Page 12 of On the Line

I drop the smile and take my hand back, my fingers grazing my hair, now slightly self-conscious. Picking up the menu, I try to hide my reaction to his comment behind the pretense of perusing the wine list. “I like the pink,” I mumble, mostly to myself.

Zachary doesn’t say anything else, but I’ve been with him for long enough to know he’d prefer I listen to his heavy-handed suggestion about my appearance. After a loaded silence, I decide I need some wine to relax—ridiculously expensive now that I notice these things.

Eventually, the cold shift thaws and I warm up to Zachary again. His good mood is infectious, reminding me of the playful charmer I first met. These moments feel rarewhen we’re simply enjoying each other’s company. I take full advantage, trying to enjoy every second—it proves harder than expected when I tend to always feel on high alert around him, constantly monitoring his mood for the potential downward shift. Even though I’m used to it, it's exhausting.

Trying to keep the more negative thoughts at bay, I distract myself by observing the waitstaff. I notice things around the restaurant I never would’ve before working at Orso—even if it’s only been a little over two weeks.

It’s in the way the staff communicates with each other, and how they flow around the dining room in an effortless waltz; water glasses are always filled, never a crumb left on the table. I have the reflex of helping the server clear our table when we’re done eating, but clasp my hands on my lap instead, letting her do her job and thanking her profusely for every little thing.

I hate guests like Zachary, I now realize. His rude attitude toward the staff is grating, and at times embarrassing. I wonder how it took me this long to realize it. I bite my tongue every time he snaps his fingers, or demands something instead of politely asking, not wanting to ruin the mood.

But the way he speaks to our server as if she’s beneath him …

Makes me wonder if that’s how he sees me now.

By the time the dessert comes, I’m ready to leave. Zachary doesn’t seem to have noticed my pointed silence, regaling me with one of his lacrosse stories as we share a buttermilk and strawberry panna cotta. I’ve become painfully self-aware, my gut feeling telling me that the waitstaff is counting the seconds before we leave.

I let out a small sigh when the bill finally comes, but it’sshort-lived as I watch in horror while Zachary signs the receipt, barely leaving a five percent tip. Internally, I feel like I’m slowly withering away in embarrassment but keep my expression placid as we stand up from the table.

Putting my hand on Zachary’s shoulder, I say, “Actually, I just need to pop into the restroom before we go.” I give a little nod towards the exit. “I’ll just meet you at the valet.”

Still in a lively mood, he gives me a quick peck on the cheek. “Sure thing, honeybun.” Then gives me a quick smack on the ass. “Be quick.”

My laugh is dry but he doesn’t notice, turning on his heels and heading for the door. I pretend to walk toward the restroom but immediately circle back to our table as soon as Zachary disappears outside. Luckily, the check presenter is still at our table and I hurriedly stuff two twenties in it. I give a shy wave to the waitstaff on my way out and join Zachary outside, none the wiser.

5

JAMES

“Some of us are going to Stanley’s, it’s just around the corner if you want to come?” Michelle asks. “It’s a shitty dive bar but the drinks are cheap and they let us stay after hours,” she continues with a shrug while she changes beside me in the staff room.

It’s after midnight on a Friday, my back hurts and the soles of my feet have been throbbing for the past five hours but I perk up at the invite, and jump at the opportunity Michelle is offering me.

It’s my third weekend working at Orso, and I still painfully feel like the new girl. It seems like everyone has known each other for years, and I’m the odd one out. “Sure,” I say, smiling. “Let me just freshen up first, I’ll be quick.”

“Great,” she answers with her own smile. “I’ll wait for you out back.”

I’m stepping into some bike shorts when Greta, the hostess, storms in, looking flushed and angry.

“Ugh!” she practically shrieks, slamming her lockerdoor open, huffing and puffing as she pulls her personal belongings off the shelf.

Pulling my baby doll dress over my head, blush pink to match my hair, I eye her wearily. I wonder if I should ask her what’s wrong or let her pretend she’s alone in here.

Greta decides for the both of us.

Swiveling around to face me, she says, almost haughtily, “Word of advice.” She sniffs as if holding in a sob. “Don’t fuck the kitchen staff. You’ll just end up regretting it.” Slamming the locker door closed, she adds, “Especially, that fuckingslutOzzy.” Her voice cracking on his name.

She doesn’t give me the time to speak before storming out, leaving me slightly stunned but also kind of amused. I quirk a smile while I finish buttoning up my dress.

I was told by Michelle that no matter what restaurant you end up working at—drama between coworkers always follows. Especially between the kitchen and waitstaff. My little interaction with Greta makes me feel like I’ve finally been let into the secret life of Orso.

Although, I know firsthand that it’s only amusing when the drama is not your own.

I don’t know much about Ozzy, except that he’s continued to call me Jimbo ever since that first week andgoddo I hate it. But receiving this valuable piece of information about him intrigues me, simply because it humanizes him. And admittedly, he kind of intimidates me.

We’ve only had a few interactions here and there, mostly me greeting the kitchen staff before clocking in or slinking up to the pass to ask for a side of salad dressing. Nothing past words exchanged between coworkers during a busy service.

But I still can’t quite gauge his personality. At times, he’s cracking jokes, aquamarine eyes bright with humor whileserving us that day’s staff meal, but then turns militantly serious during the dinner rush, barking orders at the servers when he deems us too slow with pick up.

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