“Second.” He turns toward the doorway and gestures for me to go first as we head to the kitchen. “I did lunch yesterday, too. With Anders.”
“How was it?”
“Not bad, actually. I had to ask Trish a lot of questions, but it wasn’t that busy, so I think it was okay.” He kind of slows and rubs his chin like he’s thinking. “No one yelled at me or ran out on their tab, so I’m calling it a win.”
I nod in agreement, even though the idea of Myles having to ask questions is a foreign concept. He seems so capable and confident. “I like that plan—set a low bar for the first day.” I’ve envisioned making such a good impression on a customer, like an adorable family on vacation, that they return the next day and ask for me by name. I push that to my week-three goal and lower my sights for today. Victory for today will be no tears.
We stop at the kitchen like we did every training shift, and I congratulate myself for another successful mini conversation with Myles. Chef Ray has prepared his special for the day, and he gives us the blurb we’ll use for our tables. We have the option of tasting it for ourselves (if I ever decline, someone please take me to the hospital because something is seriously wrong with me), and today’s crispy fish taco with slaw, salsa, and a chipotle tartar sauce is culinary perfection.
Pearl’s is a fairly small place, so there’s only one other server with Myles and me today—a college girl named Shelby that I met at a training shift. Ned, the busboy, is a fellow Kingfisher High senior like Myles. He works here year-round and is already in the dining room when we walk in. He gives us all a nod from a table where he’s set himself up a little assembly line of napkins and utensils and bundles them up into neat rolls. I grab an armful of the finished product and make my way around, depositing one at each chair. Myles trails after me with drinking glasses, and it doesn’t take long before everything’s ready to go.
Lunch is casual, with a large Please Seat Yourself sign. We—the servers—hover around the host stand and take turns claiming tables. Shelby calls dibs on the couple that walks in two minutes after the doors open, leaving me alone with Myles.
A few long beats of silence pass, and awkwardness creeps in. What am I supposed to talk to Myles Ford about?
He’s the popular guy—Most Likely to Be President, for goodness’ sake. Shouldn’t he be the outgoing one? A smooth talker?
I shift on my feet and pull a lock of hair over my shoulder, then finally ask, “So you worked with Anders, huh?”
Anders is the oldest guy on staff and has worked at Pearl’s forever. Rumor has it he was born in the corner booth and never left. He’s probably only in his fifties, but with his deeply tanned, leathery skin and smoker’s voice he gives off eighty-year-old-uncle-who-will-never-die vibes. I did one of my training shifts with him, and honestly, the only thing I learned was to stay the heck out of his way. Even if he’s antisocial with the rest of the staff, the customersadore him. He knows the menu like the back of his hand and could sell a twelve-ounce rib eye to a vegan. “What’s he like?”
Myles leans back and rests his elbows on the wooden podium behind him. He has a scar on his chin I’ve never noticed before. I wonder how he got it. I quickly look to the floor before he notices me staring.
“I tried to make small talk.” He pauses to push his lips up against his nose. “It was a mistake.”
“Oh no,” I say with a wince. “What happened?”
“It went like this. I start with ‘Hey, man, how’s it going?’ ” Myles pauses, then turns as if he’s talking to where he just stood. He adopts a flat, very Anders-like expression and grunts, and I laugh. He spins back around to his original spot. “Then I’m all ‘Cool, cool, me too, me too. How long have you worked here?’ ” He’s back to fake Anders and drawls, “Longer than you’ve been alive.” He drops the frown—back to Myles. “Then I asked what his favorite thing on the menu is.” His sudden glare is so good, for a second I think he’s actually pissed at me, but then he says in his Anders voice, “Lemon wedge.”
I clap my hand over my mouth to cover my laugh.
“My last attempt was to ask about that Tweety Bird tattoo he’s got on his forearm.” His eyes go wide and he leans down. I inhale his scent again—is it his deodorant? Cologne?—and try to focus. “Take it from me, donotask about the tattoo.”
“But.” I blink, taking a surreptitious step back because I’m feeling a little flustered at his proximity but don’t want it to show. “Now that’s all I want to do.”
“Not worth it. Trust me.”
“Now I’m kind of scared to work with him,” I say, chewing my lip.
“Nah, he was fine. Actually saved my ass when I almost delivered food to the wrong table. I got the feeling he was sort of watching out for me but didn’t want me to know. He’s just not chatty.”
I nod, relieved. “Okay, I can work with that.”
The front door opens, and a couple with two small kids walks in. Myles gives them a friendly smile, flashing perfect white teeth. I send his parents a telepathic message that those braces he wore all through eighth grade were a good investment.
“Welcome to Pearl’s,” he says to the newcomers, all smooth and charming. His dimple pops. “Feel free to sit wherever you want.”
The kids take off in search of the perfect table, and I glance up at Myles with envy. “How are you so good at this?”
He grins. “I’m channeling my inner Anders. Cool, confident, as steady as a rock.”
I sigh. “I wish it was that easy.”
“Well, the only other option is to just jump in and do it.” He tips his head toward the dining room. “That table’s yours if you want it. Ready?”
I take a deep breath and attempt to manhandle my nerves into submission. “As I’ll ever be.”
5PLAYLIST:listen now, cry later
