The tray rocks unsteadily in my hand, and the drinks tumble from it, spilling all over the table and the two men sitting at the booth in front of me.
They both yelp and lean backward to try to avoid the deluge, but it’s far too late to save themselves—sticky soda and ice soak them.
Shit.
Not again.
I cringe, squeezing my eyes closed in the hope that when I open them again, this will all have been a bad dream instead of a reality I know all too well. The sounds of the busy diner float around me—laughter and chatter, clanking silverware against plates, Elaine calling for orders from the kitchen—and I know I can’t stand like an ostrich with my head in the sand any longer.
No matter how much easier that would be…
So. Much. Fucking. Easier.
I open my eyes to disgruntled faces as they try to use their napkins to mop up their clothes. “I am so sorry. I tripped and…I’m so, so sorry. Let me go get something to clean this up.”
Or find somewhere to hide for real.
If that were actually an option, to hole myself up in the storage room or one of the bathroom stalls for the rest of my shift and pretend I was never here, or somehow sneak out the door without anyone seeing me, I would do it in a heartbeat.
But I’m not sneaking anywhere with this hair.
Definitely a bad call.
And I am paying for it now with nowhere to hide.
This day has been nothing short of a shit-show. Anyone who has come in and seen me working must have thought I’ve never held a damn tray or worked as a waitress before—and that I’m the clumsiest person on the planet.
They wouldn’t be wrong about the last part.
My feet keep tripping over nothing.
My hands won’t seem to grip anything securely.
And I can’t concentrate on my actual job because I’m worrying about the one thing I have no control over—when my past is going to catch up with me.
It’s a mystery why Elaine hasn’t fired me already.
I’m certainly more of a hindrance than a help at this point.
I grab the empty glasses off the table, put them back on the tray, and hustle to the kitchen, my face heating as my cheeks burn bright red.
“Shit, shit, shit.” I open several cabinets, looking in every single one of them for more clean rags to use to sop up my mess. “Where are they?”
Probably all gone since this seems to happen every other table I deliver something to.
“What do you need, dear?”
Elaine’s voice cuts through my panic, soft and welcoming, and for a moment, I want to luxuriate in the sound. It’s precisely what I always imagined grandmothers sounded like for those kids who had them—warm, welcoming, comforting in a way almost nothing else is.
Yet it makes me cringe.
Again.
Because I don’t want to face her and have to admit what I did.
But just as there isn’t any hiding from my mess out in the diner, there isn’t any hiding from Elaine, either.
I glance over my shoulder at her. “Oh, um, I spilled some soda. I need to clean it up, and I already used all the rags that were out under the counter.”
