Bittersweet

by Domingo, Sareeta

“Running gives you saggy boobs anyway,” she says.

  “Oh, so you’ll have no problems then…”

  She punches my arm, but then grabs it and pulls me to a stop as we come up to the riverside. “Ho. Lee. Shit,” she intones.

  “What? Jeez.”

  She points wordlessly up ahead of us and I see the back of a willowy brunette wearing a vivid-blue summer dress. She’s strolling lazily along the riverbank, looking impossibly stunning even from behind. She raises a thin arm and waves at someone up ahead.

  “That,” Maxine whispers, “is Bethany Keeler.”

  I have to admit, even I can’t help feeling a little star-struck, despite not having much of a clue who this chick really is. I know she’ll be one of the actresses in Bittersweet, and the excitement coming off Maxine in waves is kind of infectious. We slow to a stop and watch as she does an actual gazelle-like skip to catch up with whoever she was waving to.

  “Let’s move closer,” Maxine hisses, and it really does feel like we’re stalking a deer.

  “Why are we whispering?” I whisper.

  “Just … because.”

  We walk closer, trying to look nonchalant, but then Maxine freezes and looks over at me, and I come to a stop as well. Someone has come over to Bethany: Ray-Bans on; a killer smile; dark, tousled hair. Effortless dark T-shirt, very similar to the one that was clinging to my body a few nights ago.

  He kisses Bethany on both cheeks, Hollywood style, then drops a hand to the small of her back as they continue to walk down the riverside. She slips an arm around his waist. They stroll away in the morning sunshine like they have no cares in the world.

  “Is that—” Max begins.

  I swallow. “Yup. That,” I mutter, “is Greg the Asshole.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “But … it just doesn’t even make sense.”

  “Drop it, Max,” I sigh, going to refill her and Hal’s glasses of sweet tea.

  “But she wouldn’t date a crew guy, even one that hot.”

  Because that is, apparently, the issue at hand here. Whether Bethany Goddamn Keeler would date a guy from the crew. Not the fact that the guy who, only a few nights ago, was staring into my eyes and making me feel things I hadn’t felt for years—maybe ever—is now dating some other chick without a second thought for me. So much for his “I’m broken” speech. I put my hand on my hip, gripping the pitcher’s handle tightly in the other.

  “I’m serious, Max. Can we just… I have to work. If you guys are going to be in here, I really have to shut down any and all talk of Greg, Bethany, the show… Just… Please?”

  “I’m sorry, honey,” Maxine says, holding up her hands apologetically. “The whole thing just defies all logic for me.”

  Join the club.

  “If I see that guy—” Hal begins.

  “I’m serious! Let it go. All of it,” I say quickly. “Hal, he’s not worth it. It’s sweet of you to want to step in, but honestly, I’ve wasted enough time worrying about Greg Whatever and his stupid Bittersweet bimbo. They’re welcome to each other.”

  Wow, I almost convinced myself there. I head over to fill another table’s glasses with my new sweet tea concoction, then busy myself checking orders and buffing cutlery. I stifle a yawn and pause for a minute to massage my temples. I got pretty much zero sleep last night, tossing and turning, trying not to imagine what Greg was doing with Bethany Keeler. I tried not to imagine him kissing her, holding her, and I definitely tried not to imagine him going down on her. But that only made me think of him doing the same thing to me, and the tangle of emotions that it brought on messed me up so bad I had to get up and watch TV in the middle of the night just to get it all out of my head. And what was on television at 3 o’clock in the morning? A fucking TV movie starring Bethany Keeler. She was clearly, like, eighteen years old but pretending to be twelve in it, and being all cutesy and sad because she was a foster kid or some such nonsense. I watched the whole darn thing, of course. She was terrible. But then, I may be biased.

  I’ve been avoiding going past the hotel since we saw her and Greg yesterday, and I sure as hell don’t plan to go running down by the river again anytime soon if it’s going to be their favorite rendezvous for a romantic sunlit stroll. I crash the knife I’ve been cleaning into the tray, making Ricky the busboy look over at me questioningly.

  I should be checking over the floor now anyway. I take a deep breath, thinking that if I can’t muster a smile, I’d better at least not look like I want to murder the customers. Joe finally took a night off and he’s left me in charge at last. So far things are going well, in spite of Max and Hal giving me constant reminders of what happened with Greg, and trying to think of reasons why (Max) and threatening to punch him (Hal).

  I check on the Mitchums in the corner booth, and smile at their five-month-old daughter Annie. Chris and Keri both look pretty exhausted, but from the way they’re gazing at each other, I can tell they’re just having a moment—a burst of happiness. Why would you let it go? Why does anyone walk away from a good thing? My mother? Greg…?

  God, I know I’m thinking about it too much. Everything seems to lead back to what happened with him, and I know I’m making more of it than it was. I must have imagined any connection between us. For once, I wanted something romantic and real, so I tried to force it onto the thing with him, and this is the result.

  I look up as I hear someone mention my name, and adjust my expression, realizing I’m frowning again.

  “… Cathy. She’s right over there.”

  I look up and see Helen, one of the other waitresses, speaking to a tall, dark-haired guy in a baseball cap, who has his back to me. My heart does ten somersaults and I freeze on the spot.

  But it’s not him.

  When the guy turns around, I see that he’s older than Greg, with a deep tan that makes his blindingly white teeth stand out even more. His baseball cap has a Screen/West logo on it though, so he’s obviously something to do with Bittersweet. Perhaps Greg’s sent one of his crew buddies as a special envoy to broker a peace deal. Because he’s made a huge effort to get in touch since our little night together, so that’s super likely…

  “What can I do for you, sir?” I ask as the guy strides over to me and extends his hand.

  “Cathy Johnson? Hi, I’m Blaine Denton,” he says in a loud voice. Blaine? Is anyone actually called Blaine? I fix my face into what I hope looks like a helpful smile and shake his hand. “Cathy, I wanted to discuss a proposition for Joe Johnson’s,” he continues. “You see, I’m the production manager on Bittersweet—I’m sure you’ve heard about our filming here in Dogwood?”

  I nod, the smile making my cheeks hurt.

  “Well, we’re in a liiitle bit of a pickle.” He grins widely. “Now, I have it on very good authority that this is the best restaurant in town.”

  I return his smile more genuinely now. “That’s correct,” I say.

  “You see, we’re starting rehearsals tomorrow at the high school, but we’re having some issues with the craft services guys. I was wondering if you might be able to help us out, you know, just get a lunchtime buffet spread together, nothing too fancy—just make sure there are some salads and lighter options, you know actresses—well, maybe you don’t, but trust me—and, uh, for the guys, we like to eat, you know…” He trails off, looking at me expectantly.

  Catering? We’ve never done anything like that, but I’ve certainly suggested it to Joe in the past. It’s kind of amazing that an opportunity has finally fallen in our lap. I take a breath and bite my lip pointedly.

  “Well, it’s kind of short notice—”

  Blaine pulls a concerned expression. “Oh. Well, if you know anyone else—”

  “But I think we could manage,” I add quickly. I was clearly overdoing my negotiation tactics. As well as a chance to branch out, we could really do with the extra cash we’d get from a catering job. “How many are we talking here?”

  Blaine pulls out a sort of extra-big cell/tablet thing,
jabs at the screen, and squints at it. “Let’s see, all told, cast and crew… Looking at maybe forty.” He eyes me expectantly.

  A catered buffet for forty people for tomorrow? I know the kitchen guys will be busy doing breakfast, and then straight into lunch. I don’t even know if we have the supplies … but with some juggling and maybe if I beg Hal and Max to help out? Lord knows I’d get the sympathy vote working in my favor. I nod at Blaine, hoping to seem like this is no big deal. But if I’m going to do this, I’d better make it worth the while.

  “OK, forty people at,” I pull a figure out of the sky, “hmm … seventy-five dollars a head…” I glance at him, expecting a look of shock at the price, but he nods. A meal at JJ’s for seventeen-fifty would get you full to the brim! But I press on. “So, three thousand.” I swallow.

  To my utter surprise, Blaine just grins. “Fantastic.”

  “And half up front.” I hold my breath.

  “Oh, sure, absolutely,” he says, whipping out a checkbook with the company logo emblazoned on it. Life is good on company credit, I guess. I return his grin and pump his hand happily as he hands the check over.

  “You’re a life-saver, Cathy, really you are. I’ll see you over at the high school at midday tomorrow, yah?”

  “See you then,” I call cheerily as he strides out of the restaurant.

  A catered buffet for forty fancy-pants actors and their crew by midday tomorrow? Oh, yeah, no problem.

  But then something else hits me.

  The crew?

  Shit. Greg.

  *

  “Slice them faster!”

  “You think they want a severed finger in their pastrami on rye?”

  “I’m just saying, it’s not rocket science, it’s slicing a freaking tomato…”

  I look over at Max and Hal squabbling and feel an overwhelming sense of friendship and relief.

  “What are you grinning about?” Max asks, smiling herself. I think she’s just glad I have some distraction from moping about Gregany.

  “I’m just really glad you guys are here,” I say, and I really mean it. I would have been screwed if they hadn’t agreed to help out. Joe was skeptical about the idea when I called to tell him what I’d agreed, though he warmed up to it a little more when I told him how much we’d get paid. He insisted I keep any profit for myself, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

  “Awww, C,” Max says, pressing another sandwich down to cut it in half. “Of course we are, right, Hal-Pal?”

  “Yep,” he replies, winking at me. “And anyway, I’m hoping to get into some of that Sloppy Joe Johnson’s mix when we’re done.”

  I glance at the clock. Only Hal would consider eating minced beef at a quarter past midnight. I stir a few more herbs into the giant pot on the stove. I have to admit, my homage to my dad has turned out pretty darn tasty. “No dipping,” I say sternly. “We need all the food we can get.”

  “Well, I’m pretty certain there’ll be some left over,” Hal grumbles.

  “Right?” Max says. “I mean, lettuce leaves, sure, but I can’t imagine the B-word lets any meat pass those pretty little lips of hers,” she says nodding to the sloppy joe pot.

  “Uh, that’s not what I’ve heard,” Hal says, and we all crack up.

  “Damn it, Hal,” I chuckle when I recover. It feels nice to be bitchy about her, I’m not ashamed to admit.

  Maxine stretches and then reaches over and pulls plastic wrap over the last tray of sandwiches. “OK, that’s these all done,” she says, stifling a yawn.

  We start to clear the stuff away ready for Bobby and the guys to get going on breakfast tomorrow morning—or later this morning—and I high-five my friends before squeezing them both into a group hug.

  “You guys are the best,” I say, then clear my throat. “Thanks for not really mentioning… You know.”

  Maxine glances at Hal, then back at me. I busy myself locking up, but I can feel a question coming.

  “Well, honey, aren’t you a little worried about tomorrow?” she asks. “I mean, he’s probably going to be there, right? And Bethany—”

  “I can handle it. It’s cool.” I purse my lips as we stride across the little parking lot in the warm night.

  “Well, I’ll have one of the gals watch The Salon,” Max says. “I’m going to come with you, help out, you know, in case—”

  “Hah!” I interject.

  Maxine looks at me, wide-eyed. “What?”

  “You want to come ogle Johnny Lincoln, that’s what!”

  She stifles a smile. “A welcome side effect of having my girl’s back.”

  I shake my head. “What if I make you wear a hairnet?”

  She makes a face. “You don’t think I could rock a hairnet?”

  The annoying thing is, she probably could.

  “Fine,” I say. “You can come. But you have to promise me not to do anything crazy.”

  Max crosses her heart, but the smirk on her face tells me she’s not making any guarantees.

  “All I’m saying is, if that Greg guy gets out of line…?” She slices her fake talons through the air like she’s Wolverine, and I chuckle half-heartedly.

  “The guy really ought to be taught a lesson, you know,” Hal says, nodding as he shoves his fists into his jeans pockets. He’s started walking us home without our even having to ask, even though it’s out of his way. I smile to myself. I know they just want to protect me, but it’s time I took care of myself.

  The sooner I see Greg, the sooner I can get over him.

  At least, I hope so.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I glance at my watch anxiously but I know it’s fine—we’ll probably be early, even. I try to keep my movements slow as Bobby helps me load up the van. It’s crazy hot this morning, and last thing I want is to turn up sweaty again for what will probably be a super-awkward confrontation with Greg. That is, if I even get to see him. I mean, if I can avoid him, then even better.

  Bobby catches me checking my reflection in the wing mirror of the van again and chuckles. “You look great, Cath.”

  I smile at him—he of course has no idea that my new-found vanity is more to do with making sure my look says “sexy young minx you should have called” as much as “reliable, professional caterer.” I agonized for an embarrassingly long time to come up with sandals, dark-blue jeans, and a sleeveless button-down blouse, and made Max judge just how many buttons I could get away with leaving undone and still be decent.

  Bob’s on break and shouldn’t have to be loading up with me, but I don’t know where the heck Maxine is. Despite her claim she’d come help out, she was still in the bathroom primping herself when I left. I sigh, carefully sliding the last trays of sandwiches into the back of our dilapidated “Joe Johnson’s” van—the only one we have, an old Ford with a peeling decal stuck onto the sides.

  I slide the door shut, just about to give up and head over to the high school on my own, when I see a figure teetering up the street toward me.

  “Wait! I’m here…!” Maxine calls. “What all needs doing?”

  I stare at her. She’s wearing black high-heeled booties, tight black jeans, and a strappy vest top, with makeup on her face that I’m pretty sure one of her magazines would label “vampy.”

  “Uh, it’s all loaded up now, which is a good thing seeing as you look like you’re on your way to a Hells Angels beauty pageant,” I reply when she reaches me.

  Maxine folds her arms. “You do get the significance of a first impression, right?” she asks. “Johnny Lincoln needs to fully appreciate the real me.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’ll appreciate it,” I say, grinning wryly. She tuts, and we clamber into the van. It takes me a while to get used to the stick shift, and Max grips the dashboard exaggeratedly as we lurch forward.

  “So this is going to be kind of fun, right?” she begins brightly, eyeing me warily once we’re on our way. “I mean, a new gig for JJ’s, you’re all pioneering and whatnot, and… Well, you look fantasti
c if I do say so myself. What say you check out some of the other talent at this rehearsal shindig, see if you can really rub ol’ whatshisface’s, well, face, in it?”

  “I’m just there to do a job, Maxi. In and out.” I clumsily change gears and she goes back to staring wide-eyed at the road ahead of us.

  “OK. Yeah. In and out. Cool,” she repeats. “Anyway, all of that douchebaggery aside, I’m super excited about seeing this whole juggernaut coming to life. All the actors, the scripts, the prep. Man! And Dogwood High, center stage? So weird, right? I mean, look at this place,” she says as I signal and swerve a little sharply into the high school’s almost-empty parking lot. There are some Screen/West vans parked up, and a couple of blacked-out SUVs, which no doubt transported the actors’ precious behinds over here for the rehearsals.

  “God, it is weird to be back here. I half expect to see Denny Smith and his meat-headed cronies leaning on his Camaro over there,” I say as we climb out of the van.

  “Right? And Riley, Kim and Ashley doing that terrible double-dutch with the jump ropes because it was, like, their thing senior year?”

  I laugh, remembering.

  “The most random thing ever,” Max says, shaking her head.

  Staring around at the empty lot, I get hit with a wave of nostalgia. I think about Jeff giving me a ride in his pickup to school on a Monday morning. Sometimes, if his dad was away on business and he had the house to himself, I’d lie to Joe and say I was staying at Maxi’s, but instead I’d go to Jeff’s house and we’d—

  “You want to open up this door? I don’t want to break a nail,” Max says, interrupting my thoughts. Way to distract myself from thinking about one asshole guy by thinking about another major asshole.

  “Yeah, you’re going to be a real big help with that attitude,” I say, but slide it open and we each pick up a tray of food to carry through to the auditorium where Blaine told me the rehearsals would be happening.

  “It feels naughty being in here,” Maxine says with a giggle as we walk down the empty, echoing hallway. “Jesus, there’s my freaking locker!”