But, barring the occasional unpleasant customer, I like working here. When I first took the job, I wasn’t sure. Waiting tables after spending the last decade in professional theater? Would it be boring? Unfulfilling? Would it make me feel even worse about my forced career change?
The answer to all those questions is no. Waiting tables is definitely not boring, first of all. Even when it’s not busy, there’s plenty of side work to do. Or when it’s really, really slow, Doug will test out new recipes, using the staff as guinea pigs.
As for unfulfilling, much to my surprise, I’ve discovered that isn’t true, either. In the month-ish I’ve worked here, I’ve built relationships with the staff and regulars. I look forward to hearing about their lives. I take pleasure in their celebrations, doing my part to make them even more special. Like when the Elliotts came in last week to celebrate the news of their youngest daughter’s remission from leukemia, I gave thema complementary cake with the wordsCongratulations Amyspelled out in chocolate chips.
Do I miss working in theater? Of course. It’s been my dream ever since I was ten. But more and more, I’ve been feeling like this is a good change for me. I’d been so set on working in a big city, I’d forgotten how nice it is to be someplace small. A place where I recognize more people than not, where neighbors look out for each other, and at night, I hear crickets and tree frogs calling rather than the constant buzz of the city.
Plus, working in the diner is a pretty effective distraction when my problems with Ken start catching up with me. When I remember that horrible night at the theater or the awful days after, when my phone vibrates in my pocket and I just know it’s a text from him, or I get yetanotherrejection from a theater company, thanks to Ken effectively blackballing me.
I’ll start feeling anxious, my pulse fluttering and my chest tightening, waves of hot and cold rushing through my body, but then,ding!A new customer will enter the diner, drawing my attention. The buzzer on my waist will jolt, reminding me the food is ready for one of my tables. Or best yet, Webb will come in, his presence pushing all the unpleasant thoughts to the side.
“Your food is up, Noelle.” Doug catches my eye from across the expo station and slides two platters of chicken tenders with fries towards me. “Still waiting on the well-done burgers for table fourteen and the biscuits with gravy for fifteen.”
I grab the two ceramic plates and give him a quick smile. “Thanks, Doug. Everything going okay back here? Need any help?”
“Nah.” His eyes crinkle up as he smiles back at me. “I think we’ve got things under control. Looks like the orders are slowing down. Are you seeing the same out there?”
I arrange the two plates on one arm, one in front of the other. Then I grab a fresh bottle of ketchup from the opposite counterto replace the one my last table basically emptied. “Yeah, I’d say it’s slowing down,” I reply. “All the tables but one are still full, but no new customers are coming in.”
Doug wipes the back of his forehead with his arm. “I hate to say good, when it means money for everyone, but I’m beat. I could use a little break.”
“Soon,” I say hopefully. “Maybe another half an hour, I bet it’ll settle.”
As I spin around to make another trip back out to the dining room, Doug adds, “Once it does, make sure you take a break. No working straight through a double like you did last time.”
“I won’t,” I call over my shoulder. “I’ll take a quick lunch, I promise.”
Right before I push through the swinging double doors, he asks, “Is your new beau coming to meet you for lunch again?”
Just the mention of Webb is enough to make my cheeks warm again. “Not today. But he’ll be here at the end of my shift.”
“Good,” Doug replies. “He seems like a stand-up guy.”
A wide smile curves my lips. “Yeah. He really is.”
While I was telling Jaz about Webb during our last phone call last night, she insisted there had to be something wrong with him. “According to you, he’s thoughtful, handsome, has a good job, and he’s polite?” she reeled off. “If he’s so perfect, how is he single, then? Every decent guy in his thirties I meet is already taken.”
“He didn’t want to settle down before,” I explained. “Now he does.”
“Are you sure he’s not just saying that to get you in bed?” Jaz asked skeptically. “This one guy I went out with?—”
“I really don’t think so,” I interrupted. “He told me things about his history he didn’t have to. I don’t think he’d do that if he was trying to play me. And Jaz… I trust him. I can’t explain why. I just do.”
In the three days since our movie date, I’ve thought quite a bit about Webb’s admission. I could tell he was worried that I’d write him off as a player, but his honesty meant a lot. Plus, history is just that. History. I’d be pretty hypocritical if I judged Webb for decisions he made when he was younger but didn’t hold myself to the same standard. No, I didn’t date a lot since I was always focused on work, but there were definitely some dating choices I regretted.
But Webb? Ihighlydoubt I’ll regret spending the night with him.
Once I drop off the chicken tender platters and the ketchup, I swing by table thirteen to pick up their check. While I’m at the register, waiting for the credit card to go through, I allow myself another brief snippet of fantasy.
In this one, Webb wakes me up with kisses, starting at my neck and working his way down. I’m naked in the fantasy, since we fell into bed that way the night before. After Webb kisses me senseless, he spoons me, notching his erection between my thighs before slowly sinking deep inside me, filling me completely.
The sound of the receipt printing jolts me back to reality, and I scan the diner guiltily, as if the customers can somehow see the images in my head. I half expect one of the tables of older women—retired teachers on a trip back from Portland, they explained—to be staring at me with matching expressions of shock and judgment.
Of course, they aren’t. That would be ridiculous.
Slamming shut that train of thought—again—I slide the receipt into the checkbook and head back over to table thirteen. I tell them thanks and to have a good day, then take another quick look around the dining room to figure out what I need to do next. Table twelve is still eating, and they look happy. Fourteen is waiting on their burgers, but I haven’t gotten buzzedfor them yet. Table ten needs bussing, so I decide to tackle that first, finding an extra tray and loading it with empty glasses and plates.
Just as I’m hefting the tray onto my shoulder, the TV above the counter flickers. A second later, the screen goes black.
