Page 180 of Summer Love

The Jeep passes the sign. I hit the gas.

CHAPTER 58

Summer

Ishift my weight onto my left foot—a move I know by heart. My sneakers have replaced the heels, but my foot hasn’t forgotten the eight hours at the agency. Like yesterday. Like every day this week. The dress code calls for heels. I don’t have a choice.

My shift ends at ten. Two more hours.

Tonight the tray feels heavier than usual. Two plates, a milkshake, a cup of coffee that threatens to slosh over with every step. I cross the floor, trying not to limp.

I set the tray down at table six. Cheeseburger, fries, and a strawberry milkshake for her, club sandwich and black coffee for him.

“Enjoy.”

He mutters something that might be thanks. She doesn’t bother looking up from her phone. I head off without lingering.

Mavis brushes past me, two plates balanced on her forearm. Forty, a smoker’s voice, the drawl of someone who’s never left the neighborhood. She winks at me as she goes.

The tired fluorescent light buzzes overhead. On the screen above the counter, the Yankees are playing the Red Sox, and nobody’s watching. The coffee machine hisses. Outside, Delancey Street makes its usual noise—a siren in the distance, the subway rumbling under the asphalt.

Mavis calls over from the counter.

“Table four, hon. Some guy in his fifties, ID badge still around his neck. Looks like the type to send his plate back.”

I glance at the guy in question: tie stuffed in his jacket pocket, shirt stuck to his shoulder blades, sleeves shoved up his forearms. I put him in a box before I even reach him—a business-school habit that works almost as well at the diner as it does at the agency. Rough week, doesn’t want to go home, needs something to gripe about.

I walk over, pull the pad and pen from my apron pocket. He taps the table with two fingers, jaw tight.

“Evening,” I say. “What can I get you?”

“Fried eggs. Bacon. Pancakes. Coffee.”

“How do you want the eggs—sunny side up or over easy?”

“Sunny side up.”

“You got it.”

He buries himself in his phone while I write it down.

At the pass, I slide the ticket into the clip. The cook glances at it, cracks the eggs right away. I grab the coffeepot, make my rounds, top off cups without asking. Not a look, not a thank-you.

At table eleven, a sharp pain shoots through my right foot. I flinch, the mug wobbles, coffee splashes onto my arm. I don’t say anything, wipe it on my apron. The braided bracelet slides down my wrist; I push it back up.

Mornings in Coral Bay, my foot was stiff when I woke up. A few barefoot steps in the sand and the stiffness eased. Two weeks with almost no pain.

I set the pot back on the warmer and get back to work.

When the eggs come up at the pass, I carry them to table four.

“Sunny side up, crispy bacon, pancakes, maple syrup on the side,” I say. “Enjoy.”

I start to walk away. The customer snaps his fingers behind me.

“Hey, miss!”

“Yeah?” I say, turning back.