Tears spring to my eyes, prickling and burning.
Without warning, the tray I’m holding falls to the ground with a crash. Glass shatters. Plates break into pieces. Silverware clatters.
I can feel all the eyes in the diner on me. Staring. Speculating. Judging.
“Noelle?” Glenda asks. “Are you?—”
“Hey, what’s going on?” Doug enters the dining room, sounding confused. “Is everything okay out here?”
My humiliation ratchets even higher as I realize that not only have fifty or so patrons and several wait staff seen me shirtless, touching my breasts, but so has my sixty-year-old boss. Not just seen me, but they can watch me on repeat, as the video of me fixing my bra starts playing again.
A low whimper sounds in the back of my throat.
Hot tears leak down my cheeks.
“Noelle,” Doug says. The concern in his voice makes my tears flow faster. “Why don’t you come into my office.” He pauses. “Glenda, take her tables. Please.”
Panic explodes inside me. I can’t lose another job. I can’t. And especially not this one. Not when I’m finally getting comfortable here. Not when I have Webb?—
God, Webb. He won’t want to be with me after he finds out about this.
I drop to my knees, barely feeling the sting of glass shards poking through my pants. Then I start collecting the broken pieces of glass and ceramic while I say in a shaking voice, “I’ll…get this cleaned up. Please… just don’t walk over here. Not until?—”
A large piece of glass stabs into my palm.
Swallowing back a yelp of pain, I yank the glass out and toss it onto the tray. Then I reach for another piece, but my vision is blurry, and I end up cutting myself again.
A hand lands on my shoulder. “Noelle, honey. Stop.”
It’s Doug. And he sounds so worried, so kind, he reminds me of my dad. Which makes me cry harder, because I wish my dad was here. I wish I could tell him what happened, and he’d have my back?—
“Noelle, honey, you’re bleeding,” Doug says. “Stop. I’ll take care of this. Just come into my office and we’ll get you cleaned up. Figure this out.”
Belatedly, I realize I’m making things worse. I have blood smeared on my hands, there are red marks on the floor, and no doubt, everyone’s still staring at me. So I climb to my feet and clasp my bleeding hand to my chest. “I’m sorry,” I mumble with my gaze still on the floor. “I’ll just…”
“Is the waitress the lady on the TV?” a childish voice asks from across the diner. “Why was her shirt off?”
And that’s it.
The last straw.
Ducking my head, I race into the kitchen, banging my elbow hard on the swinging door as I go. Then I sprint to the employee bathroom, which—small bit of luck—is empty, and lock myself inside of it.
Once I’m there, I sink down onto the cold tile and burst into tears.
As I sob, my mind spins with unanswerable questions and ones I don’t want the answer to.
Will he ever leave me alone? Will these awful videos follow me wherever I go?
Do I have to move? Can I ever hold my head up in town again?
Will Webb want to be with me after this? Will he believe me if I tell him the truth?
The pain in my hand is nothing compared to the ache in my heart.
In the last few weeks, I’ve seen glimmers of hope for my future—a new home in Williston, working in the diner while I play around with the idea of starting a small community theater, a relationship with Webb—but after this, they’ve all been extinguished.
I feel pitiful, hiding in the employee bathroom, leaving other people to clean up my mess. But I can’t bring myself to go back out there. I can’t even bring myself to move.
