Page 16 of Getting Over You

She winces. “Ouch. Bummer.”

“Tell me about it. This is just Belinda, though. I’m sure you know.”

Rory cackles. “Oh, girl. Yes, I know.”

“So, I take it you didn’t get trained either?”

She shakes her head. “I’ve been here four years,” Rory admits. She motions for me to follow her as we gather the maple syrup dispensers from the tables. “No training, piss poor hourly, and my boss—well,you know.”

“Did you also get told serving can’t be trained?” I ask quietly. “That it’s something you just do?”

“Hell yes, I did,” Rory says, with a roll of her eyes. She settles into a booth after setting down the maple syrup dispensers, motioning to the space across from her. “Sit. I’ll train you while we fill these. But between you and me, don’t consider it serving training. Consider it dealing with your mother and the general public training.”

“It’s not easy, is it?” I wonder.

Rory looks at me flatly. “You know the answer to that question, I think.”

“Why stay?” I ask, reaching for a dispenser and the big syrup jug.

“It’s complicated,” Rory says. “Life is, really. Let’s just say I don’t have a choice.”

We fill the syrup in silence for a few minutes. “That happens a lot?” I ask, biting my cheek. “At EJ’s?”

“I’m there more than I’m at my place,” Rory says. “I don’t love my house. It’s a beat up rental. It makes EJ’s couch look heavenly in comparison.” As we finish up the job we started, the front door swings open. Six old men in matching baseball caps wander in and situate themselves at a round table in the center of the room.

“The damn rotary club,” Rory mutters to me. “Poor guys show up at five fifty-five every Saturday. They know we don’t open until six. And yet!” She stands to her feet, wiping her hands on her apron. “I think Rogers sets his watch five minutes fast just to piss me off,” she says with a soft laugh.

I watch her greet them with the cheesiest of grins. I can already tell that’s so un-Rory. According to Belinda, that’s all there is to waitressing: faking it until you make it.

“Cameron quit,” my mother says to me later, as I’m finally hanging up the apron I’ve worn without complaint all morning. For six hours of work, I’ve never been so tired.

“What?”

“I told you she called in,” she continues, not meeting my gaze. “But she called late last night to quit.”

That must have been the other waitress from last night. “There are protocols for that kind of thing,” I say, “right? You just hire someone else.”

“You did well today,” my mother continues. “It would be so incredibly helpful if you came back.”

Around us, noises from the kitchen swirl. “You asked me to help so you could get me to work here,” I realize.“Belinda.”

My mother fawns, chewing on the inside of her lip and having a staring contest with the floor tiles in the hall. “Don’t call me that. I’m your mother.”

I’m silent as I chew indecisively on the inside of my cheek.

“You asked to visit me, sugar,” Belinda says pointedly. “If I needed you to work, don’t you think I would have asked you?”

Conveniently, this issue with an employee who quit happened the night I arrived. Of course. A surefire coincidence in the life of Belinda Elliott.

It would be a perfect opportunity for a person to tell off their narcissistic parent, right here, right now. A person with nerve might. I am not her; she is not me.

“I’m exhausted,” I say. “Mind if I slip across the street for coffee? I need some air anyway.”

“Could you bring me a macchiato, sugar? Traditional, please.” Belinda grins, reaching over to kiss my cheek. Her animosity toward me is long forgotten, in the name of getting something from me.

I shrug away from my mother, making my way up through the hall and out to the dining room. I find Rory putting a ticket in the window. “I’m going across the street for coffee. Can I get you anything?”

She shakes her head. “If I have anything but my after-shift drink, I won’t sleep.”

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