Page 82 of Collision
“Yes, I can do that,” I reply enthusiastically.
“Very good. Have you ever poured draft beer?”
“Erm, no,” I admit, embarrassed. I regret not having attended more parties. “But I’m a quick learner!” I hasten to add.
“You know that a lot of OSU students come in here, right?”
“Oh, yes?”
“Is that a problem? I mean, serving your classmates could be unpleasant.”
“No, no problem.” Apart from Alex, Tiffany, and Logan, and two blowhards whose names begin with T and end with S, no one at school knows I exist. Serving a few students won’t tarnish my nerdy loser rep.
“All right, then. I’d say we can set up a trial week and see how it goes.”
“That would be great, thank you so much, Mr. Ford.”
“First thing: if you start working here, I want you to call me by my name,” he says, smiling.
“Gotcha, Derek.” I smile in turn.
“Second thing, much more important: remember to always bring that smile with you. It’ll be your calling card with every customer you serve. If you use it the right way here, you can ensure yourself some good tips by the end of the day.” He winks at me.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I reply, trying to sound as convincing as possible, torn between enthusiasm and performance anxiety.
“Excellent!” Derek slaps his hand on the table. “I don’t think there’s anything else. The locker rooms are downstairs. After last call, we clean up and close out the cash register, but Maggie will explain all those boring things in more detail.” He gestures to the blue-haired girl who had just greeted me. “Your uniform will be given to you on your first day, come a little before opening hours if you can. Are you okay to start tomorrow?”
I nod fervently, all the while with a dumb grin plastered on my face. For the first time in months, I feel confident and proud of myself.
After two weeks of work, the Marsy has become almost like a second home. Sure, my under-eye rings are at their peak, and I have to study on the bus to keep up with my classes, but having a little independence is an achievement.
As I wipe down the bar, the front door jingles. I look up and spot a man in the doorway. It’s James, a regular who comes in to watch the football game on our screens. His presence reminds me that, despite the skimpy yellow cheerleader uniform that I am forced to wear to get tips, I do actually enjoy this job because of all the new people I am getting to know, who chat and share stories with me. I watch him head for the bar and sit in his usual seat. He’s wearing the same sort of elegant, designer clothes that he typically wears. The Bluetooth earpiece he always wears and the black leather briefcase he carries make him look a bit self-important—and definitely out of place at the Marsy—but I only had to exchange a few words with him to see that he is not nearly so haughty as he appears.
“Hey, James!” I greet him with a smile. “Shall I get you the usual?” A creature of habit, he always gets the same thing: barbecue wings and a nice cold pint.
He confirms with a nod, returning my smile. He’s handsome for a guy in his fifties, with light hair and blue eyes, and just a few frown lines on his face.
“You sure know how to keep your customers satisfied.” He chuckles, lays his briefcase on the counter, pulls out his laptop, and starts typing away on the keyboard, without even looking. If I understand correctly, he works in the publishing industry, and someday I would like to ask him for advice. When he flexes his arm, the sleeve of his jacket rides up a bit and, for the first time, I catch a glimpse of a tattoo on his wrist.
My mind immediately goes to Thomas, and I feel my heart clench. I would be lying if I said that I was immune to his charms or that I don’t long to be near him whenever I think of him. After the way he treated me, though, and especially after the Travis ordeal, I vowed to make better choices when it comes to men. And this is the mantra I repeatto myself every morning before getting out of bed. Then all I have to deal with is my heart beating wildly, my legs shaking, and my stomach turning upside down every time I see or hear about him.
Twenty-Two
Monday morning finds me in the student union cafeteria reading the latest novel chosen by the reading group while I wait for class to begin.
“You’re gonna break it.” Thomas’s deep voice makes me gasp. It’s the first time in exactly forty-five days that I’ve heard it so close to me.
“What?” I turn to look at him, confused and nervous. I realize only now that he is already sitting beside me in his usual swaggering pose, with one ankle balanced on his knee, his arm resting behind my shoulders.
With a jerk of his chin he indicates the pencil I hold between my teeth, which I use to underline the sentences that strike me most in the book. “You keep torturing it like that, it’s gonna break,” he reiterates.
I place the pencil on the book and look back at him, impassive. “Is there a reason you’re talking to me?”
“Is that how it’s always gonna be between us from now on?”
I frown. “Like what?”
“You ignoring me, me doing the same to you…”
