Page 8 of A Night to Remember

Kayla

Almost getting killedby some rich asshole in a car that probably cost as much as my house wasnothow I wanted to start my shift this evening. I’d been trying to figure out how Lydia, the protagonist of my short story, can learn to communicate with an alien computer—I have no desire to emulate Roberts, Nora—when all of a sudden I was frozen with terror.

I’ve heard people say that a brush with death can be calming, that you can come away from it with a sense of peace and even wonder, but instead I feel intense anxiety.

What would happen to my mom if something happened to me? Who would pay the mortgage? Would she be responsible for my student loans? How would we pay the medical bills if—heaven forbid—I had to be taken to the hospital? Maybe my mom should take out a life insurance policy on me or something. Could she even do that?

My hands are still shaking as I enter the café. I nod to Meg as I go through the kitchen to the area at the back that contains the office and the employee locker room. We call it that as a kind of joke, since it’s basically a walk-in closet off of the small office, but it serves its function.

I slip into the tiny room and lean against the wall, willing my heart to stop pounding. Deep breaths, Kayla. In and out. Nothing happened, after all. Get it together.

On days when I have to work at both the library and the café, I dress strategically, so I have to change as few items of clothing as possible. Today I’ve made it especially easy on myself: all I have to do is slip out of my sweater and put on an apron. I’m already in the black dress pants and blouse that are equally appropriate for either job.

Allison is always telling me that I dress like a waitress at the library, but I tell her it’s either that or I dress like a librarian at the café. I know she wishes I would dress more stylishly, but come on—who am I trying to impress?

I tie on a freshly laundered apron, take another deep breath, and look at my phone. It’s 5:02. Time to stop ruminating on my near-miss and get to work.

I walk out through the kitchen, where Meg is filling ramekins of ranch dressing for the dinner rush. Even though she owns the place, she’s never above doing the most menial tasks alongside her workers. Probably because she got her start here as a waitress herself. She bought the place about six years ago and has transformed it from a greasy spoon to a slightly less greasy café specializing in locally sourced fare.

“Can you take the front?” she asks, flashing me a quick smile.

I nod.

“Thanks! I’ll be out there in a second. Have to get a few more of these done first. The only tables filled right now are six andseven. They should be fine, but you might want to check and see if they need refills.”

“No problem,” I say, smiling at Jeff, the cook, who is bobbing his head to the music in his earbuds as he caramelizes onions on the griddle.

I step out into the dining room. As soon as I appear behind the counter, someone calls my name.

It’s a man’s voice, and something about it is familiar.

“Johnson!” he says again. Nobody calls me that, except...

Gabe Wilson. A.k.a. The Boy Who Must Not Be Named. I spot him immediately, not four feet from me. I feel like the floor has dropped out beneath me. I grip the edge of the counter and pray that I don’t faint. My breathing feels tight and shallow.

He looks as good as ever. Better, even. He’s grown up. He stands an inch or two taller, his jaw is more chiseled, his shoulders broader. Same thick, dark hair, same amber eyes. Only now their expression is graver, more careworn. There’s a melancholy about him that wasn’t there before. I feel a surge of affection for him, a sudden, insane desire to leap over the counter and rush into his arms.Steven O’Connor’s graduation party. Steven O’Connor’s graduation party, my mind repeats, but my body isn’t listening. It wants what it has always wanted: Gabe.

I take in his expensive shirt, his flashy watch, his expertly cut hair. I’m mortified to be standing here in an apron, expected to wait on him like a servant. I’m also ashamed to still be so attracted to the guy who disappeared with my drunk friend the instant I put on the brakes.

“Hoping one of your law school buddies can get you off for vehicular manslaughter? What the hell was that back there?” I blurt. This is not terribly professional of me, but I’ve quickly decided that yelling is the only way to keep control of the thousand emotions coursing through me. Though I kick myselffor mentioning law school. Now he’s going to think I’ve been keeping tabs on him for years. I could’ve just pretended like I didn’t know who he was.

“I’m sorry,” he says, looking at me seriously, his voice trembling slightly. “This isn’t the way that—” He stops and tries again. “There was this dog. I was going to try to rescue it, so I was looking the other way, when?—”

“What are you doing back here, anyway?” I interrupt him. “Shouldn’t you be working in a law firm by now, cheating women out of their divorce settlements?” I sound unspeakably rude and am well aware that the entire restaurant is looking at us. But I know I’ll cry if I drop the attitude. I cross my arms tightly in front of my chest.

He winces slightly and averts his eyes. A muscle is working in his jaw. “I apologize for almost hitting you. It was an accident. You should know that I would never hurt you on purpose.”

I scoff and look away.

“Johnson, why…” I can hear confusion creep into his voice.“Youwere the one who ghostedmeafter graduation.”

I glance back at him in surprise. He looks almost hurt now, which rattles me even more.

“And I had a very good reason,” I say, my voice beginning to falter. This startles him. He searches my face, brows knitted. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again. We stand there for a minute, gazing at each other without speaking. Then finally he seems to remember the busy restaurant around us.

“Well, I’ll see you around,” he mutters and walks to the door.

“Not if I can help it,” I shout back before turning away from the customers and bursting into tears.

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