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She screams, of course, turning heads all over the restaurant. Thank goodness it’s not very busy this time of day. I lock eyes with Ignacio, watching the familiar look on his face. It’s the cake all over again. Somewhere behind me, I hear Aaron barking at me as if he’s far away.
“What the heck, Olive!”
There’s movement at the table, probably Aaron and Eyebrows scrambling for napkins. But all I see is Ignacio, and my throat burns. I feel the sting of tears behind my eyes, and my nose is getting all tingly. I can’t cry. Not here. Not in front of Aaron. Not in front of all these customers. So I run. I bolt right out of the dining room, through the kitchen, and out the back door, letting the ugly cry explode out of me next to the big, smelly dumpsters outside.
I’m not a crier, usually. But here I am, bawling my eyes out—at work, of all places. I don’t even know if I’m more upset about Aaron or my money problems, or that I’m about to get fired again. I guess it’s everything combined.
Not thirty seconds later, Ignacio is next to me, finding me in a pathetic heap of tears. I try to wipe my face, but I’m too snotty and wet.
“Olive?” His voice is softer than I would expect for someone about to fire my stoopid butt for the second time. I’m hunched over, hiding my blotchy, red face from him, but he comes around to stand right in front of me, tilting my chin up with his finger. I can hardly see his expression through puffy eyes and a deluge of tears flooding my vision. Thank goodness I don’t have to see the disappointment on his face when he tells me to hit the road. But he doesn’t say a thing. Instead, he disappears back into the restaurant, leaving me alone at my dumpster pity party. He’s probably getting my bag and car keys to get me out of here without a scene. Too late. I’m positive I’ve already accomplished that.
He returns a minute later with a whole roll of toilet paper and gently places it in my hands. I wipe my eyes and blow my nose, which is the most unattractive thing a lady can do in front of a man. Except maybe barf—which I very well might do out of sheer embarrassment. Once I’ve dried my nose out and maybe stopped crying, I toss the tissues into the trash bin. Ignacio takes the toilet paper roll from me and replaces it with a damp towel.
“This will make you feel better,” he says. “Would you like a glass of water?”
I rub the towel over my face, smudging what’s left of my make-up. It does feel nice. I’m grateful for this even though I don’t understand.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” I ask, willing myself not to cry again. I know what I look like when I cry and it’s not pretty.
“You’re my employee. I take care of my staff.”
“But…” Is he just going to wait to fire me when I’m not so sobby?
“Who were those people?” he asks. “Do you know them?”
“You’re not going to ask about the Cokes?”
He lets out a half laugh. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned—especially with you—is that there’s usually more to the story than meets the eye.”
I can’t help but crack a small smile. One of the dishwashers comes out the door, ready to take his break. Ignacio says something in Spanish with a tone of irritability and shoves the toilet paper and towel into his chest. Then he softly places a hand at the small of my back, guiding me around the corner, away from the busybody kitchen staff.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” he says.
But I do have to tell him. I made a scene in his restaurant.
“He’s my ex,” I say with a sigh. “And the girl he was with…”
He blows out a hard breath. “Let me guess. He was two-timing you. With her.”
“Bingo.”
“Wow.” He shakes his head. “You know you didn’t have to take that table. I wouldn’t have minded if you’d turned him away.”
“I didn’t know until I was right there, delivering their drinks.”
“I’m guessing that spill wasn’t such an accident after all?”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. I’m so busted.
“It’s okay,” he says. “Maybe next time you won’t miss.”
“Whaaa?”
“Come on.” He leads me to a silver SUV, and clicks a key fob, opening the hatch. “It’s been a heck of a day for both of us.”
He sighs and opens a small lunch box. Inside, there’s some healthy looking green drinks in bottles kept cold by an ice pack, but inside one pocket, there’s a Snickers bar.
“For emergencies,” he says, ripping it open and handing it to me.
