by Becky Monson
“Bridgette?”
“Yes! Sorry! Yes, I would love to be a catering manager.” I can barely contain my excitement, but I must in front of this stoic woman. Jumping up and down and squealing would probably not go over well. “Thank you so much for this opportunity,” I say.
“Oh, no. Zee job is not yours. Not yet, at least,” she shakes her head.
“What do you mean?” Did she not just say the job was mine?
“Vat I’m saying is zat I am vatchink you. If you keep up vat you are doink, the job could be yours.”
Okay, so not quite as exciting as I had previously thought. I still have to prove myself? Doesn’t three years of dedicated, never-late, never-call-in-sick service mean anything? What else can I prove? Still, I can’t look a gift horse in the mouth. I need to grasp onto whatever I get.
“Yes,” I nod my head. “Yes, I want the job. I will keep doing what I’m doing.” I stop myself from saying “doink,” even though my brain and my mouth really want me to. It’s hard not to pick up on the accent when I’m around her . . . or imitating her. I do it well, so I’ve been told.
She dismisses me with a wave of her hand, and I go back to helping everyone clean up so we can go home.
“What did she want?” Ashley asks, worry in her face.
I grab her by the arm and bring her over to Justin, so I can tell them both at the same time.
“She told me that if I keep—” I look around to make sure she’s not in the room, “‘doink vat I am doink,’ that I might get promoted to catering manager.” I try to keep my voice low so no one else hears. I don’t want anyone else to overhear in case they are also vying for the position. I don’t need competition. Plus, this is my job, not a temporary step on the way to not-probable stardom. It’s what I’ve wanted to do, and hopefully I’m finally going to do it.
“That’s great!” Ashley says, holding her hand up for a high five, which I happily oblige.
“Nice going, Reynolds.” Justin pats me on the back impersonally. Wow, his emotional intelligence doesn’t even stretch to good things.
“Let’s go celebrate,” I say, looking between them.
“What are we celebrating?” Justin looks at me strangely.
Ashley whacks him on the arm. “That she might get the job she’s been wanting for years? You’re such an idiot sometimes.”
“Oh, right. Well, I just figured we would celebrate when she actually got the job. Not the possibility of it.” He shrugs his shoulders.
Men.
Ashley rolls her eyes. I’m so glad that she, at least, gets me.
“Anyway, I can’t help celebrate. I have a callback in the morning.” Ashley looks disappointed.
“Well, I can,” Justin says, his tone showing that he still doesn’t understanding why we are celebrating.
I’ll take it, though. I don’t want to go home. Gram will be asleep. I want to go out and bask in the new possibilities in my life – a possible new job, and Ian wants to talk about his freak out. Who knows if that could lead to anything, but it’s a possibility. And I like possibilities way more than finalities.
~*~
“So, what will you do if you get the job?” Justin asks as we sit at Ray’s Candy Store, drinking chocolate shakes and sharing French fries.
“Well, my first order of business will be to fire you.” I smirk at him.
“Ha, ha. Ursula would never have that. She wants me, you know.”
I nearly spit out my shake at his declaration. “Oh, really? What makes you think that?”
“It’s just the way she looks at me. I can tell.” He winks, and I instantly remember what Carla said at lunch today about how Justin looked at me.
Suddenly I have a pit in my stomach, thinking maybe Ashley and Carla were right after all. Maybe Justin does like me as more than a friend. Oh, why though? Why does this have to happen to a great friendship? It will totally be ruined when I don’t reciprocate. And I don’t reciprocate those feelings. I adore Justin, but not in that way.
“What’s wrong?” He scrunches his face, checking out whatever expression is on mine. It’s probably not a pretty one, since I was contemplating. No one has a pretty contemplating face. I’ve seen mine in the mirror. There were double chins involved.
“Oh, nothing.” I try to brush it off, hoping I can kick the pit out of my stomach and go back to la-la land, where I believed Justin never liked me as more than a friend. It was only thirty seconds ago that I first had the thought, and now going back seems like an impossibility. Funny how things can change in the blink of an eye.
My hands feel sweaty, and suddenly I don’t want to celebrate anymore. I just want to go home. Me and Justin. Justin and me. It doesn’t make sense. It feels wrong. Doesn’t he feel that?
I suck down my chocolate shake as fast as I can, and of course I get a piercing pain in my head right above my left eye. Ice cream headaches are of the devil.
“Owwww,” I squint my eyes and pinch my forehead together, trying to get it to stop. I rub my forehead vigorously.
“Ice cream headache?” Justin asks, and all I can do is nod my head. He reaches over and starts rubbing my forehead, too. I suppose he’s trying to help, but now I have a bunch of hands all over my face, with both of us trying to do the same thing. I push his hand away as the headache subsides.
Normally, I would be shocked that any gesture of the touching variety came from Justin. But now it seems to speak volumes. I’m touching you because I like you. Oh, gosh, I need to get out of here. Quickly.
“Well, I guess I better get home,” I say as I wipe my mouth and start to grab my purse.
“Wait, Bridge, I want to talk to you about something. Something that I’ve been thinking about for a while now.” He grabs my arm lightly in an attempt to keep me in my seat.
No, we are not doing this now. I don’t want things to get weird, and they are going to. I shake his arm off and stand up.
“Can we talk about it later? I’m really tired, and I have a lot going on tomorrow.” I sling my purse over my shoulder.
“But—”
“Please? I’m so tired. It just hit me all at once.” I fake a yawn. It’s a horrible acting job.
“Fine,” he says, shoulders slumping, looking defeated. Poor guy. He must have been working up to this for a while, and now I’ve gone and crushed it. I’m not backing down. If I avoid letting him tell me, maybe he will get the idea and move on. If nothing is out in the open, we can go on as we were. Yes, that’s a great plan. Or a terrible one. But I’m doing it, regardless.
“Sure. See you tomorrow,” he mutters, as I walk out of Ray’s and into the perfect-June-night air.
The fresh air (as fresh as it can be in the East Village) feels good as I walk quickly to the subway. That was a close one. Crisis averted.
Now, how to avoid the topic further. That is the challenge.
CHAPTER 20
University of Connecticut, Senior Year, Fall
I sat down next to Ian, who was outside the school of business building, reading a textbook about something that didn’t really interest me.
“Well, it’s done,” I said, wiping my hands together as if to show I’m finished.
“You broke his heart?” he asked, eyebrows raised.
“Yes. He was devastated,” I deadpanned. “Nah, it was mutual. We fizzled out over the summer. There was no saving it.”
“Well, it’s probably for the best. It’s our last year after all,” he said, keeping his eyes on his textbook.
“Yeah, I guess,” I said. But I didn’t have to guess. I knew. Matt was just a summer fling. He and I both knew that. We never said it officially at the end of the summer, and although I knew the feeling was mutual, I needed to actually say it to him and make a clean break.
“Look at us.” Ian put an arm around me. “I think this is the first time since we met freshman year that we are both single.”
“Hmm, yes.” I leaned my head against his shoulder. “Single and ready to mingle.
”
“Did you really just say that?” he teased, nudging my head with his shoulder. “Well, I’m not planning on any mingling. We’re seniors. Time to buckle down.”
I yawn. “Sounds boring.”
“Yes, it probably will be. But you’ll have me, and aren’t I enough?” he asked, resting the side of his head on the top of mine.
“For sure,” I said, smiling to myself. I had Ian. I supposed for now I didn’t need anyone else.
CHAPTER 21
Another Saturday night, and I’m working a party. It’s an engagement party, no less. Way to rub salt in the wound. I feel like stomping my feet on the ground, saying, “I wanna be engaged!” But I’m not. Adam is, though. That still doesn’t seem real.
I have to be on my best behavior tonight. Since Ursula singled me out to tell me about the catering manager opening, I need her to see I’m serious about this job and this opportunity.
Justin, somehow, got the night off (which is kind of helpful with the whole him-liking-me thing), but Ashley and I—and most of the other servers on staff—get the privilege of working tonight. And by privilege, I mean horrible luck. It’s a full-service meal, so there’s a lot to do.
Ashley and I stand in the back of the room, waiting for salad service to begin. Drinks have been poured. Champagne has been distributed. Now we sit and wait for the DJ to introduce the family and the engaged couple. Apparently, there’s been a slight delay. I overheard someone tell Ursula it’s because of the future bride. I don’t really care, but it’s fun to think of reasons why she would be late to her own engagement party.
Maybe she’s drunk and not even able to walk, and someone—maybe a sister—is trying to sober her back up. Maybe there was a horrible car accident and she’s in the hospital, only no one knows, and we are mistakenly waiting on her to get this party started. Maybe she’s having an affair with the future groom’s brother.
The most boring reason, and probably the most realistic: traffic. It’s everyone’s excuse in the city, because it’s always true. And even if it weren’t, no one would question you.
“What’re you thinking about?” Ashley asks, in low tones, standing close to me so I can hear her. Background music is allowing us to have actual conversations without Ursula noticing, as long as we stand with our faces forward, looking like we’re poised to work.
“Just the possible demise of the bride.” I scrunch my face up, realizing what a bitter twit I sound like.
“Thinking about Adam, huh?” she asks, not bothered by my cynicism.
“Well, no, not really,” I shrug.
“What’s up with Ian?”
“What do you mean?”
“Have you talked to him at all?”
“No. Just texting. We’re supposed to get coffee on Monday so he can explain.” I look down at the black work shoes—the hideous non-slick kind—adorning my feet. They’re very unattractive, especially added to the black knee-length skirt and white button-up shirt topped with a black vest. If I get the job of catering manager, the first order of business will be to change up these horrid outfits we have to wear.
“So, what do you think about Ian?” Ashley asks, not giving up on the topic.
“I don’t know. Being with Ian is so easy, you know? At least until he kissed me and ran off. We just fit so well together. I—”
The music gets louder, and the DJ starts announcing the wedding party of the future bride and groom. The bride-to-be must have finally shown up.
“Ladies and gentlemen, let’s get this party started! And now, without further ado, let’s begin the introductions. First off, I’d like to introduce the father of the bride,” the DJ says. Applause fills the room as a man, possibly in his mid-fifties, with dyed-blond, poufy hair enters waving. He shows stark-white teeth when he smiles.
Ashley leans into me, “So, you think maybe Ian and you fit better than you and Adam did?” She raises her eyebrows in a know-it-all way.
“Yeah, I do,” I say, feeling a little annoyed that I have to admit Ashley was right. “I guess I know now that Adam and I weren’t right for each other. I know I once thought we were. It’s just that—”
“And now the mother of the bride . . .”
“It’s just what?” Ashley coaxes me.
“It’s just that Adam was always so particular about everything. I was always trying to change things for him, to fit his needs. But with Ian, I don’t have to change anything. And that kiss—”
“And now the mother and father of the groom . . .”
“Uh-huh, the kiss. Go on,” she says, keeping her head forward in case Ursula glances over at us.
“The kiss brought back so many memories of the past. Good memories . . .”
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce you to the future bride and groom . . .” The attendees get up out of their seats and start clapping and whistling.
I lean in closer to Ashley so she can hear me over the crowd. “I remembered all the good things I had with Ian. He’s just so . . . so . . .”
“Bridgette?” Ashley nudges me with her arm, interrupting me. I momentarily freak out, thinking Ursula has caught us. But Ashley usually nudges me when that happens, letting me know I should move quickly away from her. This time, she grabs a fist full of my shirt, bringing me into her and turning me away from the front. This is not very Ashley-like.
“What’s Ian’s last name?” she asks, almost frantically.
“Davies,” I tell her.
Her big, blue eyes go wide as she turns and points to the front of the room. My eyes follow to where she is pointing.
It can’t be. My heart sinks far down into my stomach, and my mouth goes dry.
Somehow, either Ian or his doppelganger is standing at the head table, holding hands with someone I’ve never seen. He’s smiling brightly, waving, while everyone claps loudly, and random whistling and whooping noises sound off from around the room.
“But . . .” I trail off, my eyes glued to Ian. What the hell is going on?
“Come on, you two,” says Derek, one of the other servers, as he walks over to where we are, carrying a tray of salads for delivery to the tables. “Ursula is eyeing you.” He nods his head toward the entrance to the staging area where Ursula is shooting us daggers with her eyes.
“Come on, Bridgette.” Ashley grabs my arm and drags me to the trays.
I’m in complete shock and so confused. I go on autopilot, grabbing a tray and balancing it on my shoulder. I follow behind Ashley, hoping and praying Ian doesn’t see me.
“Vat are you doink?” I hear Ursula from behind me. “Get up to zee front, vhere I told you to go.”
Oh, geez, the front? I don’t even remember her telling me that. I nod my head and walk toward the head table, hoping against hope that I can remain unseen. Maybe they’ll be so caught up in conversation that they won’t pay any attention to me.
I’m so confused. I still don’t understand what’s going on. Ian’s engaged? This is his party? Why do I know nothing of this?
I place the tray on a stand that was set up prior to the party. It’s at the end of the long, rectangular head table. With my head down, I start setting salads in front of guests. I serve the women first. Fortunately, Ian doesn’t see me when I get to the mysterious woman sitting on his right.
I start to serve the men, hoping and praying my luck will hold, and Ian will be too busy talking to the people around him to even notice me.
But when it’s time for me to serve him a salad plate, instead of keeping my head down, I find myself looking up—and right into Ian’s face.
His eyes widen with disbelief and color drains from his face as we make eye contact. And then, clearly visible, another expression registers: caught.
I want to throw water in his face, or do something equally dramatic, but I can’t. Not if I want to keep my job and get promoted. So, I do the next best thing. I paste a bright (though completely fake) smile on my face and place the salad in front of him.
I will kill him with kindness.
“Ian, are you okay?” mysterious bride-to-be says, looking concerned.
I don’t really care if Ian is okay at this point, so I walk over to the tray, grab the salad dressing, and start ladling. Women first and then the men.
When I reach the bride-to-be, I can hear Ian and her discussing something intently.
“I found it in your suit pocket,” she says, not noticing me as I put dressing on her salad. “I thought you grabbed it for me after we found out the other caterers fell through.”
“No, I didn’t. I totally forgot about the catering thing,” Ian says, angry tones in his voice.
I start dressing the men’s salads, and when I get to Ian’s, they are still arguing.
“I don’t understand what the big deal is?” mysterious woman says to Ian.
“It’s not. Sorry. Don’t worry about it.” I feel his eyes on me, but I don’t make eye contact. I just keep doing my job.
I grab the pepper grinder from the tray and make my way down the head table, asking if anyone wants fresh-cracked pepper. Only poufy-blond-haired father-of-the-bride and Ian’s mom say yes.
Ian’s parents. I only met them once when they came to visit Ian at college. It was a brief meeting, and I barely recognize them.
I never look at Ian. I’m not a genius, but it’s pretty easy to figure out what’s going on here: Ian is a scumbag.
That pretty much sums it up. But it’s also quite confusing at the same time. I never thought Ian could be a scumbag. Not to me, at least. I guess he’s changed, and not for the better.
I put the pepper grinder on the tray next to the remaining salad dressing and, balancing the tray on my shoulder, I start working my way back to the kitchen. I’ll have to switch places with Ashley. I won’t be able to go back up there again.
From behind me, I hear someone ask Ian where he’s going, and I know where he’s going—to hell. Well, that’s where he’ll end up going, because that’s where liars go.
“Bridgette,” I hear him say, as he tries to catch up with me. Fortunately, more than once someone stopped him to say congratulations, so I’m able to maneuver my way back.
