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I worked on autopilot, greeting people with a cheerful smile and leading them to their tables. It was cool enough in the restaurant that I was able to wear a cardigan over my uniform, which was good because I’d found a huge bruise on my arm from where I’d banged it into the wall. No one noticed that I was silently losing it. They didn’t see the way that I startled when someone in the kitchen dropped a tray of dishes or the way I watched the door, knowing that I was safe but feeling a sense of doom anyway.
I hated how I felt. It brought up so many memories I’d tried to forget. I hadn’t been scared in so long that I no longer knew how to deal with it. The coping mechanisms of my early childhood had deserted me.
“Heyo,” a familiar voice called as I made my way back to the little hostess station at the front of the restaurant. “How you doin’, cutie?”
“Hey guys,” I said in surprise, striding forward to hug Rumi’s cousin Olive. “Felt like some pancakes?”
“Felt like some Nova,” Brody teased as he gave Ma a hug too.
“Hey now,” Rumi muttered, pulling me away. “Get your own. This one’s mine.”
“Hey, Rum,” I murmured, extremely aware of his cousins as I gave him a quick hug.
“Hey, you good? I thought you were gonna help me on the house today.”
It must’ve been only seconds before I answered him, but thoughts ran through my head, one after another. I wasn’t sure if it was shame or embarrassment or a sense of self-preservation or just that the thought of talking badly about Pop was so abhorrent that I couldn’t do it, but I lied.
“Shit, sorry,” I said, smiling. “I fell asleep and didn’t wake up until my alarm for work went off.”
“You slept all day?” Rumi asked, his disbelief obvious.
“It’s because she works constantly and never gets sleep during the week,” Olive said disapprovingly.
“I sleep,” I argued, bumping her with my hip as I went to grab menus. “I just like to catch up a little on the weekends.”
“You should come work with me,” Olive countered as I led them to a table. “The pay is better and you’d have a normal schedule.”
“Not happening,” I replied easily. We’d had the same conversation a million times. Olive’s aunt Charlie owned a chain of coffee carts and I could’ve easily gotten a job at one of them if I’d wanted. It probably would’ve made my life a little easier—but I liked the idea of supporting myself without resorting to a favor from club contacts. I was proud of it.
I’d been working at the pancake house since I graduated high school and I’d started at the craft store a couple months after that. I liked where I worked and the managers had always been super understanding that they had to work around the other’s schedule. It made me loyal, even if I could’ve been paid a little better somewhere else. Plus, most of the waitresses always gave me a cut of their tips, which was a nice little extra.
“You look tired,” Brody said quietly as he moved around me to his side of the booth.
“I’m good,” I replied, setting my hand on his back for a second. Out of all the guys we hung around with, Brody was the most observant. Rumi said it was because he was such a worrier. I thought it was just the way he was raised. His dad was crazy protective of his mom—which was kind of funny because Rose was one of the most capable women I’d ever met.
“I’ll get you guys drinks,” I said, forcing myself not to jump when Rumi covertly pinched my ass as he sat down. “The usual?”
“Coffee.”
“Coffee.”
“Coffee and orange juice.”
“Got it.” I spun on my heel and headed over to the drinks station.
Of course, the night when I was feeling completely out of it and struggling to stay focused was the night when my friends showed up to eat. It happened often enough that it wasn’t ever really surprising, but not often enough that I expected them. Usually I loved when they came to see me, but that night I could’ve done without it.
“Here’s your coffee,” I said, handing them out. “And orange juice for Rumi.”
I ignored the little flask of vodka he pulled out to add to the juice.
“I don’t know how you guys drink coffee at night.”
“We’re eating pancakes,” Brody replied. “You gotta have coffee with pancakes.”
“You don’t have to eat pancakes, you know,” I reminded him. “We have other food.”
“Come to the Pancake House for a burger?” Olive gasped. “Blasphemy.”
