Until Cece

by KD Robichaux

  “You ready to have a good day at school?” I ask him, kissing the side of his head before setting him back down on his feet.

  He nods vigorously. “Yeah! Today is PE, and we’re supposed to play Four-Square!”

  “I loved Four-Square when I was your age too,” I say, ruffling his short dark hair the same color as mine.

  “Can I come back after school, Dad? I wanna stay with you.” He pouts, and it breaks my heart, just like it does every time he asks me this.

  “Not today, buddy. But you’ll be back next Monday,” I assure him, hoping like hell Steph finds some more employees so I don’t have to work extra hours to fill in for missing waitresses. I normally work the day shift during the weeks I have him, and the night shift on the weekends. It gives me the most time with my boy. But I work the night shift on the weekdays I don’t have him, because it’s way busier and my staff needs me. It was a pain in the ass working out this schedule with his mom, just like everything else that has to do with Corina. We’ve split the time with our son exactly fifty-fifty, which means I get him every other week. The new week starts on Monday evenings, so his mom will be picking him up from school today, and I won’t see him for the next six and half days.

  It fucking sucks. No other way to describe it. What I wouldn’t give to have full custody of my son, but right now, it’s impossible. Just three more years, and I vow to make it happen.

  “There’s the bus!” Nick yells, giving me one last squeeze around my legs, and I can’t help but laugh when he runs toward the door, the backpack bouncing and smacking him on his little butt as he goes.

  I see the bus come to a stop right at the end of my driveway, and I grip the door as I watch my boy hurry down the pavement.

  “Love you, son!” I call to him just as he rounds the front of the bus, and I see him through the windows as he finds his seat.

  He tugs down the glass and waves out the opening, yelling “Love you too!” And then he slides the window back up and plops down in his seat.

  I close the door and go to the sink, rinsing off Nick’s plate and cup and setting them in the dishwasher. I clean the pan I used to make his omelet and hang it from the rack suspended above my stove that’s built into the island. I have a gourmet kitchen. It’s my favorite part of the house, seeing as I’m a chef and restaurant owner.

  After several years in the military as a cook, I used my GI bill to go to culinary school, and by that time, I came into my trust fund and opened Winston’s Bar and Grille. Not very creative of me as far as names go, but hey, it does its job.

  When I was thirty-three, I made a dumb mistake. Well, I can’t really say that, because I did get my son out of the deal, but still. I’d been seeing this girl, Corina, mostly casually. I was too busy for a real relationship, my restaurant being number one in my life, but she seemed fine with the booty calls. She’d come eat dinner late in the evening at my grille, and then we’d go back to my apartment at the time and have sex. She’d go home in the morning, and that was that.

  Until she got pregnant.

  I’ve never been able to prove it one way or the other, but I’m ninety-nine percent sure she got pregnant on purpose to trap me. But before that thought ever entered my head, I wanted to do right by my kid, so like the fucking idiot I was, I married Corina. I mean, she was a nice girl—back then. She was sweet and hung on my every word, talked me up and made me think she believed I created the moon and stars. Although I didn’t love her, she was a fun companion.

  Until that ring slid onto her fucking finger.

  And then everything came to light.

  She was a certified narcissist. Literally. She checked all the boxes, and if there were a cure for narcissistic personality disorder, I would’ve been the first to sign her up for it, at least for the sake of our son, because she’s to this day a wretched person to be around.

  An inflated, grandiose sense of self-importance—check.

  Preoccupation with fantasies of unlimited success, power, brilliance, beauty, or ideal love—check.

  Belief they’re special and unique and can only be understood by or associate with other special or high-status people or institutions—check.

  A deep need for excessive attention and admiration—check.

  Sense of entitlement—dear God yes, check.

  Interpersonally exploitative behavior—check. Ask anyone who has ever invited me over for a barbeque and she showed up without my bringing her, even after we separated.

  A lack of empathy for others—check.

  Envy of others or a belief that others are envious of them—check.

  Demonstration of arrogant and haughty behaviors or attitudes—check and check. And I’m not talking about a sexy little sassy mouth. I’m saying she’s the definition of a bitch.

  Often have troubled relationships—fucking check.

  It’s not surprising Nick always asks to stay with me even on his mom’s weeks. The only consolation is most of the time he’s supposed to be with her, he’s actually at her parents’ house. And they’re pretty great people. It’s astonishing their daughter turned out the way she did; they’re nothing like her.

  Yep, she truly had me fooled.

  To the point that I swore off women ever since. They brought nothing but trouble. Sure, the nights I don’t have my son get lonely. But I’m married to my work. Nothing brings me the joy that my restaurant does, aside from Nick. And because of the way Corina basically traumatized me as far as relationships go, our arrangement hasn’t been all that bad. Sure, there haven’t been any booty calls and moments of sexual relief since she got pregnant all those years ago, but I’ll take blissful solitude over sex with a narcissistic bitch any day. My right hand works just fine, thank you.

  Tired of giving Corina even a second of thought, I head upstairs to take a shower and get ready for the day. I’ve got some errands to run before I go to work this evening, and with any luck, Stephanie will have some new hires for me to train within the next couple of days.

  4

  Cece

  “How about this one?” Mia asks, pointing to an ad on Facebook for our area. “I narrowed the search down to within ten miles so you won’t have to be too far from the girls, even while you’re working, just in case there’s an emergency. Plus, this one was just posted an hour ago.”

  “Wait staff needed for all shifts. Family-owned bar and grill. Minimum wage plus tips,” I read aloud.

  “That’s actually really good. Normally, restaurants don’t pay that much. They pay like two dollars and something, and then it’s up to the tips to meet minimum wage. There’s some law that makes it so if the tips don’t bring you up to that wage, then the restaurant has to pay you at least that. But for this place to start you out there and then you get the tips, that’s awesome,” she explains, something I never knew. It makes me glad I’ve always been a generous tipper.

  “Family-owned. Kind of makes me like them before I even know them, if they’re that generous to their employees. Put them at the top of my list, please,” I tell her, and I see her copy the address and details to the spreadsheet she created for me. So far, it includes a couple waitressing positions, a receptionist for a car dealership, and a salesperson job at the same dealership. Everything else we’ve seen either required years of experience or at least an associate’s degree.

  “Do you want to start with these and then if we get no bites, we’ll keep looking? You have about three hours before the girls get home from school, which should be plenty of time to show your face and ask for an application in person. That’ll look good in this era of technology.”

  I blow out a breath and sit up straight from where I was leaning over her laptop. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I reply, and she eyeballs me.

  “Not in that, you’re not,” she tells me, and I glance down at what I’m wearing.

  “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing? These leggings are Lululemon, and this sweater is North Face. Do you have any idea how expensive these were?” I
prompt, and she lifts a brow.

  “Sis, that would be all well and good if you were going to apply at like… a gym or something—”

  I gasp, interrupting her. “Add that to the list! Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “And what exactly would you do at a gym, pray tell?”

  “Umm… I could totally do the laundry of all the towels the members use. I’m sure that’s a full-time job in itself. Or I could work in the childcare area.” I shrug. “Plus, then I might be able to keep my gym membership as a perk.”

  “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to ask if they’re hiring, but don’t get your hopes up. I didn’t see any classifieds for your gym or any others. Now, go change. Casual but nice,” she orders, and I groan as I stand then head to my room.

  When I come back out a few minutes later, Mia gives me an approving smile. “Much better.” I glance down at my black skinny jeans and smooth my floral short-sleeved top. I swapped out my tennis shoes for black pointed-toe flats and switched out my loud Vera Bradley printed crossbody bag the girls picked out for me for Christmas, sticking all my necessary crap into the solid black little leather handbag I’ve had for ages but never use.

  “Let’s do this,” I reply, nervous energy filling my veins, making me jittery and anxious to hurry up and go.

  She sends the spreadsheet from her laptop to her phone, and she grabs the folder on the coffee table that’s holding the resumes she made me print earlier, even though they were embarrassingly short. We did read this great article though about including homemaker and motherhood skills as experience, and it made me feel really good about myself when I listed out all of my talents and abilities I’ve gained as a stay-at-home mom.

  Our first stop is the car dealership. It turns out they already filled the receptionist position, but they were still looking for a salesperson. They had some interviews lined up, but they told me they’d keep my resume and would contact me if they didn’t hire anyone from the first bunch.

  The next two stops were for server positions at nationwide restaurants. I knew as soon as I walked into both that they weren’t for me. The hostess and everyone I saw carrying trays looked to be no older than twenty-two. I’ve never felt so old in my life.

  Finally, we make it to the family-owned restaurant, the last stop on our list because it’s closest to my house. The outside isn’t loud and fancy, but there’s a homey feel to it, a simple sign on the front in bold font that reads Winston’s Bar and Grille.

  “I’ve always wanted to eat here but could never convince Mike to give it a try. Apparently it wasn’t posh enough. But the reviews are great, and I heard their food is excellent,” I tell Mia. “The ad didn’t say the name of the restaurant, so I didn’t realize it was Winston’s that posted it.”

  I’m suddenly excited to get inside. Something about this place speaks to me, and I hope my intuition isn’t just setting me up to be let down. I grab my purse, and Mia hands me the folder, and I open my door.

  “Good luck!” she calls as I close her inside, and I wave at her through the windshield as I hurry inside. There are only three other cars in the parking lot besides mine, but I assume it’s because I’m at that weird time between lunch and dinner. I have forty-five minutes before the girls get home from school, and I might just splurge and get some food here to bring home and reheat for dinner.

  Take that, Mike, I think, realizing I finally get to do things I want to do without having to hear his shit.

  The bell over the door jingles as I step inside, and I take a look around. The perimeter is lined in giant family-sized booths made of dark wood with deep-blue cushions. The center of the space is full of different sized tables, from ones that fit four all the way to a really long one that looks like it could fit a whole company if it needed to. At the very back is the bar, and there’s a door to the left of it that swings open as a woman steps through it holding a tray, so I guess that’s where the kitchen is.

  “Sit where you want, darlin’. I’ll be right with ya,” she calls to me, and I make my way to the bar instead of interrupting her. When she’s finished serving her customers, she walks up to me with a menu and hands it to me. “Will it be just you, hon?”

  “Um, actually, I’m here about the ad I saw for the wait staff position. But I’ll still take this menu. I’ve always wanted to try this place,” I tell her.

  She gives me a onceover then smiles softly. “Hang on one second, and I’ll go get Stephanie for ya. She’s the manager on duty, and I think she’s the one who placed the ad this morning, so you’re in luck.”

  “Thank you so much,” I reply, and I open the menu to peek at what the restaurant has to offer. I’m practically drooling by the time I’m startled out of my perusal by another woman’s voice, this one a few years younger than me. And I realize the waitress I spoke to before her was much older than my twenty-nine years, which makes me feel way better about this situation than those other restaurants did.

  “Hi there. I’m Stephanie. How can I help you?” the woman asks, and I smile and stick out my hand for her to shake.

  “Hi, Stephanie, I’m Cecilia. Well, Cece. I don’t know why I said Cecilia. Nobody ever calls me by my full name unless it’s my mom and I’m in trouble. And now I’m rambling because I’m super freaking nervous. And I probably shouldn’t say freaking when I’m here to beg for— to apply for a job,” I word-vomit, and I look to the heavens, asking God to open up the floor beneath me to swallow me whole. I blow out a breath and an anxious laugh. “Let me try that again. Hi, Stephanie. I’m Cece. I saw your ad on Facebook, and I’d like to apply for the open position. Here is my resume.” I set the menu aside for now and open up my folder, handing her one of the printed papers inside.

  When I look up at her again, I can see she’s fighting back a smile, a good-natured glint of humor in her eyes, but she’s kind enough not to laugh at me.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Cece. Let’s take a look here.” It doesn’t take her long, seeing how there’s not much on there after my contact information. Just my time at a fast-food restaurant over ten years ago, and then my mom skills. When she looks back up at me, she looks a little uncomfortable. “There’s no mention of previous experience in waitressing. Normally, we like there to be at least some food service knowledge when we—”

  “Oh, but there is.” My heart starts to pound. After so many nos today, and seeing as this is my last stop on the list, I can’t just sit here politely and listen to her shoot me down. “Aside from my job in high school—which, by the way, I was employee of the month for three months in a row—I have almost ten years of experience with cooking, serving, and cleaning up after children, which is much harder than just serving food to adults. Chaos. Pure chaos. Twins and a Ruby. And if you knew anything about Ruby, you’d hire me in a second for being able to keep her contained and happy, because Lord knows she is a difficult customer.”

  She smiles at that. “Okay.” She glances at the resume again, pulling her lips to one side to nibble the inside of her cheek.

  I should leave it at that, but I can’t. I can’t let her talk herself out of giving me a chance. And it all comes out in a rush. “I’ve been a stay-at-home mom for almost a decade. It’s all I’ve ever done, keep my little humans alive and happy. It’s all I ever wanted to do, to be honest. But I don’t have that choice now. It was taken away from me when my husband che—” I clear my throat. “—when my husband and I separated, and now I have to somehow find a job with no past work history, and no prior experience with anything other than being the best homemaker and mom I could possibly be. I have three little girls to take care of and provide for. Not only that, I need to show them that I can do that. I need to show them that even when something like this happens, you can pick yourself back up and all is not lost. I need to show those little girls that we as women don’t need a man to take care of us; we can take care of our damn selves. So, please. Just give me a shot. I’m a ridiculously fast learner, and I know I can do this. You just have to take a li
ttle chance on me, and I promise I can do whatever it is you need me to do.”

  Her head tilts to the side, and if I’m not mistaken, her rapid blinking is to get rid of tears that welled in her eyes moments ago. I cross my fingers in my lap and give her a pleading smile, forcing myself not to break out my phone to show her pictures of my babies.

  “You know what?” she finally prompts, and I hold my breath. She leans forward over the bar and says only loud enough for me to hear, “Fuck men. The only good one I’ve ever met is my boss, but thankfully I’m a lesbian. You’re hired. When can you start?”

  My jaw drops, but then I quickly compose myself with a chuckle. “Um, well, my kids are about to be home from school and my sister who will be watching them for me to work is in my car at the moment, so all I’d have to do is run her home and I’d be back in like, an hour.”

  She raises her eyebrows in surprise and nods. “Wow. Um, okay. That would actually work, because it’d give me time to walk you through a lot before the dinner rush, and we’re kind of desperate, since we’re down three servers.”

  “Really?” I squeak, both excited and nervous that this is happening so fast. “All right.” I blow out a breath. “I can do this,” I say more to myself than to her. “Um, what should I wear? Is this okay?”

  She walks to the other end of the bar and reaches underneath. When she stands and heads back to me, I see she’s grabbed a dark-blue T-shirt with the words Winston’s Bar and Grille in white across the chest. “This should fit you. Just pair this with some jeans and you’ll be set. Um, do you happen to have nonslip shoes?” she asks.

  “I don’t, but I can stop somewhere on the way home and grab a pair. That’s not something that has to be specially ordered, right?”

  “Nope, they have them mostly everywhere, even Walmart and Target.”

  I can’t help the smile that takes over my face. “Oh my gosh. I have a job!” I squeak out, making her giggle. “Thank you, Stephanie. I promise you won’t regret this.” I stand from the stool, the shirt and my folder clutched to my chest. “See you in an hour.”