“Yup.”
My eyes roll at him, but I’m quick to look to the side so he doesn’t see. He won’t sit here for six hours.
“Trey, for a time I thought your bossy commanding ways were cute, but not anymore. You’re sitting in one of my tables. You need to order or get out.”
Holy shit. I can’t believe I was lippy with Trey Good. Did I channel Marissa? From the way Trey’s eyes widen and his mouth falls open, he can’t believe it either. If I wasn't still in front of him I’d do a fist pump. I didn’t know I had it in me. My celebration is short lived when he’s quick to smirk again and then without picking up the menu places an order for our turkey wrap with a side of coleslaw and a coke.
**
Bonnie’s was swamped at lunch giving me legitimate reasons to ignore Trey as he sat in his little corner table. Oh and the tips. My apron pocket bulges with the cash left on the tables and there’s always more from those who paid with credit cards. If this is the underpaying shift, I can’t imagine what a dinner would net me. Screw fifty, at this rate I might be able to pay my debt off by forty-five.
Jamie and I made a great team even though it was a steady flow of customers. My steps were light as I raced around, bouncing from the high of being busy. It was a great shift — except for the fact Trey’s still here.
He didn’t leave. Six hours and five cokes he sat at his little perch and watched me. I waited for him to at least visit the bathroom so I could sneak in, bus his table, and sit someone else there, but as if he could read my plan the man never moved. Even after drink number five. Is he a camel? All that earlier bravado leaked away the longer he sat there…… for six hours.
The first hour Trey slowly ate his wrap. And I mean slowly. In elementary school they taught us to chew your food something like thirty-six times. Well, he listened.
The second hour he fiddled with his phone while drinking coke two. I pretended like I didn’t care, but as I waited on the table beside him I saw his screen and his game of Dragons Reborn with his character mid sword fight.
The third hour he let me pick up his dirty sandwich plate and he ordered a piece of Apple pie ala mode with his third coke.
The fourth hour he started a conversation with the couple at the table beside him and they joked and laughed for almost forty minutes, all while he sat there sipping on coke number four.
The fifth hour he’d given his extra chair to another table and stretched out in the open space. I gave up hoping he’d leave as I delivered coke number five. He looked comfortable enough to live over there if he put his mind to it.
During hour six Trey switched from coke to an ice tea and ordered a Caesar salad and a piece of chocolate cake. I guess he worked up an appetite from all his stalker activity.
The black envelope I dropped off five minutes ago rests on the edge of his table, a signal he’s ready to pay the $34 bill. The reprieve has ended. Small heavy steps get me to his table and not just because my feet hurt like a bitch.
The round black tray I carry with me is empty, but I haven’t spilled it today and that’s a win for me. He hasn’t touched the tea or salad I placed on his table with the bill and I get a little irritated. Well more irritated than I already am.
I drop the tray to my side and put my free hand on my hip. “You were here six hours,” I state the obvious to him in case he wasn’t aware of how crazy the whole thing is. "Don’t you have a company to run?” I’m pretty sure this is the man who once told me how he couldn't let RDA fail. That doesn’t include sitting at a diner for the entire work day.
Trey’s eyes meet mine. “Yes, but you’re more important.”
I lock my jaw so my mouth won’t fall open and I clutch the big black tray to my chest as a shield so his soft sweet words can’t penetrate my heart. There is nothing to say back, so rather than try, I grab his check and walk back to the register.
Less than a minute later I’m back beside him angrier than I thought possible. I slide the black envelope containing $120 cash on the table in front of him. “You over paid.”
My hands fall to my hips as he opens the flap and sees the untouched money. “No, I didn’t. The left over is your tip.”
“You can’t tip me almost $100 Trey. I don’t want your pity.” I whisper the words, but they’re harsh.
He shakes his head at me. “Yes, I can.” He pauses but then notices the steam releasing from my ears and smartly starts again. “Look I did the math. It was busy today, you could have flipped this table probably an average of twice an hour. If the average bill was around $30 and they tipped 20% it gives you $7 twice an hour. Over a six-hour period it’s $84 in tips I cost you.”
He runs through the numbers so fast, I imagine he’s trying to trip me up. But I work with numbers, this is what I do, and no one does it better than Simone Stevens. I wait to catch the flaw in his math, but when he finishes I realize he’s actually right on which is just…… irritating.
“But I didn’t flip the table because you were here,” I reiterate his biggest offense for the day and cross my arms across my chest.
“I know. Which is why I gave you the tip. It’s not from pity, but what you should have earned. It’s fair and I know you wouldn't deny me the chance to do the right thing.”
“Huh?” What are we even arguing about? How did a ridiculous tip turn into me letting him be fair? My mind sputters to try and work out a comeback to his stupid circular logic and he uses the opportunity to jump in again.
“Will you sit with me and talk?” He waits for an answer I don’t give him. “Please?”
“Fine,” the answer is ripped from me in an angry sigh. “I’ll be right back.” I grab his bill with a fast swipe of my hand and walk back to the counter.
