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“You heard me. Come get them out of here.”
“I’m going to have to check with my boss.”
“Why? I’m not asking for a refund. I’m just returning the flowers.”
“I’ve never had anyone return flowers before.”
“Then I guess this is the first time. Come. Get. Them. Now.”
The young man swallows hard, making his Adam’s apple bob. “Y-yes, ma’am.”
It’s the first time I’ve been called “ma’am,” but whatever. I just want the flowers and everything they stand for gone. While I stand on the sidewalk, watching and hoping someone is taking care of my tables inside, he makes multiple trips to return the vases of flowers to the truck. I count twelve dozen.
Idiot.
As if that’s going to fix everything that’s so wrong between us.
I recall my birthday two years ago and how he made a big deal out of it with flowers and gifts and a cake that had me on edge all day because he hadn’t remembered my birthday in years. He was so proud of himself for the effort he expended and expected me to be proud of him, too. What he didn’t get was how sick I felt at the realization that I expected so little of him that when he did come through for me, I was shocked.
“Can you, uh, sign here to say you don’t want the flowers?”
“Sure.” I sign my name and write REJECTED next to the signature. “Ask your boss to inform the customer that the flowers were returned.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I head back inside, but over my shoulder I say, “And don’t call me ma’am.”
Marlene, Livia, Nico and Vivian are in the reception area when I enter through the front door.
“Everything all right?” Vivian asks.
“It is now. Sorry for the disruption.”
“Don’t be,” Marlene says. “You didn’t cause it.”
“Still… I’m sorry.” I glance toward the Italian dining room. “I’ll get back to work now.”
As I walk away, I feel their eyes on me, probably filled with sympathy I don’t want. I hate feeling like a charity case who can’t handle her own life. I’m tired of my life being a chaotic mess. I want some peace and quiet, like what I’ve found with Nico.
As I go through the motions of picking up where I left off with my early-bird customers, I tell myself I’m not trading one man for another. I’ve lived separately of Joaquín for months now, and during that time, there hasn’t been anyone else. Thanks in large part to this job, I’m able to provide a clean, loving, stable home for my son, even if it’s not in the best part of town.
I’m not trading one man for another. I’ve begun a new relationship with a hardworking man from a wonderful, loving family. What I have with Nico is nothing like what I had with Joaquín. For one thing, Nico would never tell me what to do or how to feel or who I can talk to. He’d never isolate me from my friends or weaponize the love I feel for my son against me.
All he wants is to care for me and Mateo, not control us. That makes him as different from Joaquín as night is from day. I learned that expression from a TV show and looked it up on Google to make sure I understood the meaning. I added it to my notebook full of English words and expressions so I won’t forget it.
I love to learn. I always have. That was another thing my mother hated about me—how easily I pick up new things and how well I did in school. What Nico said about me going to college now has been on my mind since he mentioned it. God, I’d love to go back to school, get a degree and have a profession that could support me and my son. That kind of safety net under us would change our lives forever.
But for now, I need to be checking on Mr. Ricci’s chicken marsala and picking up house salads for Mr. and Mrs. Marino. All of them are regulars and order the same things every week.
“We’re in such a rut,” Mrs. Marino says every Saturday. “But I look forward to Giordino’s chicken parm all week long.”
The routine comforts me. Same people, same food, same conversations and generous tips at the end before the second wave arrives at six thirty. That’s when we get really busy, and I have no time to think about anything other than cocktails, salads, appetizers, entrées, dessert, coffee, check, rinse and repeat.
On a regular Saturday night, I clock about twelve thousand steps. I was shocked when one of the other waitresses showed me how to find the counter on my phone. I never would’ve guessed the number would be that high, but Saturday nights are the craziest—and most lucrative—nights of the week. Mateo and I can almost live on what I make on Saturdays alone, which is such a blessing.
Livia and Marlene have probably told the customers about my son’s illness, which is why they’re so good to me. The generosity of strangers has been overwhelming, to say the least.
We’ve reached the busiest part of the evening when I see Miguel suddenly stand and rush toward the main door.
