Page 5 of With a Grain of Salt

I clamp my lips together before asking her if keeping me completely away from my daughter is her goal, but I'm going to be late. Considering Walker hasn't even officially hired me, I know there's no sense in wasting time arguing a point that might be moot in an hour anyway.

"Tomorrow is Sunday, and the vet's office isn't open," I remind her. "I'll be here no later than nine.Have a good night."

Like the Southern woman that she is, she stands on her front porch and watches me leave. Almost everyone around here does the same as if it's disrespectful in some way to get back to their lives before the person they were chatting with disappears down the road.

Although I don't see Walker when I step inside the bar, his truck is outside, so I know he's lurking around here somewhere. Instead of finding him just for him to tell me to leave, I walk behind the bar like I've worked here for years and grab an apron.

I smile at Maggie as she looks over her shoulder while helping a customer and wait for her to finish up.

"Do you want to be behind the bar or on the floor?" she asks once she's done.

"Either or is fine with me," I tell her, knowing there's money to be made in either place.

“I’ll just stay back here then,” she says, indicating behind the bar.

"How are they numbered?" I ask, pointing to the tables.

"One over there in the corner by the door and zigzagging until you get to twenty-one," she says.

"Perfect," I tell her, fully understanding her explanation.

"Hey," she says before I can step away. "Do you need a pen and pad for orders?"

I shake my head no, and I see the sense of relief flash in her eyes as I step away. I have no doubt she has spent many hours training people who either haven't worked out or have never caught on to how a place like this operates. It's not a difficult job, but it's also not for everyone.

Although I haven't stepped foot in a bar other than trying to get a job in this one since I left El Paso over three years ago, it's like riding a bike. I smile and chat as I take and deliver orders. I chuckle like I'm supposed to rather than telling the college guys at table ten that they've got literally no chance of getting me back to their dorm rooms. The goal is to be available but not obtainable if my intention is to get tips. Also, I know I can't be too flirty either. I don't want this generation of entitled men getting upset because they think I promised something I haven't.

"I think those jeans would look better on my bedroom floor," one guy tells me as if this pickup line has worked for him in the past.

"Are you saying they look bad on me?" I ask with a pout, feeling like I stepped over a line. I guess that's the difference between working a room as a single woman and working a room as a mother. This guy, although legal to drink and only a handful of years younger than me, is someone's son. It gives me a certain level of ick.

The guy, already a few too many beers deep, gets confused with my question as if it was trigonometry homework, and I use the time to escape.

I key in several table orders for Maggie to fill behind the bar before pressing my back to the wood and looking around the room. I didn’t stick around long enough on Thursday evening to find out why the bar would’ve been so crowded, but most places have a ladies’ night on Thursdays, with their drinks a little more affordable for women. It draws the guys in, thinking they have a better shot at taking someone home.

It's seriously cringeworthy, but who am I to tell anyone how to run their business?

Tonight isn't as crazy as the other night felt, but there's definitely enough business that another waitress or two could easily find enough work to keep busy. It may keep me running all night, but I'm not going to argue about having an abundance of possible tippers.

"Here's five and twelve," Maggie says, sliding a tray full of drinks across the counter and pulling my attention back to work.

I lift the heavy tray and carry it across the room as if muscle memory drives me in that direction.

I drop off drinks and pick up empties before heading back to the bar.

I nearly stumble over an imaginary line on the floor when I see Walker scowling in my direction.I manage to hold my head a little higher as I walk in his direction. When I get close enough to see his dark eyes, I divert my gaze, carrying the tray of empty glasses to the kitchen. I fill the automatic wash tray, knowing he's standing behind me and waiting for me to explain myself.

"You don't work here," he says the second I turn back around.

The ire in his voice makes me jolt. Even Nora Kennedy, who I know wishes I didn't exist, doesn't even speak to me in that tone. There isn't an ounce of subtlety, and although it's not completely unfamiliar, I can't recall a single moment in the last three years that someone has spoken to me that way.

I point to the apron tied around my waist as if it explains everything.

"It sort of looks like I do."

The man keeps his eyes locked on mine, as if looking down where I'm pointing would be a complete waste of time.

I've only closed out two tables tonight, and although I'm grateful for the eleven dollars I've made, I was counting on a lot more before he kicked me out of here. I still have multiple tables open, including the college boys who I know will tip well if I keep playing their game until they decide it's time to head back to campus.

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