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“Change?” I echo, a knot forming in my stomach. I need every shift I can get; every hour’s wages count.
“Yeah.” He avoids my eyes. “You’re losing your Thursday shift starting next week.”
My brain scrambles for a response. “But—why?”
“New policy from the owner. We’ve got too many part-timers. I’m really sorry, Ever, and to be honest, you’re last in, so first out, you know?”
“Great,” I say, but sarcasm drips from the word like spilt soup. “Thanks for telling me,” I add, keeping the bite out of my voice. Terry nods, looking as happy about this as I feel, which is not at all.
“Get back out there,” he says, motioning towards the floor that hasn’t stopped moving because my world has. “We’ll talk more later.”
“Sure.” With a deep breath, I plunge back into the fray, tucking away the worry and the frustration. I have orders to take and customers to serve. But in the back of my mind, one thought lingers—how am I going to fix this?
My head spins with questions, but there’s no time to chase answers—not when it is heaving in here.
I drop off the drinks and scribble out a bill, all while my brain ticks over like a broken clock. Options. I need options. Pick up another job? But when? My schedule is jam-packed with classes already. It’s why I liked this job. It was a couple of shifts, but the tips make up for it.
Madeup for it.
Fuck.
“Excuse me, miss, we asked for no tomato,” snaps a lady at table nine, her voice like nails on a chalkboard.
“Sorry about that; I’ll get it fixed right away.” My voice is sugary sweet, hiding the sour mood behind a spoonful of honey. I spin on my heel back to the kitchen.
There are ten minutes left of my shift, and every single second is taken up, making it fly by.
“Great work today, despite everything,” Terry says as I despondently grab my bag to leave.
“Thanks.” The word is forced, and so is my smile. I’m not great. I’m scrambling, treading water, trying not to drown in the deep end.
“See you,” he says with a wave.
“See you,” I echo, stepping out into the fresh air. It does nothing to soothe the heat of frustration simmering under my skin.
My phone vibrates in my jeans pocket, jarring me out of my thoughts. I fish it out, the screen lighting up with a number with my landlord’s number.
“Hello?”
“Ever? It’s Raj.” His voice is gruff, and I instantly tense up. I’ve been waiting for this call.
“Hey, Raj,” I reply, trying to keep my tone neutral.
“I need to talk about the house fire,” he says, and I can almost hear the frown in his voice. “Can you give me your side of what happened?”
I grip the phone tighter. “Okay. I was upstairs when it started. So was Lila. The smoke alarm hadn’teven gone off yet.” My fingers fiddle with the hem of my tee, a nervous tick I can’t shake.
Raj is silent on the other end, and my anxiety ramps up another notch. I push on. “We smelled something burning and rushed downstairs, and by the time we realised what was happening, the kitchen was like an inferno.”
“Did you see how it started?” Raj’s voice is abrupt, cutting through the haze of my recollections.
“No, no clue,” I admit, and it kills me that I don’t have more answers. “I tried to put it out, but it was impossible. We decided it was better to leave and call 999.” I pause, swallowing the lump in my throat as the image of flames flashes in my mind.
“Fine,” he replies, but I can’t tell if he believes me or if he’s just ticking boxes for his report.
I know I should be relieved to get this over with, but instead, I’m wound tight, terrified that somehow, this will all fall back on us.
“I’ll call back if I need anything else.” The line goes dead.
