by Syms, Carly
I bite my lip, suddenly sure I've backed myself into a corner I can't get out of, and Lydia's going to fire my butt as soon as I go back to the kitchen for being rude to a customer. "It lists what we serve, yes." My voice is strained, but I hope it still sounds friendly.
"And you can't conjure up a chicken quesadilla? I can't imagine you don't have the ingredients. Soft taco shell, cheese and chicken if you forgot."
Lydia had spent a solid ten minutes stressing how Missy won't make anything unless it's from the menu, but that customers will sometimes push for more options. Personally, I can't see why we can't whip up a quesadilla for a kid, but she's made it clear that if I want to have a job here, I'll listen.
"I'm sorry, we can't."
"Well then, what do you suggest Jackson eats?" The woman is downright huffy now. I kinda want to tell her she should've asked to see a menu before grabbing a table, but I figure that's probably a no-no.
"If he likes chicken, you could probably scrape some out of the tacos for him."
She presses her lips together so hard they practically disappear. "That's unacceptable. He doesn't like lettuce."
I glance at the kid, who's still happily plowing into all the items on the table with his trains while his mom stares me down like a vulture circling a baby mouse.
"I'm sorry, ma'am. We only have what's on the menu."
I return her stare, refusing to look away even while trying to keep the sweet smile stuck to my face, until she lets out a long, dramatic sigh and flops against the back of her chair, glancing down at her watch.
"He had nuggets, what, two hours ago?" She turns to her husband, who's stayed quiet this whole time, and he nods. "That'll have to hold him over. We'll have two orders of the shrimp tacos."
She passes the menus to me without making eye contact, and I take them, and scurry back inside to pass the order on to Missy.
"Two shrimp taco plates," I say, as she juggles several frying pans and a squirty plastic bottle of something red.
"More?" She sighs. "How many orders still aren't in?"
I glance around the inside of the restaurant and do a quick tally. "I've taken everyone's order now or they have their food. We're good 'til we get more customers."
"Thank God," Missy mutters. "I'm just about dyin' for a smoke break."
I'm about to tell her I don't think that's a great idea -- partially because of Lydia but mostly because I don't like the idea of being the only hand on deck to deal with everything -- when the bloodcurdling shriek of a banshee fills the tiny restaurant.
Missy and I both stop what we're doing and stare at each other, eyes wide, mouths slightly open.
The dim buzz of good conversation and one too many bottles of Corona stops as the restaurant falls silent inside. The screams and cries are still filtering in from out front.
I shut my eyes. I already know the sound of this voice.
We hurry outside where, sure enough, Jackson's sitting in his white chair, tears streaming down his face as he howls, while his mother stands in front of the table, her cream T-shirt and jeans covered in what looks alarmingly like blood.
"--ruined! It's all ruined! I can never wear this shirt again! It's Prada!" The woman is in the middle of screaming at her poor, frazzled-looking husband when we get outside.
A wine glass lies shattered on the cement ground, and it looks like a wayward toy train ran off its tracks and collided with her drink.
"Honey, please, you have to calm down," her husband says in a soothing voice.
"Can I get you anything?" I ask, feeling ridiculous just standing around while the red wine bleeds into her clothes.
But instead of looking relieved, she latches her fiery gaze onto me.
"And you," she says. "It's like you've never done this a day in your life!"
I exchange a side-eyed glance with Missy.
She's not wrong.
"You left the wine glass exactly where you saw Jackson playing! I've never seen such incompetence from the waitstaff before," she continues, arms flailing, child crying, husband apologizing to me with his eyes. "And now look. Our dinner is ruined. My clothes are ruined. I'll expect the food on the house, at the very least."
My cheeks are burning with the embarrassment of being scolded by a total stranger, but I feel my heart rate kick up as soon as she says she wants a free dinner out of it. There's no way Lydia's going to keep me working here after this mess.
"Let me get you some towels," I say, trying to keep my composure, and I scurry inside, leaving Missy to deal with this family.
Lydia's in the kitchen, flipping a frying pan, her face and chest bright red.
"Is she smoking again?" she growls as soon as her gaze lands on me.
I shake my head. "Ah, no, there's kind of a situation out front."
"Customers?"
"And a wine spill. Apparently I left the glass too close to her son's toys."
I'm bracing for my boss to explode, but it never comes. Instead, Lydia blows out some air and rolls her eyes.
"Always our fault," she mutters. "Never theirs. People don't watch their kids right. I'll deal with it. You watch the meat."
I open my mouth to ask her how I'll know when it's finished, but she's already crossed the dining room in three strides and swishes out the door.
I keep flipping the chunks of chicken in the frying pan like I have any idea at all what I'm doing, but mostly my eyes are glued to the scene I can barely see through the red curtains hanging on the windows.
Lydia doesn't look like she's really groveling for the woman's forgiveness, and that doesn't seem to be doing much for her hysterics. Both are getting more and more animated with their arms, and at this point, I'm not even paying attention to the cooking meat.
A slow hissing sound fills the air as I'm staring out the window, but I ignore it. The woman's husband has just walked around his wife to comfort their crying son, and Lydia's talking a mile a minute.
"Miss? Miss? I think you should -- "
Whooooooosh.
The customer sitting right in front of the kitchen doesn't have time to finish his sentence before the chicken in the pan goes up in flames.
"Omigod! Omigod!"
I look around for the source of the screaming, then realize it's coming from me.
Flames rise higher and higher, the heat singeing my skin.
And like a dope, I just stand here, staring at it.
"Water!" I exclaim to no one, turning to find a pot to fill with the skin.
"Nonono!" a male customer cries out, but I'm not listening and quickly turn on the faucet.
The front door bangs open, Lydia rushes in, sees me at the sink and screams.
"Grease fire! No water! Stop it!"
Within seconds, she's pushed me out of the way and is holding a fire extinguisher she pulled from underneath the sink. Lydia points and blasts, and soon a sticky, white foam covers the entire stove, part of my uniform, and, I'm pretty sure, all of my hair.
"Mercy almighty," she mutters, resting the extinguisher against the sink countertop.
Now I pretty much know I'm toast.
"Lydia, I am so, so, so sorry!" I blurt out, rushing over to her. "I wasn't -- I don't know how -- oh my god."
But Lydia only laughs, and my eyes widen. "You look like you just shot a puppy," she says between chuckles. "You think this is the first grease fire we've had at Trippy's?" She waves her hand in the air dismissively. "Once a week, probably. Just remember for next time. No water."
I smile weakly and nod, then glance out the window. Jackson and his family aren't on the patio anymore.
"You got rid of them?" I ask. "They didn't even get their shrimp tacos."
Lydia grins. "Piece of cake."
"Thanks," I say, sighing with relief. "I better go clear that table."
My boss nods, and I grab one of the dirty dish bins before going back outside to bus the table and sweep up the broken wine glass.
I'm carefully brushing the smaller shards in
to a blue dust pan when I hear screams for the third time in the last half hour.
This time, they're not coming from the restaurant.
They're coming from the beach.
I stop what I'm doing and climb onto one of the plastic chairs to get a better look. The patio is probably one hundred yards from the water's edge, but I can already see there's a crowd forming near the shoreline.
One of the lifeguards blows their whistle three quick times, the shrill blast filling my ears. The crowd starts to split then, and I strain my eyes for a better view.
And that's when the world stops.
A male lifeguard staggers up the sand carrying the body of another man.
Dressed in neon hot pink swim trunks.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I feel nothing.
I mean, I know I'm moving because I can feel the soft sand squish beneath my sneakers with every step I take.
And I know exactly where I'm going.
I have to get to him before it's too late.
There's no doubt in my mind that the guy being carried out of the ocean by the lifeguard is Walker.
And even if he hadn't been wearing those stupid, ridiculous shorts, I'm still confident I would've known anyway.
But still, there's no panic, no fear, nothing. I just know that I need to be down there with him.
The crowd is bigger now than it was when the screams first started, but everything seems to be calming down.
Until I come sprinting in, anyway.
I reach the group and push my way through several walls of people until the crowd breaks.
And there, in the middle of the circle, lies Walker.
He's flat on his back on a red towel someone must've spread out before he was pulled from the water.
Three lifeguards huddle around his body, blocking most of him from view. I can't see his face. I don't know if he's awake, if he's talking, or smiling or even breathing.
I try to push past them and want to rush to his side, but something's holding me back.
"Hey, hey, hey, lady, hey!"
It takes me a few seconds to realize that it isn't something keeping me from Walker but someone.
I shake my head quickly, trying to get all the cobwebs out.
An older man has his arms wrapped around me, preventing me from reaching Walker. He's talking, but I'm barely hearing his words.
And then there's an older woman right in front of my face, completely hiding Walker from sight. She reaches out and puts her hands on my shoulders.
"Are you okay?" she asks loudly, and it's like her words lift whatever fog has invaded my brain.
"What? I don't -- me? Is he okay?"
"Do you know him?" The woman is using a soft, soothing tone with me now that she's got my attention.
"Yeah, yeah, of course I do. That's Walker. What happened? Why won't any of you people tell me anything?"
"Breathe, honey, breathe," she says. "I'm sure everything's fine. I bet one of the lifeguards will want to get some information from you, though."
My eyes dart around her, trying to get another look at Walker. Information? That doesn't sound good. The only reason they'd need information from me is because Walker isn't able to tell them, and if Walker isn't able to tell them, then it's just like Alex all over again and I don't think I'll survive something like that again.
"I really need to know what's -- "
"Rachel? What the heck happened to your hair?"
The sound of Walker's voice is so shocking, so unexpected and so wonderful that I'm pretty sure I push the nice old lady aside and tear around her without thinking about it as I try to get to the center of the circle as fast as possible.
Walker's sitting up, the crowd of lifeguards backing off to give him some room.
I know from spending so much time on the beach that they'll only do that if they're confident the patient is going to be okay, or if he's dead.
And I'm pretty sure Walker isn't dead.
He doesn't look dead, anyway.
"What the heck?"" I demand, flinging myself down into the sand and spraying him with some grains. "What is going on?"
He grins as the crowd begins to disperse once they realize they're not going to get to see something cool or grisly.
"No big deal," he says, a sparkle in his eyes that only makes me mad. "I got stuck in a current or something."
"Stuck in a current or something?" I spit, leaning back on my legs. "What are you talking about?"
He shrugs sheepishly. "I just got swept up and then I had no idea which way was up and the next thing I knew, one of the lifeguards was dragging me to the surface, and now I'm here, and...so are you. Why are you here? And, seriously, what's in your hair?"
"Wait, wait, wait, I don't get any of this. It doesn't make sense. Were you just out for a swim or something?"
Walker shakes his head and smiles widely. "Nope! I was practicing surfing! I wanted to surprise you."
I stare at him. My stomach aches like he's reached out and punched me.
"You were what? Surfing? Where's Piper?" I ask, sure the blonde nightmare can't be too far away now. I'm only wondering why she isn't glued to Walker's side.
"Piper?" He looks confused. "I don't know?"
"Well, aren't you surfing with her now? Or who were you out here with?"
If he's already found another girl to hit the waves with, I'm pretty sure I'm going to lose it completely.
Even though that's totally ridiculous because I've got no claim to Walker whatsoever.
He looks confused. "No one. I was by myself."
My mouth drops. "Wait, wait, wait. You went surfing by yourself? Like...alone?"
Walker nods enthusiastically, like he's all proud of himself or something equally ridiculous. "Yeah, like I said, I want to practice."
I hear what he's saying, but I'm so stunned I feel like I'm opening and closing my mouth, just staring at him in a stupor, no words coming out.
"Rach?"
"Sorry, I'm -- sorry. I'm just trying to process what you said to me."
Doubt flickers across his face for the first time. "That I went surfing? Rach, talk to me. What's going on here?"
I take three deep, calming breaths, but they don't really help. My heart's still pounding and all I want to do is reach out and shake him.
"I guess I don't really know," I say at last. "Maybe you should tell me. Don't you remember what I asked you when I took you out there?"
He blinks twice, then shrugs. "You taught me a lot. Sorry I guess I don't remember it all."
"That's not what I'm talking about," I hiss. "You broke your promise."
I practically spit the words at him through clenched teeth, but the look on his face suggests he still has no idea what I'm talking about.
"Rachel, you're not making any sense."
"The hell I'm not. I asked you. I asked you right to your face to promise that you would never go surfing by yourself."
He nods. "I remember you asked me that," he agrees, and fire flashes in my eyes. "But Rachel, I never said yes."
"What?" I gasp, hardly able to believe what I'm hearing. "How can you say that? I remember you promising."
Walker shakes his head, holding firm. "I didn't. You think I'd forget a promise like that?"
I throw my hands up in the air, tired of all of his nonsense lately. "I don't really know, Walker. I have no idea anymore."
"Rachel," he says. "Rach, I know what surfing means to you. Sometimes I feel like I know that better than anybody else here. Do you really think I'd break a promise?"
I stare at him, my eyes searching his, looking for any sign that he's lying, that he knows exactly what he's done to me, but I can't find it.
But that doesn't do much to make me feel better.
"I can't believe this," I spit out. It's harder to make eye contact with him now, but I make myself do it anyway. "Of all the people to do something like this to me, I didn't think it would be you."
Walker looks at me hel
plessly. "If you think I did this, I don't know what else I can say to you." He shakes his head. "I guess I'm sorry you think I did."
I watch him, waiting for a sure sign of weakness, and it never comes. I don't have anything more to say that I haven't told him already, so I push myself to my feet and walk slowly up the beach, never turning around once.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It's not an easy thing to do, walking away from someone who's been there for you in a way no one else has for a long time.
But I've done it before, and I've just done it again.
And I can't get Walker's face -- his eyes -- out of my head.
I'm back out on our rooftop patio as the sun begins to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink, purple and orange.
It's beautiful.
And I hate looking at it.
I'm back at the beginning again. No Alex, no surfing, no job and now no Walker.
Even if Lydia hasn't fired me by now, I can't go back there. Obviously I'm not cut out for waitressing at a taco stand.
Or probably anywhere else, for that matter.
I'll have to find a new job, a new thread of hope to cling to that maybe I'll still get to make my escape to northern California in the fall, where I can start a new life in a place with no memories that will cloud the sunsets.
I sip from the can of soda sitting on the glass table next to my chair. I'm about to pick it up and head inside when my cell phone buzzes and lights up with an unknown local number.
I watch as the phone impatiently moves against the table, then pick it up at the last second before it goes to voicemail.
"Rachel!" A breathless Lydia is on the other end. Of course. "Are you alright?"
"Fine. Sorry for bailing out of my shift. There was an emergency on the beach."
"Missy filled me in," she replies, not sounding too broken up about it.
I frown. "Missy? How'd she know?"
"She said she followed you outside because you forgot gloves for handling the broken glass, then heard you scream someone's name before taking off sprinting toward the water. Word about the near-drowning spread pretty fast, and we figured it out. It happens, life happens," Lydia says dismissively. "But you left before we could figure out your schedule for the rest of the week. I was thinking tomorrow, you'd come in around -- "
