I feel like I’ve kicked a puppy.
Shit.
“Brydie gave me a pass. My uniform is in the back seat, and all of the wine for this evening is in the trunk. I was told you wouldn’t be here until five, which would’ve given me plenty of time to finish my dinner in peace instead of being judged for it. Would you like to call Brydie to confirm that I’m supposed to be here, or would you like to continue glaring at me like my very existence is giving you constipation?”
Did a woman with a fleck of chicken breast on her nose just attempt to give me a smackdown?
Yep.
She did.
And once again, I get that gut reaction that I can’t wait to tell my best friend this story—once it’s funny—and then the subsequent punch at remembering he’s not here anymore.
I miss that fucker.
Especially in the rugby off-season.
Solo training doesn’t work off the same level of frustration as full-team practices with scrums and rucks and tackles.
I pull my phone out with every intention of calling Brydie, the lead caterer, when a text lands from her.
Brydie:In case nobody told you, Michael was let go yesterday. We have a new somm coming in. Super fancy lady. Very pretty. Her name’s Ziggy Barnes and she should be here by five with all of tonight’s wine. Can you please help her bring it in? Did I mention she’s very pretty?
Brydie clearly hasn’t communicated Ziggy Barnes’sarrival to the rest of the staff, or I wouldn’t have that first text about this unfamiliar car.
I lift my phone, snap Ziggy’s picture as she’s once again leaning over, reaching for the chicken, and send it back to Brydie.
Me:This her?
The message gets read, but not answered immediately.
Not on text anyway.
The back door of the aquarium swings open, and Brydie herself leans out the door, squinting at both of us in the sunshine. She’s a white lady in her late fifties and her favorite pastime is showing everyone pictures of her grandbabies.
Ziggy leans out her window. “Hi, Brydie. I’m early.”
“Is that a grocery-store chicken?” Brydie says.
“I got hungry.”
“Honey, that’s been on the ground. Do you know what falls on the ground outside a loading dock at an aquarium? Leave it to the birds. We’ll feed you inside.”
Ziggy gestures to me with her thumb. “Is this the guy who’s supposed to help me carry in the wine?”
Brydie beams at me. “That’s him.”
“Why isn’t the wine already on the catering truck?” I ask.
“Michael,” Brydie replies.
I scrub a hand over my face.
This is not my circus.
Not really.
It’s an easy-ish job that pays as well as playing rugby in the States and gives me something to do outside of my house a few nights a week.
