Page 42 of The Promise Of You

“—and print the tickets, and run the credit cards,” Shoshana continues.

Um. Wow. “Hold on.” Shit, shit, shit. “We’re not canceling anyone. Office, now.”

“Am I in trouble?” she whispers as she follows me, teetering on her heels as we both rush to the back.

“We’re going to make manual receipts. Grab paper, scissors, pens, whatever you need. I want it pretty, and I want it neat, and more importantly, I want all the tabs to be perfectly correct, starting with our name at the top. Got a phone?” I ask on our way back to the front.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Use it to add up.”

“On it. Anything else?”

“D’you know if Uncle Kevin might have kept a knuckle buster?”

“Who?”

“Mr. Murphy.”

Her face falls. “Oh… right. Sorry—kept a—what?”

“The thingy for the credit cards.” I make a sideways motion with my hand like I’m scraping something off the table.

Her face lights up. “Oh, yeah. Under the bar.” I follow her, and we find it right under the bar register, with a neat pack of blank carbon slips.

“What’s all that shit?” David asks, pointing to the paper and scissors and pens.

“It’s for—”

“I get the intention. We got manual ticketing stuff down there too.” He crouches and pulls a bunch of booklets with carbon copies and flops them on the bar.

I flash my smile at Shoshana. “Back in business.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Shoshana? Drop the ma’am please, you’re making me feel old.”

She blushes. “Sorry.”

With Abby reassured she’ll be serving dinner all night—therefore getting her tips—and Shoshana hopefully learning a lesson on resilience, and David not a grumpy asshole—a refreshing change from the other men I’ve met here so far—I’m about to go sit in the office for just a second.

My feet are killing me.

I’m paying the price for wanting to look nice on my first day. Tomorrow, we’re downgrading to what Aunt Dawn would call sensible shoes.

“Behind!” A flustered Abby storms past me toward the kitchen, holding a barely touched dish that I swear she just delivered to table nineteen.

I slow my pace and linger next to the kitchen door. “The fuck?” Samuel yells. “The fuck it’s overdone. Tell ’em there’ll be a wait.”

Abby comes out of the kitchen, eyes bright and lips pursed. “I got it,” I tell her. “You take five. Give me your apron.”

Samuel barks at me. “You can’t be in my kitchen! Not during service!”

I cross my arms, widen my stance, and look up at him. “How much?”

“Say what?”

“How much d’you pay for that kitchen?”

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