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“Interested?”
Not one to typically be invited to things is probably what gets him enthusiastically nodding so much.
It isn’t that he’s not a nice guy.
He just tries too fucking hard ninety percent of the time.
But on a night like tonight, fuck it.
Misery loves company, and there’s plenty of misery for him to join in on.
Closing duties commence once we all finish agreeing to go; however, unfortunately for me, it’s my night to do the deep cleaning with the busboys, putting me last out the door as a server forty-five minutes after everyone else. Rodrigo is last from the kitchen to leave – since two of the busboys are his sons that need a ride – and Amber Abbington is the manager who pulled the short straw for locking up, which is fine by me. She’s less anal retentive about shite in comparison to some of the other higherups. She trusts the servers – at least those that have been here for a few years – to do the shite we say we’re gonna do versus micromanaging how well we dusted a light fixture.
Rodrigo and his sons veer to the left outside in the employee parking lot while I lean against the edge of the brick wall, watching Amber pound in the security code during her continued moral debate about hooking up with Abel. “I mean…he wants me, I want him, why the fuck does this have to be a huge deal?” The beeping noises indicate the code has successfully been put in. “That whole I’m his boss, he’s my subordinate bullshit isn’t always fair.” She shuts the door with her on the outside. “What happens when we just wanna fuck, and it’s not a powerplay?” Her dirty blonde hair rapidly sways back and forth, words aimed at me, hand dealing with the lock. “Why can’t a woman wanna just get hers without it being a literal crime?”
An innocent shrug bounces my exhausted shoulders. “I think as long as you don’t give him bloody special treatment you should be good.”
“Why should he get any? I damn sure don’t.” She playfully jabs back on the final click of the keys.
One thing I do really like about my job is the people in the back of the house as much as the front. With the exception of two managers – one being the GM and the other the assistant GM – everyone pretty much operates on the same level. There’s no talking down to you because they’re “above you”. They don’t refuse to get their hands dirty by picking up plates or refilling wine glasses or assisting in large parties. Despite wearing the “boss” label, they never forget that they were once “one of us”. That there’s truly a minor difference between my white shirt and their black most days. It keeps the environment healthy and laxer. And to be honest, it keeps all of us servers more willing to break our backs and necks when they need more than we’re in the mood to give.
It’s the type of relationship I want with our future team at the pub.
Assuming Geoffrey and I get that far.
Harper swears we will.
I’m still…not so sure.
It’s expensive and taxing and will mean more time away from her and that fuckery is what I’m least bloody interested in.
“The only person you really have to worry about giving a shite is Margaux, and you know none of us are gonna say a word to her.” We begin to cross the parking lot to the left towards our vehicles. “We never do unless we have to.”
“Pretty sure the only reason that woman is still married is because her husband’s deaf and literally can’t hear her nagging.”
“Ignorance truly is bliss,” I chuckle prior to reaching into my pocket to retrieve my phone to text the woman I hope one day says yes to marrying me.
Living together does make it slightly easier to save for a ring.
Only slightly.
While Harper doesn’t expect me to shell out for the mortgage payment or even the bills, I am determined to help maintain our home. Keep groceries in it – which is much more costly when you’re making real meals for two people. The expensive bathroom lightbulbs changed. Yard equipment that adds up rather quickly when you let your dad commandeer your trip to Harry’s Hardware store. Upkeep for an actual house is quite different than an apartment and in spite of my acceptance of this, my bank account doesn’t always like to comply.
Add that to the other reasons I’m not sure opening a pub is the right idea.
It introduces anarchy to an already not always stable financial situation.
What happens if it gets worse?
What happens if I can’t continue to do the little I do now for dates or repairs because the business I just “had” to start is bleeding me bloody dry?
I’ve just finished unlocking my phone with my thumb when Amber asks, “You texting them to tell them we’re on our way?”
“No,” the digit hits the message folder, “texting my girlfriend to tell her where I’m headed.”
“Why don’t you just tell her to her face?”
Amber’s suggestion shifts my stare to hers only to have hers cut off to the side.
