Watch Over Me

by Mila Gray

  “If you ever need a new friend, or just someone to talk to, I’m here.”

  “Thanks,” I manage to stammer, taken completely off guard by the offer.

  “I better get back,” she says to me with a shy mile. “Take care, okay?”

  I watch her weave through the tables toward Kit, every head in the restaurant swiveling to watch her pass.

  The man who tried to get my attention earlier gestures to me impatiently. God, I’m so distracted I’m forgetting to do my job. I rush over to him and his wife, a woman in her forties who sighs loudly. “At last. Can we order? I’m starving. I’ll have the mixed salad and the salmon. Dressing on the side.” She gets up as soon as she’s ordered and stalks off toward the bathroom.

  I turn to her husband. “And for you?”

  He doesn’t answer straightaway, so I look up from my notepad. He’s staring at me. Or to be more precise, he’s staring at my body. “I know what I want,” he says.

  My back teeth crunch together. Asshole, I think to myself. He’s at least forty-five, bald, and paunchy, with thick, wet lips, which he smacks together now as if tasting something good.

  “The special today is sea bass,” I say, reeling off the specials while feeling an awful helplessness and rage welling up inside me.

  “Are you on the specials menu?” He grins, leaning back smugly in his chair. “I wouldn’t mind having a taste of you. Maybe for dessert.”

  He laughs. And I stare at him, my fingers itching to pick up his wineglass and pour the contents over his head. But I’m also frozen, my feet rooted to the ground.

  His smile becomes a smirk. “When do you get off work?” he asks, his eyes once again traveling down my body.

  Pervert. I scream the word silently and, ignoring him, keep running through the specials.

  “What are you doing?”

  It’s the wife. She’s returned from the bathroom. “Have you still not ordered?” she asks, annoyed, flouncing down into her seat.

  “I’ll get the lamb,” he says, looking at me. “Done pink,” he adds, licking his lips.

  I glare at him, imagining breaking a plate over his head too, and then manage to finally unstick my feet and walk away.

  Shaking and raging, I put in the order and then bring out the main courses for Kit’s table. I pull myself together, balancing four plates in my hands, and thankfully manage to make it to the table without dropping anything. I place Tristan’s steak down in front of him, trying not to look his way or his girlfriend’s, but my hand shakes.

  “Is that guy bothering you?” he asks me under his breath.

  “What guy?”

  He nods at the pervert guy. “Did he say something to you?”

  I shake my head. “It’s fine.”

  “If he’s bothering you, I’ll—”

  “I can handle it,” I tell him tersely before racing back to the kitchen to collect the rest of the food.

  When I finally sneak a quick two-minute bathroom break over an hour later, the restaurant is starting to empty out, and those remaining are finishing coffee and scraping their dessert plates clean. I have to force myself not to look at Tristan, though I’m painfully aware of his presence, so much so that I keep forgetting orders. If I’m not careful, I’m going to get fired.

  I have one last thing to take out to Kit’s table, and that’s Jessa’s birthday cake. It takes both hands to carry it because it’s so big, and the candles are those sparkler things and they are sizzling in front of my face, so I can barely see where I’m going.

  Someone has dimmed the lights, and as I exit through the kitchen door, walking backward so as to protect the candles from the draft, I feel something slide between my legs, up my skirt. I scream and spin around.

  The cake flies off the plate and splats the guy who just stuck his hands between my thighs. It’s the pervert guy. Chocolate icing and raspberries decorate his crotch, and he’s glowering at me, his face turning a puce color.

  I can’t process the silence that’s fallen over the room or the countless eyes drilling into me, because all I can feel is his fat, disgusting hand between my legs. Even though it’s not there anymore, it’s like it’s left a chemical burn on my skin.

  “You stupid bitch!” the man yells at me as he looks down at his ruined clothes.

  I shrink backward against the door. I want to shout back at him, call him a pervert, and tell people what he did, but the words jam in my throat.

  Murmurs start to fill the restaurant. Everyone is staring at me, covering their mouths in shock. They’re all wondering who the stupid girl is who dropped the birthday cake and if they’re going to get to witness her being fired. Kit is striding over to us. He gestures to a waiter to bring napkins. He doesn’t look at me, and shame makes me feel like I’ve been doused with gas and set alight. I just ruined the cake. And Jessa’s birthday. And I’m about to get fired. And Tristan and his girlfriend witnessed it, just to make things even worse.

  The man starts yelling about me being incompetent and demanding that Kit comp his meal and pay for his dry cleaning, but Kit isn’t looking at the man. He’s looking at me now. Here it comes.…

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  I startle. What? There’s concern etched on his face. And then Tristan is there, beside him, looking at me with the same expression of concern.

  Tristan touches me gently on the shoulder. “Did he touch you?” he asks quietly.

  Somehow I find my voice. “Yes.”

  Tristan turns to Kit. “I told you,” he says, his voice a growl. “I saw him. He put his hand …” He doesn’t want to say the actual words, but I can see him struggling to contain his fury.

  “What are you talking about?” the man’s wife shrieks, looking among us all.

  Tristan glances at me, and I can see he’s torn. He doesn’t want to humiliate me in public by saying it out loud.

  I step forward. “Your husband put his hand between my legs,” I say, loud enough for everyone around to hear. I’m not going to feel ashamed or humiliated by something that this man did to me. I am not the one who did something wrong.

  There’s an intake of breath, and I feel dizzy, like all the air just got sucked out of the room, leaving me to breathe pure carbon dioxide. I realize that Jessa and Didi are standing beside me, flanking me, and it makes me feel so grateful.

  The man starts to fluster as he looks around at everyone. “That’s a lie. She’s lying,” he says.

  I’m hurtled with force back to that day in court, hearing my dad say the exact same words when I took the stand and testified about how he beat my mother. That’s a lie. She’s lying. I remember looking around at the judge and the jury and wondering if anyone believed me. It was clear some of the jury didn’t.

  “I’m not a liar,” I say, in a louder voice. “You harassed me earlier when I served you, and you just assaulted me.”

  It feels great to say the words and see the man try to bluster his way out of the accusation as he’s facing Kit, Walker, and Tristan. All three of them look like they could rip this guy’s head off his neck as easily as popping a champagne cork. He takes them in and visibly shrinks.

  “You’ll be getting a one-star review!” he shouts at Kit, grabbing his wife’s hand and marching for the door.

  Tristan strides in front of him, blocking his way. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “We’re calling the police,” Kit says, joining him.

  I look around at the customers in the restaurant who are all staring, jaws to the floor, their food clean forgotten about as they’re treated to this live reality-TV show.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “I don’t want to press charges.”

  “Are you sure?” Didi asks me, surprised.

  I nod. “I don’t want the police involved,” I say, looking at Tristan as I do because I think he might be the only person here who understands why I don’t want the cops called, and he does. He touches Kit on the arm and murmurs something into his ear. Kit frowns but nods.


  The wife is glaring at her husband, and there’s some satisfaction in her knowing the truth about him and believing me. She runs out the door, her heels clattering, and the man tries to follow her, but Tristan is still blocking the way. The man swallows as he stares up at him. He’s squarely built, but he knows he’s outclassed. Tristan’s easy smile is nowhere to be seen. Instead, there’s a simmering rage behind his eyes. The man seems to quake before him. “Apologize,” Tristan says, his voice steel.

  The man glances at Kit. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

  “To her,” Tristan hisses.

  The man turns to me, and I’m back there again in court, sitting in the witness box, staring down my father. Only my father wasn’t ashamed or contrite or apologetic. He was just angry.

  I’ll kill you, you bitch! His words as he was dragged out of court ring in my ears even as the pathetic man in front of me mumbles, “Sorry.”

  The man turns toward the door, which Tristan holds open for him. As he scurries out, Tristan once again blocks the way. “If I ever see you again,” he whispers, “if you ever touch any woman again without their permission and I find out about it, I will hunt you down.…”

  The man blanches. I know Tristan doesn’t mean it, that he isn’t that kind of person, but the man doesn’t know it, and the look Tristan’s giving him is enough to turn his legs to Jell-O. He scampers out, chasing after his wife, who has already stalked off.

  After he’s gone, everyone’s attention swings back to me. “Are you okay?” Jessa asks, putting her hand on my shoulder.

  “Your cake,” I say, my lips wobbling as I take in the remains of it on the floor, the crushed raspberries making it look like a crime scene.

  “It’s just a cake,” Jessa says, hugging me.

  I can still feel the heat of the man’s pudgy hand. I think I’m going to be sick. I look up. Kit’s walking toward me, and Tristan, too, but I can’t face them. I need air. I turn around and push through what feels like a crowd of people, making for the kitchen. I run through it, past the chef, and burst through the back door and into the alleyway behind the restaurant.

  TRISTAN

  I run after her, finding her outside in the alley, beside a dumpster. She’s doubled over, dry heaving. When I approach and put my hand on her lower back, she lets out a yelp and spins around in fright. I back away, hands in the air, astonished by the fear I see in her eyes.

  “It’s just me,” I tell her.

  She swallows, wiping the back of her mouth. Her whole body is shaking like she’s in shock. I’ve seen it hundreds of times with people pulled from the water. I step slowly toward her. “It’s okay,” I murmur.

  Slowly, she comes back into herself, her shoulders dropping, her breathing settling. “I thought …” She trails off. I don’t know if she thought I was her father or even the man who just assaulted her. Either way, I’m mad at both of them for making her feel this afraid.

  “Can I get you anything?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. I want to cover the distance between us and pull her into my arms, tell her it’s going to be okay, that I’ve got her, that I won’t let anyone hurt her, but I don’t.

  “Is Kit going to fire me?” she asks.

  I smile. “Of course not.”

  She takes a deep breath, relieved. “Thank you,” she says.

  I shake my head. I didn’t do anything. In fact, I’m furious at myself for just letting that guy walk. I know she didn’t want to call the police on him, but I hate that he didn’t get punished. I wanted to chase him out of the restaurant and put my fist through his smug face. The thought of him touching her, putting his hands on her, makes me so angry I finally get the expression “seeing red.”

  Zoey shakes her head. “I hate it that people like him think they can do things like that and just get away with it.”

  “He didn’t get away with it,” I say, though really, he did. But I won’t make her feel like it’s her fault. It’s not.

  “But if you hadn’t seen, if you hadn’t said something,” she says, “I don’t think I would have. I just froze.” Her face contorts with anger and frustration and then disgust. “I can’t stop feeling his hand … ,” she says, shaking herself like a dog trying to rid itself of fleas.

  She begins pacing and then bends over again and starts taking deep breaths, almost hyperventilating. I can’t just stand there and watch. I put my hand on her back, and this time she doesn’t throw me off. I let my hand rest there for a while until her breathing starts to come under control. “I’m sorry,” she mumbles again.

  “Stop saying that,” I whisper.

  She straightens up slowly, and my hand regretfully falls away. She turns to face me, and there’s just a few inches of space between us. She’s looking at me with those huge eyes of hers wet with tears, her bottom lip still trembling. Without thinking about it, acting purely on instinct, I pull her against me, obliterating those unnecessary inches.

  She draws in a sharp, startled breath, and I worry I’ve just made a huge fucking mistake. Some guy just touched her without her permission, and I’ve just done the exact same thing. I let go immediately, my arms dropping to my sides, and take a step back. “I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head in embarrassment. “I’m sorry.”

  She doesn’t move for a few seconds, and I worry she’s about to yell at me or slap me, but then she does something that totally surprises me. She takes a step forward, and this time it’s her obliterating that dead space between us. I feel her hands lightly, tentatively circle my waist and my own wrap around her, holding her tight.

  She looks up at me, her face doused by the light of the emergency exit sign, and this time there’s no confusion like there was on the pier, when I couldn’t read her expression. This time I see the wanting in her eyes crystal clear, albeit shadowed by a slight wariness or trepidation.

  I can hear Dahlia telling me not to go there, but my hand is moving of its own accord, and before I know it, I’m touching her cheek, feeling the softness of her skin, like velvet, beneath my fingertips.

  Her lips part softly, and I hear the intake of air as an invitation. My attention is drawn to the gap between her two front teeth and then to her mouth. And next thing I know, I’m tracing the heart shape of it with my thumb. Zoey tilts her head back a fraction of an inch, staring up at me, her breathing hiking. It’s the only point of contact between us, my thumb to her bottom lip, but honest to God, it’s probably the sexiest moment of my entire life. It’s like a spell. And I don’t want to break it. She’s staring at me, her eyes half-closed, her breathing fast, waiting for me to kiss her, and my body’s reacting like I’ve been shot through with an electric current and I need to close the loop or else my circuits are going to fry.

  There’s still a chance to break away, walk it all back, but I can’t. I move my hand to cradle her face, and she surprises me by pressing her cheek into my palm, arching her neck sideways. She’s waiting on me, and I have no idea why I’m holding back. Because, fuck … if I don’t kiss her right now, I know I’m going to regret it for the rest of my life.

  I draw her face toward mine, my other hand reaching for her waist, pulling her, with more urgency than I mean to, against my body. She closes her eyes, and my lips are just about to graze hers when—

  “Tristan? You out here?”

  We both pull apart, the spell instantly shattering. It’s Dahlia. She’s standing in the doorway, frowning at us. Did she see? I wish her twin psychic-ness would kick in right now and she’d hear my silent yells at her to go away. But maybe it’s her twin psychic-ness that told her what I was doing out here with Zoey, and she deliberately came out here to put a stop to it.

  Zoey, blushing, rushes past me toward the door as though her feet are on fire. “I gotta go,” she mumbles.

  “Hey,” says Dahlia, who’s standing in her way. “Are you okay?”

  Zoey nods and rushes past her.

  Dahlia watches her go and then looks at me, her lips pressed together in a prim line
and her eyebrows arched. “Did I interrupt something?” she asks, faux-innocently.

  I could say a few choice things right now, but my senses are returning, the blood flowing upward to my brain, and I’m starting to wonder if her arrival wasn’t perhaps fortuitous. I give her a look, and she knows to drop it.

  “We’re doing take two on the birthday cake,” she says. “You coming?”

  I nod. “In a minute,” I tell her. I need that and more to get ahold of myself and cool the hell down.

  ZOEY

  Kit has rustled up another cake for Jessa, or rather a plate of pasteis de nata, the little Portuguese pastries he’s famous for. As I walk into the restaurant, I hear their table breaking into a second rendition of “Happy Birthday.”

  Everyone in the restaurant joins in, but I stand on the outskirts, looking in, painfully aware of feeling like a stranger in their midst. I watch Tristan and his girlfriend standing by Jessa. Did his girlfriend see us almost kiss? Out there, in the alley, I forgot about her completely. There was just Tristan. Nothing else. My whole body is vibrating like a tuning fork that’s just been struck. He looks up and over at me, as if he can hear the note sounding, as if it’s a note only he can hear. Our eyes meet before I quickly look away, reaching a hand to my cheek before I can stop myself. It burns where his fingers grazed it, and my lip thrums as though it’s been stung. If his girlfriend hadn’t appeared, he would have kissed me. But what kind of a guy sneaks around on his girlfriend like that? And how could I have gone along with it? I made myself a promise I wouldn’t fall for anyone and wouldn’t let myself get close to anyone. Why am I being so stupid?

  Jessa blows out the candles, grinning, and I watch as her friends swarm her and have to turn away.

  “How are you feeling?”

  I find Kit at my shoulder. I shrug because I’m not sure what I’m feeling right now. “I’m sorry about the cake.”