by Katie Klein
His mouth hints at a smile, and again he becomes the Carter I fell in love with. I watch as he fills out the little slip of paper, though I can’t see exactly what he’s writing. When he finishes, he folds it and sticks it in the envelope.
“So?” I ask.
“It’s a secret.”
Instinctively, I reach out and brush my fingers through his hair, tucking it behind his ear. “That’s not very nice.”
“Relax,” he says. “You’ll find out when you win.”
“Don’t you mean ‘if’?”
“No. Actually, I mean ‘when.’ Those photographs are as good as yours.”
I laugh, playfully punching his arm with my good fist.
A voice interrupts us. “Look who it is.” It’s part teasing, part wicked.
Selena sidles next to Carter, looking amazing in a little red dress, tags freshly cut. My smile fades.
“Look who it is,” Carter repeats, offering a short, awkward laugh.
I clear my throat, forcing myself to speak. “You look great, Selena.” The words leave a bitter taste in my mouth.
“Thank you,” she replies, smoothing her blonde hair at the part. “So do you.” She tilts her head slightly, jaw tightening. When she turns back to Carter, she’s all smiles again. “Have you checked out the auction items yet?”
“We just put our bid in.” Carter glances in my direction as he says this, as if seeking my approval.
“I’m still looking,” she explains. “Daddy always lets me pick something. I’m glad I ran into you, though. I hope you’re going to save a dance for me.” She flashes Carter a bright smile, carefully brushing the sleeve of his tuxedo jacket with her fingertips.
Carter stiffens, ears flushing. “Maybe later.”
“I’m counting on that.”
I watch her, hips swaying as she saunters off.
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I reply brusquely.
“So, um, speaking of dancing.” He jerks his chin toward the floor. “Do you want to?”
I glance at the group of people already gathered. Men in their tuxedos. Women in formal dresses. The band is playing a solid mix of beach music, oldies, and Top 40.
“You know I don’t dance,” I remind him.
“Everyone dances,” he replies, taking my hand in his and dragging me to the floor. He lifts his arm and twirls me around. My surprised laughter disappears in the music. The band is a crowd pleaser, following the Electric Slide with the YMCA, and then shifting over to Jimmy Buffet.
We dance through any number of songs, only vaguely aware of the time passing. Hot, breathless, and drunk on happiness, I move with Carter, letting him lead. We dance and twirl, until, swirling me away from him, Carter accidentally loses his grip on my right fingers. I slip away, spinning, then find myself colliding into another tuxedo. He puts his hand out to steady me.
I burst into a fit of nervous giggles, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “I am so sorry. . . .”
I glance at the gentleman I’ve crashed into, and instantly recognize the familiar features gazing back at me. I freeze, a thousand memories racing through my mind. My heart thuds manically against my ribcage.
“Can I cut in?” Seth asks, smiling hopefully beneath his lashes.
I step back, startled. “W—what?” I stammer. My eyes dart to and away, mystified by his sudden, random appearance. “What are you . . . ?”
His smile fades, eyes growing serious. “Just one dance. That’s all I’m asking.”
I don’t see Carter until he’s right next to me, wrapping his arm possessively around my waist. “I don’t think we’ve met before. Who are you?” he asks, voice flat. His shoulders square in defense.
Seth shoves his hands deep inside his pants pockets and glares at him, eyes blazing. “No one of consequence,” he replies casually. The room grows warmer, smaller. I swipe the sweat beading on my forehead with the back of my palm and force my lungs to fill.
Carter, scowling, moves to steer me away.
“You know,” I say quickly, plastering as convincing a smile as possible across my face. “It’s okay. I mean, it’s just one song. And maybe it’s a good time for Selena. You can get her dance over with.”
He eyes me warily, throws Seth an irritated frown, but he doesn’t protest. I watch as he walks away, sulking, defeated.
When I turn back toward Seth, everything moves slower, couples closer. One look at him in his black tuxedo, and my heart flutters to life again. I swallow hard, forcing away the nervous edge in the pit of my stomach.
He reaches for my waist and takes my hand in his, pulling me close. My skin tingles, breath catching in my throat.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Dancing. What are you doing here?”
“I was invited,” I remind him. “Which is more than I can say for you, actually.”
He laughs softly. “Open invitation. I go where you go, remember?”
I bite into my lower lip, struggling to control the mix of emotions coursing through me, this blinding, exhilarating confusion I feel with him so close.
How could I forget?
“You look like you’re enjoying yourself tonight,” he says, smiling stiffly.
“I am, actually.”
“Does this mean you and Carter are back together?”
“I don’t see why that would concern you,” I reply, voice clipped.
“Everything you do concerns me.”
I open my mouth to speak, but the words remain trapped in the back of my throat, eyes caught in his hypnotic gaze.
“He wants you, you know,” Seth goes on. “He’s madly in love with you. He can barely contain himself.”
I steal a quick glance at Carter and Selena, dancing nearby.
“He’s not in love with me,” I declare, matter of fact.
“Why wouldn’t he? Every checkbook in this room is wondering about you tonight. I mean, look at you. You’re stunning. Your eyes are lit up. And when you smile. . . .” He trails off. His body tenses, protective, guarded. Our eyes connect. There’s a tired sparkle in them—a sadness. I can see my reflection, what he sees when he looks at me.
I swallow hard, shake my head, disbelieving.
“It’s true.”
He stretches out his arm, allowing me to twirl, then pulls me back. I lean into him, head spinning, thoughts in tangles. My eyes travel to his lips, heart racing. They’re so close. I want to touch them, to feel them with my fingers, to brush them with my own.
I shake the thought away, clearing my throat. “Where have you been?” I finally ask.
“Watching,” he replies.
“Hiding from me,” I clarify.
“No . . . just watching. From a safe distance.”
My eyes narrow and it dawns on me: “I’m not in any kind of danger am I? I mean, is a truck going to smash through a window? Is one of the chandeliers going to fall? Crazy gunman? Are you here to rescue me?”
“No,” he replies, eyes lighting as a hint of a smile plays at his lips. “You’re safe. For now, anyway.”
“Okay. So why don’t you come around more often?”
He exhales, leans closer, jaw resting against my cheek. “Because I’m not supposed to.”
His breath blows warm against my ear, tickling my spine with tingles. I close my eyes. “Then why now?”
For a moment he’s still, considering. “Because. This just might be a perfect, fairy-tale moment.”
I pull away from him, eyeing him carefully. “Fairy-tale moment?”
“Sure. Beautiful maiden. Mysterious guy. They dance, enchanted. Happily. Ever. After.”
A burst of heat rushes through my body. “I don’t think I deserve this kind of fairy-tale.”
“Everyone deserves a fairy-tale,” he whispers.
“Even angels?”
“Especially angels,” he replies.
I stare into Seth’s deep brown eyes, grip his hand tighter. Everything about him—his cheekbones,
his nose, his jawline, the way his hair falls over his forehead, almost touching his eyes. . . .
I swallow hard. The lights from the chandeliers grow brighter. The entire world seems to blur. “I think I . . .” Need to sit down? “I feel like . . .” I can’t breathe?
I take a shallow breath. “I might be falling in love with you.” I laugh weakly, feeling the heat of embarrassment as it rises to my cheeks. “Is that possible?” I ask.
Conflict rages in his eyes, lips pressed in a firm line, as if he’s fighting, holding back. “Anything is possible,” he manages.
As the song draws to an end, I feel a frisson of excitement. An inexplicable pull. A natural urge to lean in and kiss him. I want to taste him. To touch him. He moves closer and my eyelids drift, shutting. He caresses my cheek before cupping my chin in his hand, fingers warm and smooth. He whispers softly against my ear: “I am always here for you.”
When I open my eyes . . . he’s gone.
I twirl around, searching for him among the swarm of tuxedos, everything about me light and tingling, my heart racing, the room swirling.
“That was awkward,” Carter says, sidling next to me after having abandoned Selena. “So. Who was the guy?” he asks, searching for him with me. “I’ve never seen him before.”
I tear my eyes away from the crowd, knowing he’s no longer part of it, and turn to face Carter. “I didn’t get his name,” I lie.
TEN
We win the photographs. Carter’s bid, which was entirely too high, in my opinion, secures them for me.
On Sunday, Ernie’s is packed. I spend thirteen hours traveling to and from the kitchen to the dining room and back again, bouncing from table to table offering plates of blocked arteries and cups of legal addictive stimulants, trying to make up for the previous night. My calves ache, and I can feel a blister from my night of dancing scraping against the inside of one of my canvas shoes.
It’s strange, actually. A little more than month ago I was spinning around on a barstool in the empty restaurant, watching Stu juggle those cheap, plastic salt and pepper shakers. With the season picking up, there’s more than enough work for everyone.
“Table three is done,” I tell the dish washer, a nephew of Ernie’s, as I lean through the kitchen window to grab another order.
As usual, Stu is the only cook on duty. I watch for a moment as he flips burgers and scrambles eggs at the same time, and wonder (not for the first time) how he manages to keep the food separated and the orders straight when he can barely remember to keep his shoes tied. In the next instant he reaches for a container and dumps a few piles of pancake batter onto the grill. They sizzle on contact, and smoke and steam mount to the ceiling, the swirling currents suspended in air until they disappear.
I load my tray with plates for table twelve, a group of college students—two guys and two girls—who, by all accounts, have either started their Sunday night party early, or haven’t quite recovered from Saturday.
Swinging around, I find myself face to face with Ernie, the manager and owner of this dining dump.
“You greet the customers, no?” he asks, lips hidden behind his monstrous black mustache.
“We’re packed, Ernie. I’m doing my best to keep them fed as it is,” I explain, trying to maneuver past him.
He blocks me. “You must greet. I read in book where the people . . .”
“People who are greeted when they enter a restaurant are more likely to return to it,” I finish, rolling my eyes. “I know, Ernie, but we’re swamped. I’m greeting them when I take their drink orders.”
“Any dining establishment can do this,” he points out, wagging his finger at me like I’m some sort of toddler incapable of following directions. “At Ernie’s we go the, how do you say? Extra mile.”
“You just say ‘extra mile,’” I inform him, annoyed.
Ernie looks exactly how I’d picture an Ernie: short, fat, bald. He acts the way I’d expect an Ernie to act: all jittery and neurotic. Instead of greeting people at the door, he should lay off the coffee and bacon.
“Order up!” Stu calls. We turn and watch as two additional plates crash against the window ledge. “Hey, Ernie! When are you gonna hire me some help back here?” he asks.
“How many times have I fire you?”
“Right now you’re averaging two threats a week,” I remind him. “But you never go through with it because there’s no replacement. It’s easier to keep him than train someone new.” I jerk my chin toward the kitchen.
Ernie turns back to me, scowling. “And why you not greet people?”
“Your patrons aren’t going to remember if they were greeted when I serve them cold food.” I lift my tray, offering it as proof.
He sighs, waves his hand, signaling my dismissal. “Go. Serve the food. I tell Flavia to greet.”
On my way to twelve, a table full of middle-aged men flags me down. They are the Watchers: the people who come to town to see what the weekend drags in, thinking they might get lucky. If you look closely, it’s not hard to spot the tan line on their left hand ring fingers. They typically refer to these excursions as “business trips” or “golf weekends,” and they always get away with it, because their wives are too busy changing diapers and chauffeuring kids to soccer practice to check their credit card statements.
They are the pathetic of the pathetics.
“Hey, sweetheart. Can I get another drink?”
“I’ll send your waitress,” I call over my shoulder, weaving through the maze of tables and chairs.
“I’m sorry about the hold-up,” I say. “We’re swamped tonight, and missing some of our help.” Mom could be here, I muse. Then we’d have plenty of money to make rent. But Mom disappeared right after the dinner rush. Apparently she had plans.
“Can I get you anything else?” I ask, hoping they only want their ticket and I can close another table out.
The thing about being a waitress is that, until you’re needed, you’re invisible. No one wants to talk to you unless they’re demanding A-1 Sauce. When you finally bring it, there is no “thank you” because this is your job. It’s what you do. And they don’t want you hovering, hanging around their table for no reason. Not unless they’re complaining about lukewarm entrees or giving you hell because you accidentally brought them regular Coke instead of diet. If that happens, you’re forced to stand there, silent, and take their shit. And that one, minor mistake? It’ll cost you a tip. Every. Time.
I perform a quick check. A few of their glasses are half empty. “I’ll be right back with refills.”
I pass Flavia on the way to the drink station. “The pervs at table eight want more drinks,” I tell her. The dark-haired, olive-skinned girl looks over at them and groans. She shoves the scoop back in the ice machine and slams the lid shut.
“They have been here for almost an hour, and all they’ve managed to order are drinks and an appetizer. Do you know what the tip is for drinks and an appetizer? It’s a total waste of my time, that’s what it is. I may as well be paying them. And God knows I give them about ten more minutes before they start begging for my number. Culos.” She sighs, and then crosses herself.
I refill a pitcher with soda, grab a few cups of ice, just in case, and head back to table twelve.
As I move through the crowd, a strange feeling washes over me, pushing through my veins. Like I’ve been here before. Done this very thing. I mean, yeah, I’ve done this same thing on hundreds of nights just like this one, but this is more, and the feeling persists. Everything around me seems to quiet as I focus on each step.
I’ve done this before.
I’ve done this before.
I can see it happening in my mind. It’s like, extreme déjà vu as I refill their glasses and set the cups of ice on the table.
In my head, it sounds like a different person asking: “Can I get you anything else?” The words emerge more sluggish than usual.
I’ve done this before.
One of the guys smiles at
me. “Nah, we’re fine, thanks.”
I knew he was going to say that.
“Let me know. . . .” The complete lack of noise buzzes in my ears: as if the holes in my head that carry sound to my brain are clogged.
I’ve already turned on my heel, preparing to walk back to the kitchen, when I see it in my mind—a cup. A flash of ice spewing across the table, the frigid cubes sparkling in the light. Without thinking, I am twisting around. Everything moves in suspended motion: the cup, which has just been knocked, and my hand, which reaches out to snatch it before it falls over completely. In an instant, I’ve set the cup upright again, averting disaster.
The haziness vanishes and the room is as loud as it was before—louder, even. The lights are as bright, and I squint, trying to process what, exactly, just happened. The déjà vu feeling dissipates, slowly leaking from my body. I suck in a quick breath and hold it in my lungs.
“No freakin’ way,” the guy mutters. He stares at me, eyes wide.
“I can’t believe you caught that!” the girl beside him says.
“What are you? Part Ninja?” he asks.
“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I stammer.
“Did you see that?” the guy asks his friends across the table. “Her back was totally turned.” He watches me, shaking his head, disbelieving. “How did you know it was going to fall?”
How did I know? I saw it happen. In my mind. Right before it actually fell.
But even though the words are poised on my lips, I don’t believe them.
“Lucky guess . . . I guess,” I reply. I offer a tiny laugh, but there is no humor in it.
Please, just let me go away, I silently beg.
“Okay, I totally missed something,” the girl across from him says, eyes darting back and forth between us.
“She like, grabbed the glass of ice before it fell over. She was like, literally walking away from the table, but she still turned around in time to catch it,” the other girl gushes. “That is so freakish. It was like, you knew it was falling, or something.”
The guy ogles me, and for a moment I expect him to jump out of his chair, to announce to the entire restaurant what they just witnessed.
