“I’ll see you on Thursday… I hope both my sons will be here.”
“So do I, Omma.”
“It won’t feel right without the three of you.”
“At least you don’t have to listen to Shawn ramble on after too much red wine, anymore.”
My mother laughs, but it’s dry. I know she’s beside herself with worry over wherever the hell my brother is, but she wants Eden there, too. He’s spent every holiday with us since he was sixteen and his mom and Brian packed up their lives and took Carey with them down to San Diego. He’s like her third son, but she’s afraid of sounding selfish when her actual son has fallen off the face of the earth.
“The house will feel empty.”
Tell me about it. I’m not exactly looking forward to facing Thanksgiving alone, just me and my parents… “Hey, Omma?”
“Yes, Tek-ah.”
“I think I’m gonna bring someone.”
“So now you have a girlfriend you haven’t told me about?”
“No. They’re just… I might, okay? There’ll be too much food like there always is so—I don’t know. It was just a thought. I’ve gotta go.”
“I love you, Wootek-ie,” she says quickly and the words sound harsh in my ears even though they aren’t meant to. It’s just that I’m so used to being the disappointment, andnotthe one she calls when she’s worried.
“You too, Omma,” I tell her and hang up.
I toss my phone next to the sink and watch the screen go black.
It’s too quiet in here now. Like a hospital waiting room.
I know I should eat something. Anything. A fucking Little Debbie’s just to have something on my stomach, but that’s not enough of a distraction.
I grab my laptop and leave the break room to set myself up at the reception desk.
There’s nothing quite like mundane admin work to numb your brain.
Salaries go out every other Friday, so I need to set up a one time transfer for the last money owed to Shawn and Reeze before I forget. Eden, on the other hand, can get fucked. I'm not taking his money away from him, but it can stay in our business account accruing interest until his ass is back at his station.
As co-owners, the way we've always been paid is a percentage cut of our personal takings, the rest—and a cut of Reeze's earnings—goes to pay for any business expenses. What's left, outside of a nominated amount to always stay in the account, is paid out to us fifty-fifty at set increments throughout the year. And tips? Well, they're none of the taxman's business.
Shawn kept the books in a way that made sense to her, and she was good at it. She studied admin, and as far as the money went, she never screwed us over. But I always kept an eye on them. Not because I didn't trust her, but because, as an owner, if anything was wrong it would fall on my shoulders, just like everything else, because Eden does not care in the slightest. He's never needed to. He's always had me.
When the payroll program has loaded I compare it to the manual timesheets. It's a color coded mess, but the hours are always right.
I take a pen and scribble in Carey's name starting yesterday morning:
"Hey, kid." I call out, and Carey looks up from where he's setting up Eden's table beside my station because he won't take no for a fucking answer. "How do you wanna get paid?"
“Cash, right? I thought you already vetoed sexual favors?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, then try again. “A daily rate, or a percentage of tips?”
“Is that legal?”
“Feel free to leave,” I offer, calling his bluff and hoping he doesn’t take me up on it.
“Twenty-five an hour.” He counters, and I almost swallow my tongue; “Well that’s not gonna happen.”
Carey walks to the front side of the desk and leans on it with straight arms. “So explain the tips to me then.”
