“I won’t take a handout.” We pause our conversation while we deliver the plates and ask if the patrons need anything else.
On our way back to the counter, Josie says, “It’s not a handout. It’s a loan.”
I shake my head. “I can take care of myself. I have it in savings.”
“I know you can. You’re awesome at it. And that money in savings is to cover living expenses while you do your student teaching. You can't survive on love and air.”
“But if it takes time to clear the record, then I might be able to save up the money again while I wait for the next round of student teaching assignments.”
Josie says, “My offer is always on the table. I know you have other things going on, like your dishwasher being out. I don't want you to be spread too thin. We’ve all been there.”
Only, she really hasn’t. She was born with a silver spoon in her mouth and married a man who became a self-made millionaire. Josie’s always had a safety net.
“Thanks, but like I said, I pay my debts.”
She shrugs. “Whatever you say.” She kisses me on the forehead. “Now, go fix your face because you have red lips on your forehead.”
I groan and walk into the RV to use the chrome-plated microwave as a mirror to do as she says. Afterward, the afternoon moves into the evening in a blur. The pop-up restaurant is a hit with steady business. I let myself forget about my problems and enjoy my time with my friends.
There’s an hour left to my shift when Jayne comes up to me at the serving counter.
She says, “I just sat four hot guys in your section. Go over there and dazzle them into buying lots of appetizers and drinks. Not alcoholic, mind you, they're on bikes, but let's make some last money for epilepsy and go out with a bang.”
I give her two thumbs up. “You got it.” I freshen my lipstick, but mostly because my lips are chapped. I like that colored Chapstick that makes you feel like you're not wearing lipstick but gives just the right pop of color. I pull my ponytail tighter, grab four menus from the counter, and stroll over to the table.
Two of the guys are facing me and two have their backs to me. They’re broad, solid men, built like lumberjacks but without the beards. Two are African American, one with dreads, and two are white, one sporting a sleeve of tattoos on both arms. They’re dressed in jeans and T-shirts, and carrying leather jackets or vests.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” I say as I deal out the menus like a deck of cards. “Welcome to the Fox and Hound. Your choosing to dine with us is a big deal because fifty percent of your tab will be donated to the Epilepsy Fund for Families at Orlando Children’s Hospital. This fund helps offset medical costs not covered by insurance. The last thing parents need to worry about is whether their child’s treatment will be covered. Everything you eat and drink tonight is for a good cause. This is not the time to be on a diet. This is the time to indulge, because why not? You’re helping families of kids with epilepsy.” I make a point of smiling at each one of them.
Until I get to the fourth guy. My heart stutters in my chest, causing shortness of breath, making me cough as I try to take in air. This sensation is a familiar one. It’s the first sign of a panic attack. My heart races, and I feel light-headed. I didn’t recognize him earlier because his back was to me. And I wasn’t expecting to see him again, ever.
“Heather?” he says with his green eyes shining. His smile is wide and welcoming. “It’s been years.”
Nine years to be exact. I’m reminded of this every March when conversations and news outlets start talking about the NFL draft. The draft is, after all, the reason why I broke up with Dax Griffin.
No one wants to be the girl left behind when the guy she’s been dating gets drafted and moves on to bigger and better things. And what guy would keep the unremarkable small-town girl they'd only been dating for six months when supermodels and the like were about to become part of his lifestyle? I was determined to be the dumper and not the dumpee.