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“About what I said before. I wanted to warn you.”
“Warn me?”
“Yeah, uh—”
Stewart slides into the booth seat across from us. “Hey, sorry we’re late.”
Eve curses under her breath.
He’s followed immediately by Patrick who sits next to me, his bright gaze darting between Eve and I. “Did we miss anything?”
“No,” Eve answers quickly.
Patrick’s brows lift.
“The menu is limited.” Eve rushes to explain the offerings due to the oven issues.
I glance between them, an unwelcome comprehension flooding through me. “Where’s Savannah?”
Patrick shifts in the seat next to me. “She couldn’t make it.”
Eve gives me an apologetic wince.
Is this what she was trying to tell me? Is this meant to be some kind of double date? Stewart and Patrick started dating soon after they both came on board two months ago. Patrick is one of the camp chefs. Stewart is a counselor specializing in psychology and they are both fresh out of college and clicked immediately.
There is no time to contemplate the situation further because Taylor reappears at the table with a tray of waters and Eve’s drink, and to repeat the details of the menu to the new arrivals.
Once she takes our orders and disappears again, Patrick and Eve start telling stories about the most recent round of campers, Stewart chiming in with his own anecdotes.
Maybe I’m overanalyzing the situation. This is all fairly normal, friendly work talk. I settle back in my seat and let the conversation flow around me, contributing when I have something relevant to impart.
Working at the camp has been a new experience, friendship-wise, and not like my past jobs, since I was a contractor and worked for a variety of companies on a temporary basis.
In between the conversations, Taylor brings plates to the table, refills our drinks, and periodically stops by to ask if we need anything.
There is only one other waitress, who is taking care of people at the bar and a couple of the tables right next to it. Taylor is covering the rest of the room, which is nearly full.
I try not to stare, but it’s hard not to watch her work. She’s constantly in motion, moving back and forth from the kitchen. Sometimes dancing a little to the song playing from the jukebox, or singing along. Even though the restaurant is slammed, she’s bright and buoyant, making customers laugh and smile. She’s intoxicating.
Forcing my attention back to the conversation in front of me is a challenge.
Patrick chuckles. “We were going around the group doing introductions and she said, ‘My name is Liz. And it’s short for Lizard, not Elizabeth.’”
Stewart grins. “Lizard is the best. She told me her brother wants to be a marine biologist when he grows up, so she wants to be a dolphin.”
We all laugh.
Glass crashing and clattering to the floor jerks my attention to the bar.
One of the patrons is looming over the other server while she wrings her hands. “You clumsy bitch!”
In a flash Taylor is there, pushing in between them, holding up her hands and facing the irate customer.
Without conscious thought, I’m on my feet, stalking in their direction.
“I’m going to need you to pay your tab and leave.” Taylor’s voice is low and calm.
The guy glares over her head at Vanessa. “She spilled beer on me.”
