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Behind the hostess table, Hazel’s playing with her phone as she looks up and sees me.
My spine feels like a steel rod as I try to keep my expression blank, but my feet dig into the ground nonetheless. I’m on edge. I’m jumpy. I’m nervous. I feel like I’m in trouble, even though I shouldn’t be. I can’t help it. Because I don’t know what to say. Or do. Or…anything. Not until I can tell whether or not Hazel knows I’m dating her dad.
My knuckles turn white as I squeeze the strap of my purse.
How screwed up is this?
I’m dating Hazel’s dad.
She would have every right to throw nachos in my face. Or to yell at me and cause a scene. I should’ve told her. Mack should’ve told her. She probably feels betrayed. Like I stabbed her in the back.
Ifshe knows.
“Hey, Kate,” she greets me, setting her phone down and giving me her full attention.
Forcing my legs to move, I stride toward her and paste on a smile. “Hey.”
“How was your weekend?”
My breathing feels staggered, but I try to keep it in check. “Fine. How was yours?”
“Well, you know.” She shrugs and rounds the edge of the hostess stand, leaning her hip against it. “Anything new?”
Dammit!
Does she know? Does she not? I can’t tell. She seems like she’s in a decent mood, but still. Something’s off. Or maybe it’s my imagination. It's not like I’m good at keeping secrets or anything. And even if she doesn’t know, it’s not like I can keep this from her. But telling her doesn’t exactly sound like a walk in the park. Not at the beginning of our shift. And not when Mack and I agreed to wait until we were together to rip off the Band-Aid.
I suck my bottom lip into my mouth and scan her expression carefully.
Why do I feel like I’m seconds from being interrogated? Like I’m an enemy spy and am about to have a hood thrown over my head as I’m carted off to the nearest basement where they can torture me for answers?
Picking at her cuticles, she prods, “You feeling okay? You look a little…”––her gaze flicks up to mine––“pale.”
“Honestly, I’m not feeling great,” I admit. And boy, if it isn’t the truth. I seriously might puke. Or faint.
“Why not?” she asks.
“Because.” I let the word hang in the air, unable to follow up with anything at all. None of it feels right. Nothing. Nada. I’m fresh out of ideas and have no clue where to go from here without either dying of guilt, crumbling from the pressure, or causing a scene that could get us both fired if I’m not careful.
Dammit!
I should’ve most definitely called in sick.
“So, do you remember how I was telling you about my dad?” she continues, clicking her fingers against the top of the hostess stand.
“Yes?”
Click. Click. Click.
“Yeah. Well.”Click.“I ran into him last night.”Click. Click.“How weird, right?”
I gulp.
She knows.
She has to know.
I step closer to her and look over my shoulder, scanning Butter and Grace for our manager. Dropping my voice low, I start, “Listen––”
