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Thedinerisslammedfor brunch on Saturday. It’s been so long since I worked a weekend shift, I’ve almost forgotten how busy we get. Although the fact it’s our Thanksgiving weekend probably plays a role, too. The tips are wild at least. Until they aren’t.
It’s almost refreshing to be so run off my feet there’s no room for stressing about anything except keeping my customers happy. No time to check my phone for grumpy texts from Meg. I’m sure she’s been complaining that Grandma wants to actually spend time together instead of letting her hide on her phone and text her friends.
No pining over an alternate universe where I could stay in bed with Saint for hours, making lazy love to him all night long. No mentally tallying the assignments I need to finish if I want to pass the last two classes that I need to start my fourteen weeks of practicum experience. I’m so close to crossing the last hurdle to getting my teaching certification.
Between the kids and just life, sometimes it feels like I’ve been in school forever, watching my classmates get younger year after year as I struggle through my coursework as time and finances have allowed. I started this degree when I was still with Trevor, he badgered me about wasting the time and money on an education I didn’t need, but it’s something I really want and now my dreams are within reach. Things will get better soon.
None of that matters right now though. Just feeding hungry people with food that I don’t have to cook on dishes that I only rarely have to wash. Though, with Josie and Raul calling in sick, we all have to pitch in to cover the slack. Several customers come in to pick up pie orders for the holiday on Monday. So that’s an added complication we don’t deal with most weekends, but it’s all routine after doing this job since I was pregnant with Meg.
It takes me aback when Trevor and his mom come in for lunch with the kids. Elk’s Pass might be a small town, but this is far from the only brunch option. I try to catch Amy’s eye to not seat them in my section, but Trevor points to a booth. Amy nods, leading the way with a stack of menus, and my fate is sealed. I grit my teeth and welcome them with the usual spiel.
I can’t blame Amy. She’s a new hire and I have the kids in often enough that everyone knows them. Of course she wouldn’t realize I don’t want to serve my ex when he’s here with them.
If it was anyone else, that would be fine. But the way Trevor smirks at me as he places his order is like razors made of ice under my skin. Ice, because they melt away without leaving a trace for anyone else to notice while I’m bleeding on the inside.
It’s in the little things. His sneeringthank you, ma’am.The way his eyes scrape my body raw when he looks at me, never focusing on my face when he could ogle my chest or ass. His dismissiveness of me and our kids when he tells Owen to, “Speak up, she can’t hear you when you mumble, son.”
Or when he tells Meg, “put your damned phone away or you’ll lose it. Can’t you see your mom’s annoyed with you? There’s nowhere to put your plate.”
“It’s fine, hun.” I slide the plate in front of my daughter as she shoots daggers at Trevor with her eyes. If he takes her phone away, I can’t afford to replace it again. Damnation.
I should expect it when he has his mom leave first with the kids. But we’re busy as fuck. I just got a twelve-top with two babies in high chairs, a bar order big enough to drown a moose, and a severe dairy allergy. So I don’t notice Trevor skipping out on the bill until he’s long gone.
When I get to the empty table, I just stare at the crayon scrawled note he left on a napkin. I bite my cheek to hold back my angry tears.
Thanks for the meal, Angie.
I crumple the note into a ball and bite back a scream. I’m not sure if the feminine nickname is better or worse than my actual deadname. Fuck him. Fuck, fuck fuck. I can’t catch my breath as I stare at the empty plates and try to tally up the cost in my head.
Someone touches my arm, and I flinch. Amy looks at me with wide, apologetic eyes. “Did you not want me to put your family in your section?”
“Trevor’s my ex. So, yeah, please don’t the next time he’s with my kids.”
“Oh. Is something wrong?” Amy shifts uncomfortably.
I can’t stop the hysterical laughter that bubbles out of me. “No, not at all. He just ducked out on the bill.”
“Shit, I can try to catch him?” Amy glances out the window, but it’s too late for that. From her uncertain tone, it’s an empty offer regardless.
“Don’t bother.” I wave her back to her post. “There are people waiting to be seated and we’re slammed.”
“Yeah. That’s actually what I wanted to ask you. The guys who just came in requested you. You want them? You seemed stressed, so I wanted to check in about the request, in case… Might make up for the bad cheque; they’re dressed nice.” Amy rubs her fingers together to indicate they have money.
I glance warily over; I’m so not in the mood to flirt for a tip right now. My femme presentation for work—long hair styled into bouncy waves, just enough makeup to all but erase the gradual facial changes from T, and a flowy blouse that obscures my figure—tends to net me better tips than when I lean into my more masculine attributes.
I’m okay with both sides of that particular coin these days. Not being forced into femininity by my circumstances anymore makes it easier to embrace the parts I still relate with. Even if dressing feminine at work all but forces me to paste on a smile for the customers and exposes me to more harassment.
I follow Amy’s line of sight to where Carl Meadows is standing near the door. He waves to me when he notices me looking. I wave back, breathing a sigh of relief.
“Yeah, seat him in my section. That’s fine.” I won’t have to pretend for Saint’s ex-husband. Technically, Carl is practically my brother-in-law, in the sense that he’s at all the same family gatherings I’m invited to, since our siblings are married. But the connection to Saint feels more immediate. Maybe because my brother and I aren’t close. Not estranged, like I am with our parents. But I’m too busy to reconnect with the brother who was too involved with his own life to help me when I was alone in the world.
That’s not entirely fair. He was in Toronto for university when I fucked up my life, too far away to be aware of my drama and in no position to intervene. Not like I could have spent Meg’s baby years crashing in Marcus’s dorm room.
Regardless, it’s the connection to Saint that makes me smile at Carl. I spent last night wrapped up in Saint’s arms since the kids were with Trevor. The memory of that is so comforting, I can almost imagine his woodsy cologne enveloping me in a bubble of safety. A haven set apart from all my vying responsibilities.
It’s not my imagination when his hand lands on my shoulder. His voice is a warm buzz in my ear. “What’s the matter, darling?”
“Nothing,” I mumble, turning to face Saint and wishing I could just give in to the urge to sob on his shoulder about everything. He’s searching my expression, and I get the impression he isn’t quite up to having me fling myself into his arms. It’s enough for him to be standing there, ready to offer a listening ear. The hand on my shoulder slips down to pat my back. I give myself to the count of ten to savor his comforting touch while I get myself under control.
