Bittersweet

by Domingo, Sareeta

  I glance at it and chuckle at the dent that’s still there in the door—it provided the perfect resting spot for Max to lean her head against during make-out sessions with whoever was flavor of the month, or sometimes week.

  “Man,” I mutter. “I feel like exactly the same chick. Three years, and it’s like I never left.”

  Max adjusts the tray in her hands as she clops along in her heels. “Hey, none of that. You’re a strong, intelligent, catering professional with the world at her feet,” she tells me, and I nod.

  “Uh huh,” I say uncertainly, but then we reach the auditorium doors. I turn and nudge the swinging door open with my hip, and we’re greeted with the sound of people chattering and milling about. I notice a long table set up in the middle of the room with chairs all around it. Guess this is what Max informs me is called the “table-read.” I scan the room quickly, both hoping to and desperately hoping not to see Greg, but then Blaine Denton spots me instead.

  “Cathy! Hi!” he calls.

  I smile over at him—and then, just over Blaine’s shoulder, I see someone turn around at the sound of my name. Someone tall and gorgeous, pushing dark hair back off his forehead. Greg stares at me for a moment with an unreadable expression, then turns back around to talk to a guy with a headset.

  “Um, where do you want us to set up?” I stammer quickly, and Blaine leads me and Max over to some tables at the far end of the auditorium.

  “So this must have been your high school, huh?” Blaine says while tapping on his tablet. “Good to be back?”

  “Mmmhmm,” I murmur distractedly. I glance back to where Greg is standing, but he’s not paying any attention now, laughing and chatting instead with his buddy. I turn to look at Max, but she’s busy scanning the auditorium for Johnny Lincoln.

  “Jackpot,” she hisses, but I grab her arm before she wanders off.

  “Uh, we’ll go finish unloading the stuff,” I tell Blaine, who gives me a thumbs-up now, as he seems to be talking on a hands-free device. Or he’s having a breakdown. Either is possible.

  I drag Maxine quickly back to the parking lot.

  “Did you see him?” she says.

  “Yes, and he practically looked right through—” I begin.

  “He looks even freaking better in real—” she says at the same time.

  “Oh,” we both say together, and then laugh.

  Maxine purses her lips. “So you mean Greg…?”

  “Yeah. He just blanked me.” I heave the pot of Sloppy Joe Johnson’s mix out of the van. “But whatever. Not what we’re here for.”

  “Yup.” I feel Maxine looking at me, but I nod at the supplies we need to take in, and decide I’m going to keep my head down until it’s all offloaded. If Greg’s going to pretend I don’t exist, I’ll just have to do the same with him.

  Turns out hauling food out of the van and carrying it through the high school is a pretty good workout, and I have to stop and glug down some water before I can get started lighting the burners for the hot food. As I do, an older woman with vivid-red hair claps her hands and calls, “OK, sorry for the delay everyone. Chris is still working on those line rewrites so we’ll resume after lunch. Thirty minutes.”

  People start milling closer to the catering tables, and I snap my fingers at Max, who’s giving Johnny Lincoln a come-hither look from across the room.

  “Hey, matter at hand?” I whisper, and together we try and look professional as we finish setting up the buffet. One or two of the actresses I don’t recognize eye the spread with some skepticism, but the crew guys in shorts and baseball caps tuck in. I try to keep my eyes down as I serve things onto plates, but even so I get no sense of Greg. Guess he’s continuing to pretend I don’t exist.

  “Is this vegan?” a dark-haired, willowy-framed girl asks Maxine, pointing at the potato salad.

  “Um… Um…” Maxine stammers, and I look up properly, realizing it’s stupid Bethany Damn Keeler. Of course.

  “It’s not, I’m afraid,” I interject curtly. “But we have some salads over here, or—”

  “Oh, hold on, are those sloppy joes?” Bethany asks. Her voice is a lot less high-pitched than when I’ve seen her interviewed on TV being all giggly and cutesy. “I love that stuff. I’ll have some of the mix. No bun, of course.”

  “Of course,” I murmur dumbly, then spoon some mix onto her plate. Max and I exchange a glance and I try not to smirk, remembering Hal’s joke last night.

  “Just goes to show, you should never assume,” I whisper as she walks off, and Maxine chuckles, but then her face suddenly gets serious.

  “Oh. Hold up. I’m going after her. Um … for recon purposes,” she says, then abruptly turns and walks off, leaving me to serve on my own as she makes a beeline for the drinks table Bethany has strolled toward. A tall, impossibly broad-shouldered Johnny Lincoln is standing by it, picking out a diet soda. Suddenly her ditching me makes sense.

  In the back of my pathetic mind, I foster a sudden hope that Bethany’s seen the error of her crew-guy-dating ways and focused in on a big-time actor now instead. After all, didn’t Clarissa say that Bethany had insisted on staying in the same building as her co-star? Hope begins to rise embarrassingly in my chest, and I watch them closely. There’s no sign of Greg anywhere nearby. I could have totally jumped to conclusions the other day. Maybe they’re just friends. Or, less appealingly, maybe she was just using Greg for sex. Can’t say I would blame her…

  I feel heat rising in my face just thinking about Greg like that, here, now. I shake my head and focus instead on watching Max sidle over to Mr. Lincoln. She manages to interrupt him and Bethany, beaming a blinding smile his way, and it’s looking good—but then the redhead director taps Johnny on the shoulder and pulls him into another conversation. Max is left staring at Bethany, and they both give each other a look of barely masked disdain before turning away. I can’t help chuckling, and Max is quickly embroiled in a conversation with a sandy-haired, muscle-bound actor type. I hope she’s remembering Todd in all this Hollywood madness…

  I serve a few more people, but just as I’m finally starting to relax and consider the gig a success, I hear a deep voice behind me that, in spite of everything, makes goosebumps break out on my bare arms.

  “Cathy.”

  I turn slowly. Why does he have to be so goddamn beautiful? Greg stares down at me, with that familiar little crease between his brows. He shoves his hands in his pockets.

  “Hey,” he says.

  Hey? Again?

  “I’m busy,” I say, clenching my jaw.

  “I know. I just wanted to … uh, say hello.”

  “Yeah, hi.”

  I glance up at him. He steps aside as I reach over to pick up some of the abandoned plastic plates on the table. I think I hear him sigh. I try not to breathe him in, try not to let him get a sense of how quickly my heart is racing. I try to focus on being angry. He hovers as I busily scrape things into other things.

  “The food’s great, by the way,” he says. Is he actually doing small talk? I stop clearing things and turn to face him head-on.

  “Greg, let’s not… I don’t really want to chit-chat. I mean, you said you’d see me at the restaurant or whatever, and this is whatever, right? So we’ve seen each other, we’ve said hello, let’s just—”

  “You seem angry.”

  My jaw actually drops. “I seem angry?” I notice a couple of people look around at us, and lower my voice. “Gee, what makes you say that?” I shake my head, disbelieving.

  “You’re right. I’m sorry,” he says quietly, and I make the mistake of looking up into his eyes. They’re wide and sincere and vivid blue. He takes a step closer to me and draws in a long breath, but then the frown is back on his face. “Look, anyway, I thought you considered what happened just a one-night thing.”

  “What?” I frown myself. “What are you talking about?”

  He glances around, then back into my eyes. “All the stuff about how you’d never had a one-night-stand before? I
kind of assumed that meant you saw that—us—as … just…”

  “Just sex?”

  He stares at me, a strange sequence of expressions crossing his face. Finally he speaks again.

  “I shouldn’t have come over here,” he begins, then glances down. He seems vulnerable again, and it’s doing weird things to my insides. “I just saw you and I couldn’t help…” He stops again and sighs, shaking his head.

  “Five minutes, main cast, five minutes,” shouts the director lady.

  Greg looks up at me. “This was a mistake. I think it’s better if we—”

  “You think it’s better if we pretend none of that ever happened, right? It’s cool. No feelings, no meaning. Got it,” I say.

  He reaches over and touches my arm, sending prickles of sensation over my bare skin. “You want to let me finish a sentence?” he says quietly.

  “Are you capable of finishing one?”

  His fingertips brush up my arm, our eyes still locked. When he speaks, his voice is low. “God, Cathy, if you really think I didn’t feel anyth—”

  “Greg, can I talk to you for a sec?” We both turn and see Bethany, beckoning one long finger to him from a few feet away. She tosses her bouncy hair over one shoulder. Greg’s hand instantly drops to his side.

  “Yeah, sure,” he calls over to her.

  Great. That was one sentence I definitely did want him to finish. He turns and looks back down at me, his voice still lowered.

  “This is a bad place for this conversation,” he says. “Anyway, I… Look, forget it. It’s pretty clear you think I’m an asshole, right?”

  I shrug, and I see the ghost of a smile on his lips. His lips… I glance down at them, then back up into his eyes, and see memories playing in them. I bite my own lip and swallow as his eyes trail downward too.

  “I have to go,” he murmurs.

  “Yup, apparently so.” I try not to sigh too obviously.

  But he doesn’t say anything more, just turns away and strides over to Bethany without a second glance back at me. He’s getting good at that.

  “Who’s she?” I hear her ask him in a pathetic attempt at a whisper. She reaches over and clutches Greg’s forearm possessively. I look away, just as I hear him say—

  “Nobody.”

  The wind rushes out of my lungs and I take several deep breaths, then continue clearing up with shaking hands as Maxine comes back over to me.

  “C, this is so freaking amaz—” She breaks off as she sees my ashen face. “What happened?” She looks over at Greg and Bethany murderously. “What did he say to you? I swear to God, I’m going to—”

  “Max, leave it alone.” I force a smile. “Lesson learned. Cathy and one-night stands don’t mix.”

  Maxine folds her arms. “Uh huh. Well then, let’s get this stuff loaded up and get the hell out of here,” she mutters, still shooting daggers at Greg.

  “Back to table, please, leads! Lead actors, back to table!” the director shouts, clapping her hands together. I focus on gathering up trash and stacking trays, but I feel Max’s hand grip my arm suddenly.

  “Ouch!”

  “Cathy…”

  “What?”

  I look up at her and then follow her gaze to the actors sitting down around the long table in the center of the room. Bethany slides into a seat and then I watch as… As Greg settles in beside her, picks up a script, and takes a sip of water.

  “OK, Greg, let’s take it from the top of scene three,” the director lady says, nodding in his direction.

  Of course. Of course.

  He’s in the fucking cast.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “I can’t believe I didn’t realize!” Maxine exclaims, not caring now about my driving skills or lack thereof. “I mean, there was all this talk on the blogs about some Broadway actor that they poached straight from a play, but I never saw a picture and I… Wow, I should have thought about it. I mean, jerk or no, Greg is way too freaking hot to be, like, a grip or whatever.”

  I stare ahead silently. She’s right. And what would he want with some local waitress anyhow? A one-night stand, that’s what. I should count myself lucky, I guess.

  “Cathy, are you OK?”

  I pull into the parking lot at JJ’s and switch off the van’s engine, sighing. “Well, I feel pretty damn stupid,” I say, focusing on picking at the foam coming out of a hole in the steering wheel. “Honestly? That night Greg and I had… It felt like maybe…” I glance over at Max and she frowns in concern, but lets me go on. “I thought maybe we connected, that’s all. I should have known this would happen. What did I think, he’d abandon the bright lights of New York City to come live in Dogwood, happily ever after?” I pick harder at the steering wheel, until Max reaches over to stop me.

  “Cathy, this is what life’s all about. Trying things, seeing if they work out—”

  “If they work out?” I laugh mirthlessly. “I am surrounded by failed relationships.”

  Maxine pulls back and folds her arms. “Excuse me? Me and Todd are very happy.”

  “Yeah, OK, Mrs. Lincoln,” I retort, though I know it’s a bit of a low blow. But because she’s Maxine, she lets it slide, rolling her eyes.

  “Honey, a couple of bad apples don’t mean the whole orchard should be … burned to the ground, or whatever? You know what I mean. Greg’s an asshole, so what? That doesn’t mean all men are.”

  I know she’s still trying to pick me up, but I’m too far into my funk right now to let her. “I’m just sick of people up and leaving when something better comes along. Jeff. My … my freaking mother? And how ironic, she’s a so-called actor too.” I shake my head. “No. I’m done with all that, and I’m sure as hell done with Greg the Mendacious Asshole.”

  “Mendacious?” Max raises an eyebrow. “Wow. Nice. Well, good—you’re done with mendacious men.” She smiles and holds out her hand like we’re shaking on an agreement. I pump it, but then hold on for a while.

  “Maxi? Thanks. And thanks for helping out today.”

  She shrugs. “It was fun to rub shoulders with the beautiful people for a while. But I guess they’ve got their world and we’ve got ours, huh?” She smirks devilishly as she opens the door and swings her legs out. “For now at least.”

  I watch as Max slings her purse over her shoulder and strides away, waving over her shoulder.

  Maybe our worlds are separate. I really did mean what I said about not wanting to make bad decisions any more, but… But then I think about the way Greg looked at me, even today, and how just his hand on my arm sent chills all over my body. The way he really seemed to wish things were different.

  My head is telling me to forget him.

  But my body? And my heart? They’re total traitors.

  *

  I lean against the counter and smile at Mr. Mendelsohn as he slowly spoons his scrambled eggs into his mouth. He chews carefully and then smiles back.

  “Thank you, Cathy, sweetheart,” he says.

  “You’re welcome, Mr. M,” I say, straightening up and swiping a cloth over the surface. He’s a sweet old guy. Next birthday he’ll be eighty-eight, and he always tells me it’s his lucky number and that he’s going to take me on a date. How come I never see you with a young man? he always asks. But I don’t think it’s polite to talk about the cluster-fuck that’s my love life to such a nice gentleman.

  The breakfast rush is just about over when I hear the bell ding over the door, and look up to see Blaine Denton striding over to me with his blinding grin.

  “Cathy, hi,” he says. “Just thought I’d come get a little more of that delicious JJ’s grub—and also give you this.” He hands over a check, and I blush a little. “You were in such a hurry to head off yesterday, I didn’t get a chance to pay you the rest of your fee. Thanks a bunch for coming through for us on that. Great job. If we ever need additional catering I’ll know where to turn, huh?”

  I smile and thank him for bringing the check over, then take his breakfast order, swallowi
ng down a chuckle when he orders an egg-white omelet. I know Bobby’s going to laugh at the very idea, but the menu does say “Eggs Any Way You Want ’Em.”

  I hear my dad bustling through from the back, and he comes over to us, grinning broadly when he spies Blaine’s Screen/West baseball cap.

  “Hi, I’m Joe Johnson,” my dad says warmly.

  “Ah, Joe, yes, hi—we spoke on the phone,” Blaine says, reaching over to shake my dad’s hand vigorously. I look between the two of them, feeling uncomfortable. Did my dad call to make sure I didn’t mess things up or something…?

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Joe replies. “So the kid’s gonna start on…”

  “On Monday, if that’s all right with you?” Blaine says.

  “Of course, of course.”

  OK, what the hell are they talking about? “Did I miss something?” I ask, smiling cautiously as I look at them both questioningly.

  “Oh, yeah, Cath—Blaine and his colleague, uh … Tiffany, was it?” Joe asks. Blaine nods, and my dad continues. “Yeah, they wanted to arrange for one of the actors to come shadow here at the restaurant for a week, seeing as his character works in a diner?”

  Blaine nods again. “Yes, that’s right—since I’d already reached out to you guys about the catering, Tiff got me to liaise with your dad here about having Greg Moran come get a feel for work in a small-town restaurant, you know?”

  Oh. God.

  Joe chuckles. “I kind of figured that was why they called it acting, you know, but apparently the director thought it would help. It’s a method thing, I guess, like Brando and his buddies, huh?” he booms, laughing. “Still, if it’ll help…”

  Blaine smiles. “Well, we’ll have another check for you next week, Joe.”

  “That’ll definitely help,” my dad retorts, and they both laugh, seeing who can outdo the other for most ear-splitting, it seems.

  I’m still trying to process what’s happening.

  “Greg Moran … one of the actors … is coming here to work for a week?” Greg Greg? The expression on my face clearly sucks some of the mirth from Joe.

  “Yeah. Is that all right?” He smiles a little anxiously at me, and I know he’s still thinking about that check.