"And please, can you remember to bring my daughter a new spoon this time?" The mother pushes on the bridge on her glasses so the frame sits more center on her face. "This one has a smudge on it, remember?" She holds the spoon in front of her as if it were a cat just diagnosed with ringworm.
I take the spoon from her hand and stare at the slight smudge on one edge of the rounded metal. Normally, this is easy for me to handle. Normally, I can force a smile and pretend that this person isn't intensely condescending and infuriating at the same time. Normally, I'm not eager to get home so I can check on my girlfriend who was released from the hospital today after life-altering surgery.
At least, Emma should have been released today. I came straight from school to work, and Des picked me up, so I have no idea how she's doing.
"Right away, madame." I put an emphasis on the word, making it slide out of my mouth like a dirty slur, and I see her face pucker with disgust. She doesn't want to be called old. She still thinks that even with a thirteen-year-old daughter and an elementary-sized son that she's young and brilliant.
I walk away from the table. She says something after me, probably something about how I've forgotten to take the rest of their order, but it doesn't matter. These kinds of people order the same thing each and every time. I plug the non-existent order in and head toward the alleyway out back, but stop as I nearly crash into Celia.
Her face is pinched with a scowl, hands on hips and brows narrowed. "What are you doing, Carter?"
I scratch the back of my head, because leave it to Celia to knock me off my not-giving-a-shit horse and bring me right back down into reality. "I need some air."
"You need more than air. Des?"
Des glances up from refilling the soda machine. He has a smudge of cola syrup across his face. "What's up?"
"Take Carter's tables."
"Celia—" I protest.
She holds up her hand. "You can have them back if I'm satisfied. Come with me." Turning on her heels, she marches back through the kitchen. I glance at Des, who shrugs at me with a sheepish smile on his face. I curl my hands into fists and head after her, because I have no other option.
I shouldn't have given that last woman so much attitude, but I couldn't help it. Caring is hard. Why didn't anyone tell me that caring is hard? And why didn't anyone tell me that customer service sucks a million times more when you have other things to worry about?
Because really, who gives a shit about a small smudge on a freaking spoon in an Italian restaurant? Who eats pasta with a spoon?
Celia collapses in the plush office chair and gestures to a hard-backed one next to her. The office is tiny, a nook off the kitchen that was more an afterthought than an actual room. She does most of the paperwork here, but also brings people here to hire or fire them.
While I typically might be worried about losing my job, I can't bring myself to care today. My foot taps against the ground the second that I sit down, and Celia presses her hand on my knee. I still myself.
"Can you chill? What's up with you?" She shuts the door. "And I don't want you to give me some stupid bro-ed out version like you give to Des."
I sigh and lean back in the chair, so far back that my head hits the wall. "Emma got out of the hospital today, and after everything that's happened to her, I just—" I look at her again. "Have you ever noticed how systemically evil most people are? I mean, you give them a little power over someone in a customer service role, and suddenly, they are the biggest dicks on the planet."
Celia lets out a small laugh. "That's the entirety of customer service, Carter."
"Yeah, but doesn't it get to you?"
"Of course it does, but you can't let it affect your job."
"I don't normally."
"I get it. This is a big deal for you, but I wouldn't be a good manager if I didn't give you some sort of lecture on how you need to shape up or ship out."
She stops talking, and we sit in silence. The clock ticks forward a few seconds, filling in the void.
I clear my throat. "Where's the lecture?"
"That was the lecture. Shape up or ship out." She crosses her arms over her chest. "But the thing I want to say as your friend is take care of yourself. You spend so much time worrying about other people, Carter, but what about you?"
"You know, a lot of people have mentioned this to me lately."
"Then listen to us. All of us, every person who has said be selfish sometimes." She lets out a long breath. "Do you need to take the rest of the night off?"
"Will I be fired if I take it?"
She barks out a laugh. "Dude, you have sick time that you have never taken. You're sick. Go home."
"Can I talk to Des first?"
Celia rolls her eyes. "What, you really need the bro out time?"
"You say it like it's a bad thing to have friends."
"I say it like it annoys me when you both are working together." She waves her hand. "Fine. Wait until he's done with your obnoxious table twelve though. I do not want to cover for that. Do some behind the bar stuff until then, but you're cut from the floor."
"Thanks, Celia."
"Oh, don't thank me. I'm holding this over your head next time I need a shift covered."
"I thought you said I have sick time."
"Yeah, you have sick time, but as a manager, I get to manipulate your feelings into making you do things for me." She taps my knee another time and swings the door open. "I promise to play as fair as possible."
"You always do."
She smiles at that. "Take care of yourself, okay? I need you for Saturday's rush."
"Big game plus the convention, I know."
"It's like our New Year's."
I roll my eyes. "Yeah, you got it, boss."
"Atta boy." She shakes her head. "You know, I always wanted to say it, but it somehow sounds more condescending and sexist coming from my mouth. Forget I said anything."
Instead of coming up with another remark for that, I bow out gracefully. I busy myself with preparing additional packets of silverware and running another round of plates through our dishwasher. I ask our chefs if they need anything and restock the beer bottles in the front fridge from the walk in. I bus some tables when they've finished and refill the endless sodas to those who ask it so that Des doesn't have to do everything.
"Man, you owe me."
"Did she tip well?" I ask as finish switching out a tapped keg.
"No, not at all, and I blame you for that. Why did you put in half of her order wrong?"
"What was wrong about it?"
He blinks and thinks for a moment. "She didn't want cheese on anything. Anything."
I laugh, because I almost nailed it. "Whatever, people like her never tip well."
Des shrugs. "You all right?"
"Yeah, can we go out back?"
"Sure, give me a second. I'll meet you there." He goes to grab his backpack from the employee lockers, and I officially clock off and duck out the backdoor into the quiet brick-lined alley.
Desmond and I have spent a lot of breaks here over the years, and very rarely have we ever discussed serious topics. He likes to keep friendships light, and I never wanted to push it, but he's my only friend at the end of the day. I want to talk to him about everything that's happened, because I'm not sure I've fully acknowledged my own feelings.
The night is frigid, with brutally cold air settling along the skin of my hands. I stuff them into my sweatshirt and watch my breath come out in clouds. It only takes Des a minute to slip out the backdoor. He wears a wicked grin across his face as he fishes through his backpack.
"Celia has been riding my ass tonight. What did you say to her?" he asks with half of his head shoved down the bag.
"Not much. She wanted to know why I'm so out of it."
"You didn't say anything in the car."
"I know."
"What's going on?" Desmond snaps his fingers as he finally finds what he was looking for. A single, thin joint that is now crooked. He stuffs it between his lips and grabs his lighter out of his pocket, dropping the pack to the pavement. He lights up and sucks in a long, slow breath.
"You know about the hospital."
"Yeah, man, scary stuff." He exhales, pushing the smoke out over our heads. It spirals into the quickly darkening sky.
"Well, okay. She's fine, I think."
"You think?"
"Supposed to be getting out today, but I have no idea what to say to her. I want to tell her the truth. It was scary, that night. I've never been so scared in my entire life, but I don't want her to feel guilty, you know? But if I don't tell her—"
"Then it's like you'll have this whole unspoken secret between both of you, and you're not sure how to build a relationship on that." Des stares at the door for a moment and lets out a breath. "Just tell her."
"But what if she feels guilty?"
"Then she feels guilty. Shit, she shouldn't. Carter, she almost died. If she feels guilty over almost dying, she has a hell of a lot more problems than just a stomach thing." Des sucks in another breath and adds through clenched teeth, "I don't mean that to sound cold, man, but it's the truth. She shouldn't feel bad, and you need to be honest."
"Like you've been?"
Des blows out the smoke rapidly and narrows his eyes at me. "You know, this is a really mellow blend, so I'm going to be real. No, I haven't, and that's why I'm so fucking miserable. Don't be like me. I'm like the pinnacle of things not to do with your life." He leans back against the wall and stares at the sky.
"You should tell her."
"Oh yeah, because this is some Hollywood film where she accepts me for who I am and lives with all of my shit and somehow makes me a better person. Trust me, Carter, I am hopeless."
"You're not."
He sucks in another long breath and shakes his head. "That's the difference between you and me, Carter. You still have time to get this right."
"What the heck are you talking about, Des. You're not dying are you?"
"I'd be so lucky."
I punch him as hard as I can in the arm.
"Ouch, what the hell." He nearly drops his joint and coughs a few times as smoke pours out of his mouth.
"You can't say stuff like that."
"Fine, I won't."
"And you can't think shit like that either."
He rubs his arm. "I was joking, man. It's called self-deprecation. Comedians do it all the time."
"Dude."
"Fine." He holds up his joint in one hand and puts his other over his heart. "I solemnly swear to my best friend Mary that I'm not thinking dark thoughts." He gives me a wicked grin as he puts the end back between his lips. "Unless you count all the times I think about the night and the color black. Because then, it's a lot of dark thoughts."
"Sometimes I wonder why I bother."
"Like I said: hopeless."
I stare up at the sky for a few minutes, and we watch a fast moving cloud roll over us, blotting out the early peaking stars. "I'm going to become an EMT."
"I think that's the coolest thing you've ever said."
"Okay."
"I'm serious. I think you'd be great at it." Desmond gets to the end of his joint, and he considers me. "Why are you still here?"
"I'm talking to you?"
"No, I asked why? You're concerned about Emma, but you're stalling."
I clench my teeth a few times, mulling it over. Why am I stalling? "I have no idea what to say to her to make everything okay."
"Just the truth, man. Tell her the truth and don't hold anything back. That includes how you feel about her, about what happened, and everything in between. Just the truth." He enunciates each word at the end and drops the stub onto the ground and grinds it out with his foot. It joins the rest of the cigarette butts and old joints lining the alley. He scoops up his bag and stares at me.
"Just the truth," I say.
"Yeah. And it won't be easy, but that's kind of the point." Desmond opens the door to head back inside. "Go home, Carter. Talk to your girl. Figure everything out, and let me know how it goes on Saturday." He shuts the door before I can say anything else, and because I have everything I need already in my pockets, I head around the side of the building and go straight to the bus stop, where I wait to go home.
My fingers hover over the buttons on my phone, but I don't text Emma right away. I don't text her for a long time. In fact, I wait until I get home, then I wait until after I've showered, and then I wait until after I've eaten something. Finally, I text her, "Can I call you?"
- - - - -
Thoughts? Desmond is definitely getting his own book after this, but I have to flesh out the idea a bit more. Desmond Moore is Hopeless will be the official title, as worked into the chapter here. Really excited to share it with you when it comes around! Expect this sometime next year, as I have NaNoWriMo coming up for my YA Horror.
Does Carter's anxiety come off enough through his actions?
Thanks for reading, vote if you liked the chapter! Comments always welcome. Stay tuned for Carter and Emma's first big conversation since the hospital!