Page 18 of Glass Half Full
I want to get back out there. I want to see what happens next. I want to grow and learn and discover. I might only be discovering how to layer cocktails or read an order chit, but it’s the first time in a long time that the thought of trying something new hasn’t sent me spinning.
I reach for the handle and shout “Door!” after I’ve cracked it open an inch—a necessary kitchen precaution. Apparently I wasn’t loud enough to announce my presence because I walk out and slam right into someone’s back.
It’s a very wide back—wide enough that one might even call the person who owns it a beefcake.
“What the—Oh, Renee, what are you doing back here?” Dylan turns around, looking far more irritated than I expected.
I hold my insert up in explanation. “Uh, limes.”
He looks from my face to the fruit and back again, a distracted haze in his eyes, before nodding. “Cool.”
Limes.
Cool.
If I needed yet another reason to squash whatever it is I feel around Dylan, all I have to do is remember that this is about as good as I get with flirting.
You are not flirting.
I step past him just as he turns away and see that he’s leaned up against the wall next to Zach, both of them sharing the same agitated expression.
“I checked everywhere,” Zach mutters, just loud enough for me to catch. “We’re out. We have like, five left, and they’re not even chopped yet.”
“How is that possible?” I glance back to watch Dylan rake a hand through his hair and fight to ignore how sexy that is.
You do not get to find pissed off Dylan attractive. You do not get to find any Dylan attractive.
My moral compass continues to put in a valiant effort to keep me on track, but I still slow to a stop as I round the corner of the hall, staying out of sight as I listen to their conversation.
“The order just came in yesterday. We should be set. We should have more than enough,” Dylan hisses.
“I checked the sheet. Someone ordered the small bags instead of the large ones.”
I hear Dylan huff out a heavy breath. “By someone you mean me, right?”
Zach hesitates. “I didn’t want to say it like that...”
“There’s no point dancing around the truth. We’re not ballerinas. I fucked up. I’m the reason we’re out of potatoes on fucking free French fry night.”
“Nice alliteration there, man.”
“You’ve picked a great time to critique my poetic devices, Zachy Zach.”
I can’t tell if they’re actually as mad as they sound before they both snort out a laugh.
“Shit.” Dylan sighs, the tension returning to his tone. “What the hell are we going to do?”
“The only thing we can do?” Zach hazards. “Tell everybody we’re out?”
“You really want to deal with the customer service side of that? Plus we’ve got I don’t even know how many orders of fries on the board. It’s going to take the servers forever to get them all properly cancelled. Monroe literally stood on the sidewalk herself handing out fliers all week. This is a huge deal. If we end up with negative reviews because we couldn’t give people what we said they’d be getting, we’re fucked.”
“I’m sure there was a ‘while supplies last’ clause.”
“Supplies are supposed to last longer than an hour into the night!” The words come out on a growl, and I’m sure I’m not the only one who overhears them. There’s another pause before Dylan continues in a quieter voice. “I’m sorry, man. It’s my fault, not yours. I just—Fuck, I’m the leader here now, and I keep screwing it up.”
I feel a pull towards him so strong my feet might as well be magnets on the floor. This is different than the way he makes my skin heat or my breath catch in my throat. This isn’t attraction; this is recognition. I know that panic in his voice. I know those notes of doubt, of loathing, of despair. It’s the sound I was listening for in the fridge, only it’s coming from him now, not from me.
Looking in from the outside, I can tell Zach is right; if you give them away for free, you’re bound to run out of fries. It’s not the end of the world. I’m sure the customers are even expecting it, but I know what it’s like to be on the inside too, where Dylan is now.
