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Chapter NINETEEN

"Thanks, sweetheart. We're your headache customers for the day."

I smile. "You have no idea how complicated people can get. You're fine."

Of course they order special drinks, too. Nothing overtly complicated, but I'll have to explain to Lena. My shoulders are tight as I approach the pass-out section. "Soda water with lime and lemon and orange slices," I read out from my little notebook. "White wine spritzer with soda water, not 7 Up, and a Blue Moon with limes instead of oranges."

She lifts her black brows. "Really?"

I pass her the paper. "Yep." I tuck the notebook back in my pocket and hurry over to the computer, where I'm trying to figure out how to punch in the substitutions. Another server, a girl named Tina, waits not-so-patiently. "Hey," I say, "can you help me? They need substitutions and I'm not sure how to do it."

She shows me the method-first the sub button, duh, and then a little window to type the subs. It takes a while, and Mollie is waiting, too, by the time I'm done. I'm hoping I got it right. Rather than leave it to fate, I carry the piece of paper into the kitchen. Tyler is working the soup pots, so the cook is someone I've barely spoken with. "I'm worried about getting the substitutions right in the computer," I say. "These women are vegans and don't want any dairy. Table ten."

He looks at the screen. "You got it right, except that guacamole doesn't have to be spelled out. You can just use guac." He smiles, giving me a thumbs up. I flash it back, the tension leaving my chest a little. He bangs a plate on the bar. "Order up!"

It's mine, a pair of sandwiches. I serve them, make sure the table is happy and head back to the bar. Lena is making a margarita, but my order isn't there. I look over my shoulder to see if the ladies have been served already, but their table is bare. "Can I get those drinks for table ten?"

Lena glances over at me. "In a minute."

There's actually nothing for me to do, so I stand there waiting. Around me the restaurant is bustling, busy, everyone with a task. Lena makes the margarita, picks up a long glass and I think she's going to start my order, but she fills it with Coke and takes a drink, looking over the glass at me with a challenge.

A bartender or a cook who wants to make a server's life miserable can do it without blinking an eye. The way I handle this is going to set the tone, but I have to figure out how to stand up for myself without alienating her even more. "Can I get those drinks, please?"

She languorously pulls up three glasses, fills them with ice. Each gesture is as lazy and long as she can possible make it. "Has he painted you yet?"

"What?" I know what she means, but it's out of context.

"You heard me." She puts the soda water on the bar. "Has he painted you yet?"

Is it better to say yes or no? To play ignorant or acknowledge this? "No," I say honestly. "Sketches."

She puts the wine spritzer on the bar. "Did he tell you his sad story, his suicidal sister and his broken dreams for the Olympics?"

I blink, feeling suddenly hot. "Yes."

"Did he show you the paintings of me?"

"No. He said it would be disrespectful of you."

Her smile is bitter as she sets the third glass on the bar. As I step forward to put them on the tray, she reaches over and deliberately knocks two of them over toward me. Soda water and lime soak my shirt and the front of my skirt. I gasp and jump back, but the damage is done.

"Really?" I say, pulling the soaked shirt away from my body. "Give me a bar towel. Two. One for the floor."

"Sorry," she says, tossing me clean dry towels. "Let me make those again."