“I’ll be right out with your drinks,” I tell the table, hoping they won’t ask me any more uncomfortable questions.
“You’re an idiot,” I overhear Landon say to his brother as I scramble away.
I deal with my other tables before heading back to grab the drinks, but it’s hard. My body’s so tired, and I know I could have slept the day away. I should have taken today off.
Sighing, I move through the dining room toward the Blair table, the drinks balanced on my tray.
I don’t notice the Louis Vuitton purse on the ground, the purse that wasn’t there ten minutes ago. I try to avoid it, I try to swerve, veer, twist around it, but it’s too late.
Everything happens in slow motion.
I stumble, and the coffees on my tray start to slide. I try to right myself, but the mug nearest me is already a goner, its hot contents dumping all over my crisp white shirt. The other I manage to right, but the Bloody Mary isn’t so easily balanced.
It tumbles in the opposite direction, away from me, and by the time I attempt to snatch the air-born glass, it’s out of my reach. Kathleen Blair’s creamy white dress is splattered with specks of red tomato juice and vodka, and the glass shatters all over the floor.
Fuck.
TWENTY
What follows next is chaos.
Kathleen jumps out of her chair, already shrieking, and when I find my voice, it’s trembling in a way I’ve never heard before. “I-I’m so sorry, Mrs. Blair. Really. I’m so, so sorry.”
“This dress is vintage Chanel!” she cries. “It’s one of a kind!”
“I’m so sorry, again. Let me get you some towels.”
“Towels?” she screeches. “What are towels going to do? Do you see this stain? It’s never coming out.”
“I’m sure if we try—”
“You’ve ruined everything. The outfit. The meal. The day. The caliber of help in this place has gone downhill, I swear.”
Ollie appears on my right, having witnessed the whole debacle, and starts sweeping glass from the floor. Jake materializes on my left, napkins in his hand, some of which he passes to me. I know I take them, but I don’t feel like I’m inside my own body. I feel like I’m watching this nightmare unfold from above.
“I’m sorry,” says a voice. It takes a second to realize that it’s mine.
“Apologize all you want,” she snaps. “It’s coming out of your tip. And I better speak to your manager.”
I swallow, reaching out with some of the napkins in one last attempt to help. “Here, let me-”
“Don’t touch me,” she yells, swatting my hand away. Her voice is loud enough for the entire dining hall to hear, and a hush falls over the room. I can feel the eyes on me, especially when she turns to her husband and says, “I swear, the incompetence in this place is astounding.”
I suck in a sharp breath. I blink. I start to shake.
Everyone’s looking at me.
The whole room is staring at me, and for a second, I can’t-I can’t-I can’tbreathe.
Somehow, I force air into my lungs, tears pricking behind my eyes, becausetodayis the worst day this could happen. Today is the one day I can’t handle this. Today I want to crawl inside myself and disappear.
The cruel woman laughs. “You think crying will get you out of this? Where’s your manager? You should be fired for this. Do you know how much money I donate to the club? Surely enough to hire better help than this!”
I swallow hard, the wordsI’m sorrypoised on my lips again. I shouldn’t cry. It was my fault. I tripped over the purse. It was my fault. I can’t cry.
But I feel the hot wetness on my cheeks and realize that it’s too late.
“Don’t just stand there!” she barks.
