would’ve been a little different if my sister hadn’t flown down from Montana to help me out. They love getting their Mimi all to themselves,” I tell her.

  She nods. “You’re lucky to have a sister like that. Mine is an evil thundercunt who disowned me whenever I came out as gay.”

  I choke a little, trying to cover my shocked laugh. “I’m sorry.” I clear my throat. “That’s awful and so not funny, but oh my God, ‘thundercunt’ caught me a little off-guard.” I whisper the word as I put it in air quotes. “But just FYI, I don’t give one care about any of that. Love is love.” I shrug.

  She narrows her eyes on me, a smile pulling up one side of her lips. “You don’
t get out much, huh?”

  I tilt my head. “What is this ‘get out’ you speak of?”

  “Oh…” She cackles. “This is going to be fun. Nice to meet you, Cece.” She holds out her hand like we didn’t already meet this afternoon. I take it anyway so I don’t leave her hanging. “I’m Steph, and I’m your new best friend.”

  I snort. “I mean, it’s hard not to be the best when you’re the only, but I’ll take it.”

  She pouts her bottom lip. “Now that’s just depressing. Stop that.” Still holding onto my hand, she pulls me to the door leading to the back, then lets go to hold another door open and gesture for me to enter the office before her. “I have your resume, but I need you to fill out some paperwork really quick, and then we can start your training.”

  I take a seat in the chair opposite the desk as she walks around it and plops down into her seat, scooting herself in as she hands me a pen. She slides a clipboard to me holding a couple of papers, and I eyeball them wearily. I’ve never had to fill out anything so official looking besides my kids’ school paperwork at the beginning of each year, or at the doctor’s office during their yearly checkups.

  “Don’t look so scared, Cece. This is just your tax paperwork. Very simple. This is just what we need in order for you to get your W-2 at the first of the year so you can fill out your taxes and get a return,” Steph explains, but it does nothing to calm my nerves as I get to the dependents part and all that stuff.

  “I…” I swallow thickly, my heart starting to hammer inside my chest once again. “I um… don’t know if…. Do I mark three dependents for my three kids? Or will my husb— my ex claim them? Will I get into trouble if I say I have three, and then he says he has three, and then they find out we don’t have six kids but the same three we’ve always had, and then they’re going to think I’m trying to do some sort of tax evasion operation, when really I’ve just never had to fill out any of this shit before. And will I be married filing separately, or just single and filing for myself and—” My voice has gotten higher, shakier, and more hysterical as I’ve rambled on and on about something I’d never even thought about until this exact moment, and before I know she moved, I feel Steph’s arm around my shoulders as she stoops next to me.

  “Shhh, it’s okay, girl. It’s really not a big deal. You have two choices. You can either have them take more out for taxes now, so you can possibly get a bigger tax return check later on, or you can have them take out less, and possibly have to pay back later. Which do you think fits your needs right now?”

  I blow out a breath and try to stop my hand from shaking. “Um… I think I need as much money now as I possibly can get, and I’ll just um… deal with possibly having to pay more taxes later,” I reply, and with a nod, she explains which boxes to check and which lines to fill out.

  When it’s all filled out, that’s when the embarrassment of the last five minutes hits me. “I’m so sorry. I swear I’m not usually this much of an emotional mess. And I won’t let it happen in front of customers,” I tell her, and she waves my words away.

  “Girl, I’ve been dealing with a pregnant waitress in her first trimester for the last two months. I promise you are fine. Don’t puke on one of the customers like she did last week, and you’re golden.”

  I squeak out a startled laugh and shake my head. “Oh my God, the poor thing.”

  “The customer or the waitress?” Steph prompts, and I giggle.

  “Both, I guess.”

  She grins, standing back up from beside me. “All right, you ready to get this show on the road?”

  Nervousness fills me once again, but this time, it’s tinged with excited energy. “Let’s do this,” I reply, standing up from the seat and following her out of the office and back out into the restaurant.

  Steph reaches under the bar and pulls out a black apron, handing it to me to wrap around my hips. She grabs a pad and a pen and stuffs them in the front pocket, and tells me, “Before the shift starts, I’ll take you in the back and show you where all the boxes of pens are stocked. They’re customized with our logo and phone number for customers to take home with them. It’s great marketing and has gotten us tons of takeout orders called in than we used to before. It’s smart to just keep a handful of them in your apron so you don’t have to waste time going back to grab one each time you get a new table.”

  “Noted,” I reply, pulling the lone pen out that she’d given me and taking peek at it before putting it back.

  “So first, you’ll get your table’s drink order, come back here behind the bar, and fix those yourself if they’re nonalcoholic. Once you take them their drink, you’ll come to the register and start their tab. We do it in this order so they’re not just sitting there without a drink and can have time with the menu if they need it. If they do want an alcoholic beverage, you give the order to the bartender, usually our boss, Winston. During the day, it’s usually me,” she says, and I nod.

  “Will I ever need to make an alcoholic drink?” I ask.

  “Not unless you want to be trained as a bartender. It’s a lot to learn,” she warns.

  “I think I’ll stick with just waitressing for now, thanks.” I grimace.

  She grins. “I promise everything will become second nature and you won’t even have to think before you act once you get the hang of it,” she assures. “Okay, then what you’ll do is get your table’s order and come back here to the register. You’ll choose the items they ordered, making note of any allergies and special requests, and it’ll pop up on the screen in the kitchen for the cooks to make. Then when it’s ready, you’ll take your tray, load it up, and take it out to them.”

  “Question. How do we know how often to go out and ask if they need anything? I’ve had waitresses who just disappear once the food comes, and I’ve also had some who come like every other mouthful, it seems.”

  “I always say just watch their glasses. Once anyone at the table looks like their glass is two-thirds of the way gone, go ask if they need anything. Some people like it if you go ahead and bring them a refill once you see their drink getting low, but a lot of the time, it’s just a waste of soda and they leave with a full drink still sitting on the table. You’ll get a feel for it and can decide your own style of waitressing,” Steph tells me, and I nod, deciding I’ll be the type of server I always hoped to have whenever I went out to eat. Treat people the way I want to be treated is a rule that applies in a lot of different scenarios.

  We go through several more items on the to-do list that are easy enough. I just hope I can remember to do them all by the end of my shift. I think a lot of it will click into place just by actually practicing them, and since I’ll be following Stephanie around this evening, at least I’ll have time to learn everything by watching and experiencing it with her instead of just being thrown to the wolves by myself.

  “Well, we’ve got about fifteen minutes before the dinner rush usually begins. The boss man wanted to meet you before the evening got started and he gets busy cooking and bartending, so let’s go introduce you to him really quick. He’s usually prepping in the kitchen about now,” she says, glancing at her watch, and we head to the back from where we were standing at the hostess stand, where she was showing me the restaurant’s layout and where the tables and their corresponding number were located on the laminated diagram there. That was the most confusing part so far, but she promised it’s not so bad once I get it memorized. For tonight, we’re sticking to the booths on the right side of the restaurant when facing the bar. They’re tables 14 through 18. Five tables to keep happy all at once. I think I can handle that.

  I’m listening to Steph chatter about her favorite things on the menu, in case anyone asks for suggestions, as I follow her through the swinging door and then to the right, stepping into the actual kitchen for the first time. Earlier, she just pointed it out to me to show me where I’ll pick up the orders to serve. It looks like any big kitchen I’ve ever seen in movies, with all the stainless-steel appliances and the hug
e walk-in refrigerator and freezer we pass as we make our way around a twenty-foot-long workstation down the center of the room. I can see two people cutting up vegetables on the other side, but only from their shoulders to their waists, because of the unit hanging from the ceiling the entire length of the island. It houses microwaves and storage shelves and creates a wind tunnel of sound from the fans going I assume is like the one built into my range hood over my stove.

  My assumption is correct when I see farther down the long island that the second half is a giant cooktop like what they have at hibachi restaurants when they cook everything in front of you.

  Cool.

  I’m still following behind Steph as we circle the end of the workstation and start heading back up the room, checking out the other stove tops against the wall on this side, seeing the different burners with pots and pans hanging from racks above them. This place is a freaking dream for a girl like me, who absolutely loves to cook. I’ll have to ask later about what it’d take to maybe pull a shift helping out back here once in a while. But I’m sure you’d have to have some kind of culinary training. It won’t hurt to ask though.

  And then I hear it.

  “Is this my new server?”

  A deep voice then enters my ears and sends reverberating pulses throughout my entire system.

  It’s not a familiar voice, but something in it pulls my wonderous eyes from all the kitchen porn to find the person that deeply masculine and unique voice came from. And when my eyes land on the tall, muscular, and achingly handsome man in the white shirt and dark jeans with the white dishtowel thrown over his shoulder, I thank God that Stephanie made me get nonslip shoes, because the way I jerk to a stop in the center of the tiled floor would’ve certainly landed my ass between the sinks and where he’s now setting his knife down on the cutting board.