“And does this omelet have olives in it?” She picks at the egg with her fork, eyeing it with disgust. “They never put olives in the vegetable omelet, but these look like olives.”
I blink at her. “I’m not sure. I can check for you.”
Her eyes zero in on me as though seeing me for the first time. “Yes. You do that.”
“Do you have an allergy?”
“No,” she says coolly, as though my question is a personal affront. “I just don’t like them.”
I nod, doing my best to remain professional even though her tone is unnecessarily rude. “Of course. I’ll be right back with those berries and that information for you.”
“She must be new,” she mutters as I walk away.
“She’s decent to look at, at least,” responds Junior, earning a snort from his father. I don’t stick around to catch Landon’s response. Probably something about trash.
After taking a deep, centering breath, I hurry to fix the “mistake” and return to their table.
“Here are those berries for you, Mrs. Blair,” I say, setting the bowl down in front of her. “And the egg-white omelet does have olives in it. Would you like them to make you a new one?”
Kathleen sighs. Clearly, she has no patience for this sort of information, and I hold my breath, hoping that she’s not upset enough to make a scene. Unable to help myself, my eyes flit to Landon, who’s glaring at his mother, his annoyance clear. Nathan and Junior, however, are digging into their meals in a carefree way that makes me think that Kathleen’s difficulty is a normal occurrence at Sunday brunch.
“No,” she snaps. “I’ll just…pick around them. It just would have been nice to know before I ordered. They really should have the ingredients listed on the menu.” She says it as though she thinks I have something to do with what they write, which I absolutely do not, so I nod and smile, nod and smile, nod and smile.
“Of course. I completely agree,” I say, still nodding. Still smiling. “I’m so sorry about that. Is there anything else I can get you?”
“Agave. For the berries.”
“Coming right up.” I glance around at the rest of the table, accidentally meeting Landon’s eyes for a moment before averting my gaze. My cheeks grow warm, an unusual reaction, because like I said before, there’s nothing shameful about waiting tables…except when your patron is treating you like crap, and you can’t even walk away. You just have to take it. “Anyone else need anything?”
“Hot sauce,” says Junior through a mouthful of bacon.
“A refill,” says Nathan, gesturing to his half-empty coffee cup.
My focus shifts to Landon, but he remains quiet. “Alright,” I say. “Hot sauce and a refill on coffee coming right up.”
“Don’t forget the agave,” adds Landon, and for a second, I think Dr. Dickbag is being condescending. But then I start to wonder if maybe he’s actually trying to be helpful by saving me from his mother’s wrath had I forgotten her agave and fucked up her order even further.
“And the agave,” I repeat. “Yes, of course. I’ll be right back.”
The moment I turn my back, I hear Kathleen mutter, “Poor girl isn’t very bright, is she?” I grit my teeth and pray this brunch ends fast and without any bloodshed, mine or hers.
It does, thank God. There are no more errors, no more condescending comments from Kathleen (that I could hear), and everyone leaves happy (relatively speaking) and content by the end of the one-hour, thirty-seven-minute dining experience (not that I was keeping track.)
By then, Beatrice is off my hands as well, and I can focus on the less headache-inducing members. I’m returning from a brief bathroom break when a familiar figure steps into my path, the smell of booze and overbearing cologne assaulting my nose as Christian McCoy enters my personal space.
“Daisy,” he drawls.
I force a smile at the intoxicated man before me, but it’s brittle at best, especially when he wobbles unsteadily on his feet.
“Hi, Christian. Nice to see you.”
“You’re avoiding me,” he says, pouting.
“Why would you say that?”
“You never called. And you didn’t say hello today. How do you think that makes me feel?”
“I’m sorry,” I say, hating myself for apologizing but at a loss for a different response. “I’m not avoiding you. I’m just busy.”
