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Damn. Will I ever have a break? I work non-stop and could definitely use a vacation. But I’m happy to finally help my dad while paying for my own little place. It’s the best of both worlds. Dad has my support, and I have my privacy. So, though I don't want to, I’ll be working another double tomorrow, and I won't feel sorry for myself for one second. It is what it is.
As I’m pouring ranch dressing on top of a salad, I can’t stop thinking about Tate. Maybe he’s a gardener, I think to myself. He had a huge lawn mower in the back of his truck, and his clothes were filthy. I also noticed his worn and callused hands as if he used them a lot, but there’s something about him that makes me think he's a gardener. He was a big guy, muscular build, not that I was staring, but he had a lot of muscle on him. Maybe he's a lumberjack. The thought makes me laugh, and I’ve no idea why I can't get him off my mind.
“I ordered the Florentine omelet,” an annoyed woman says.
“Right, of course. It’s coming soon,” I reply, carrying a plate of scrambled eggs Florentine back to the kitchen, rolling my eyes at myself. Messed up that order too, but I’m finding it hard to pay attention. I glance toward the parking lot like I’m expecting that Tate guy to magically return. How silly. I'm never like this, but he's like the new guy in town, though he lives here. I could’ve sworn I knew everyone in my hometown.
During the rest of my shift, I luckily have no more spills, and I’m on my A-game by the time the dinner hour hits. Almost every customer sits outside because it’s a beautiful night. The cool breeze accompanied the twinkling stars. The views are one of the benefits of living in Whitefish. There’s nothing like this in any other place in the world.
After I close out my final check and do my side work, it’s time for the best part of the night. I order a sandwich to-go then I get into my Honda Civic and drive the half mile to my dad's house. It seems silly to drive such a short distance, but he always complains that he doesn't like me walking at night. His little house looks pretty ragged on the outside, but it takes a beating during the winter, and he doesn’t have the energy or resources to fix it. I hope to help him fix it up one day.
The house is dark, so I'm sure dad’s sleeping, but it still makes me feel good to check in on him. Once I walk in, I hear light snoring, and I walk over to his bed, sitting on the side of it. I lean over and kiss his forehead. He looks so frail lying in bed, and it causes my heart to lurch forward. I rest my hand on his for a moment and then get up from the bed, tiptoeing to the living room.
Dread comes over me. The fear of the future and what’s going to happen to dad, and how we’re going to pay for his medical bills weighs heavy on my mind. Mom hasn’t been in the picture for most of my life. She fled when I was a little girl, and even dad has no idea where she is.
I refuse to let my thoughts go dark tonight. I’ve never been one to sit back and feel sorry for myself. I place the sandwich I got for dad in the fridge and write a note on the whiteboard, letting him know I stopped by. Once I get back into my car, I text my best friend Callie, and she agrees to meet me at my house. I don't live too far away, and while my house is nothing fancy, it's mine.
I walk through the door, pick up my dirty uniforms and start a load of clothes. It takes Callie all of five minutes to arrive. She walks through the door with a bag of chips and some salsa. I grab two beers from the fridge, and we fall into our routine of girl talk and eating.
“You wouldn’t believe this crazy lady today,” Callie says, getting comfy on the couch and dipping a chip into some salsa. She works at the only grocery store within a one hundred mile radius and knows most of the gossip that’s floating around in town.
“Oh, no. What happened?” I ask, taking a si
p from my bottle of beer.
“So she comes over with this huge bag of purple vegetables, and as far as I know, this stuff is squash,” Callie says.
“It’s eggplant. Haven’t you had eggplant parmigiana before?” I ask.
Recognition crosses her face. “That's the stuff with all the cheese?” She smiles, taking a sip of beer.
“Yes,” I reply, stifling a laugh.
“Right. That’s what I thought too, eggplant. Anyway, she comes over and is very pissed. Like there’s a permanent frown on her face or something, and she looks like she's sucking on a lemon. Anyway, she puts the huge bag on the scale, and I politely ask her what it is, just trying to make conversation. Then she looks at me like I have a disease and she says aubergine.”
“That's another name for it.” I chuckle.
“I've never heard that in my life. And I make a small joke about it being eggplant, and she proceeds to tell me that I don't know how to do my job. I mean, she's getting furious about this whole aubergine or eggplant thing, so the manager, Jessica, comes over and says that it’s brinjal.”
“It sounds like you’ve learned your eggplant synonyms today.”
“Tell me about it,” Callie says, cocking her head and contemplating it all.
“I’m sure she was just a pissy old lady that needs to get laid. Did you know her?” I ask.
“No, just another bitchy tourist that thinks she knows everything.” Callie laughs.
I roll my eyes. “They’re the absolute worst,” I say knowing I should be grateful. It's the tourists after all that pay my bills. We both get quiet, and then I think about Tate. “I met someone interesting today.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. A townie. But someone I’ve never seen before. I thought that I knew everyone here.”
“There are always folks coming out of the woodwork. Just the other day at the supermarket I met an old man that has lived here all his life. But he sits in his cabin all day. I guess he finally decided to come out and buy some food,” she tells me.
“This guy was kind of like that. He’s around our age, though. Probably in his late twenties,” I say, deep in the memory of the handsome brown-haired stranger.
“So who is he? What’s his name?” Callie asks, noticing how lost I am in my thoughts.
