Page 3 of Castaway Whirlwind
I laugh self-consciously. “Yeah. Don’t mind me. I’m just being a big baby.”
Though Dolly and I have only exchanged smiles so far, she follows us into the restroom and rubs her hand up and down my arm. “You’re not being a baby.”
“Yes, I am. Who gets upset over one curse word?” I fan myface with a napkin, refusing to let a single tear fall.
Dolly’s light brows wrinkle with sympathy. “Someone who’s been cursed at a lot in their life?”
I nod. “How did you know?”
Now she’s the one fanning her face as tears brim her lashes. “My dad was like that. You?”
“Not my dad.” Though strict, my dad was the sweetest, most wonderful man who passed away when I was thirteen years old, and I miss him every day. “My stepdad.” The complete opposite of my dad and someone I wish I had never met.
“Crap, now I’m about to cry, too,” Violet says. “My stepdad was the same way.”
An older, slim blonde waitress I haven’t met, with her hair pulled up into a tight ponytail, pops into the room. “Oh no, are you girls ok?”
Violet asks, “Did you have a terrible father growing up, Faye?”
Confused, Faye says, “No, my dad is seriously amazing.”
“Wow, just rub it in all our faces, why don’t you?” Dolly snarks, then bursts into full-blown tears. “I’m so sorry. That was mean. I blame it on the hormones.” She rubs her belly that I still can’t look at directly.
Instead of being offended, Faye laughs and pulls her into a hug. And then she motions to Violet and me, even though we’re strangers, turning this into a big group hug.
Someone knocks on the door and cracks it. “Hey, I don’t mean to break up your girls’ club,” Harold says, “but I really need y’all back out on the floor. Got some more crews coming in, waiting to be fed.”
Dolly snorts. “Girls’ club.” Then she cocks her head to the side. “We are a club. The Granny Girls’ Club?”
Violet wrinkles her nose. “Too mouthy. How about just ‘Granny’s Girls’?”
Faye claps her hands. “I got that fancy vinyl cutting machine for my birthday. I can make matching sweatshirts!”
The door cracks open another inch. “Ok, Granny’s Girls, back to work. Chop-chop.”
Faye pulls open the door, ducking her head slightly. “Yes, sir.”
Harold’s whole face goes fire-hydrant-red, and he turns on a heel. Violet and Dolly both laugh at Faye’s matching red face. The Granny’s Girls hustle out of the restroom, and though the morning started off in a deep well of misery, and the meds have only just taken the edge off my pain, my smile is genuine as I follow Violet around for the rest of my training shift, starting with bussing the million-and-one empty plates left on the BT men’s table.
Russell left a twenty-dollar bill under his coffee mug, along with a handwritten note addressed to me on a napkin, apologizing once more for cursing and scaring me. I pocket both when Violet grins and refuses to accept the tip, even though she did all the work before I got to the diner.
* * *
Russell
There have been only a handful of times in my life when I’ve been struck speechless, and until today, all of them had to do with my son, Paul—his birth, the first time he called meDaddy, his first steps, his kindergarten and then highschool graduations, and his acceptance into one of the top universities in Texas.
Today, though, I was struck speechless by the sight of the new waitress with her big brown doe eyes and her too-tight pink uniform when she stepped inside the diner. The tips of my ears turned hot, and my forty-nine-year-old heart palpitated. It was a scary reminder of my age and how inappropriate it was to stare at the girl in such a way, knowing she had to be only a few years older than my son. It was shameful to realize that my ex-wife and I never elicited the same reaction from each other, though I know her current husband still does, even after having just celebrated their seventeenth wedding anniversary.
Then there was the swift kick in the balls when I found out Layla is already spoken for by one of my employees—a cocky, immature little shit who Jared has already written up twice after catching him smoking inside the warehouse.
I’m being an immature little shit myself as I stomp past Steven at the warehouse toward Davis going over his pre-inspection, circling one of my eighteen-wheelers with BERENSON TRUCKING painted in tall red letters across the white trailer before he heads out on the road for the next five weeks. I started this company after my divorce with just two trucks, delivering goods locally, and have since grown to owning and operating thirty trucks making deliveries across the country with no plans to let up on expansion.Berensonmight have been the poor last name my father handed down to Elliott and me, but it’s now the heart of this county, providing good jobs and good pay, and I couldn’t be prouder.
“Hey, boss.” Davis tips his brim at me, signing off on the bottom of a form on his clipboard. “I’m just about done here.”
I’m distracted as we go over a few logistics, and I do a double-take when Davis cracks a teasing grin, hooking his thumbs behind his silver belt buckle.
I cross my arms, straightening my back. At six-foot-three, we’re evenly matched in height. “Got something to say to me, son?” I cringe immediately, and my shoulders drop, not knowing when I became the old fart who started calling younger men—much less men in their early thirties like Davis—son.
