Page 15 of On the Line

“I’ll wait here,” I respond, smiling.

He gives me a quick wink and a nod, disappearing outside.

With a smile still tugging at my lips, I fish out my phone and realize, far too late, that I have multiple missed calls from Zachary and a slew of angry texts demanding to know where I am.

“Fuck,” I mutter, suddenly feeling sick.

Knowing that Ozzy is somewhere near the front door, I grab my purse and find another exit, unable to make up a flimsy excuse for why I’m leaving while I’m this anxious.

It’s only after hailing a taxi, that I realize I didn’t say goodbye to Michelle or Quinn.

Whatever.

My coworkers’ feelings are the least of my worries right now—not when my hands are shaking and my breath is shallow. I dial Zachary’s phone number and brace for the worst.

6

JAMES

After three weeks of working at Orso, I’m still partially shadowing Michelle on most shifts, slowly but surely getting the hang of things. The lingo is feeling less foreign. The point-of-sale system, the software we use to punch in orders, is starting to make more sense. And the need to pull out the small cheat sheet I keep tucked inside my check presenter is diminishing with every shift.

I observe and study my peers, picking up on subtle tips and tricks. Where to hide and hoard dry rags, which are a rare commodity on busy nights, is one. Or how to effortlessly open a bottle of wine while chit-chatting with the guests. And at this point, the burning pain of a hot plate resting on the sensitive skin of my arm is something I’ve just learned to endure.

But the most important thing I’ve learned is that the best place to cry is the walk-in fridge.

I discovered that valuable piece of information this past Saturday.

Zachary had been particularly ruthless when I’d showedup at his house after Stanley’s Friday night. I was already apologizing when he’d opened the door, flinching when he threw a beer bottle against the living room wall, shattering it into pieces. I simply stood there, making myself as small as possible, repeating over and over that I was sorry. That it would never happen again.

Thatwhatwould never happen again?

I wasn’t even sure. All I knew for certain was I needed to calm him down by any means necessary. I needed to remind him how much I loved him. How good we are together. But he’d been drinking before I showed up, so nothing seemed to help. He kept me up till dawn.

Fighting.

Always fighting.

I was emotionally raw when I got to Orso for my shift the next day.

I ended up standing beside a case of broccoli, sniffling back tears more than once that night. I had no clue what I was even crying for. But the tears kept coming. Luckily, it was so busy that it was easy to avoid Ozzy’s gaze all night. I didn’t have to justify why I had basically ghosted him the night before.

Thankfully, I had the next two days off, but tonight?

I can’t ignore Ozzy, even if I wanted to.

He’s not in his usual spot in the kitchen tonight, instead, he’s shucking oysters behind the bar with Quinn. Which means he’s in full view from my section in the dining room. I can’t help it, whenever idle my gaze unconsciously finds his. Then I immediately chastise myself for it.

Around nine p.m., I get cut. Although I’m happy to be done early, I’m not rushing to get out of here. Zachary thinks I’ll be working late, I don’t plan on telling him otherwise.

In the staff room, I change into a breezy skirt and a simple white top. My movements are deliberately slow as if I’m trying to delay what I’m about to do next.

Maybe if I don’t name it out loud, I won’t feel so guilty.

Straightening my shoulders, I slip my cross-body purse over my head and let out a long exhale.

You’re not doing anything wrong. This is nothing.

I swing the door open, walking through the small corridor that heads into the dining room. Reaching the bar, I sit down at the very end, near the front door which also happens to be directly in front of the oyster bar—with Ozzy standing right behind it.

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