CHAPTER TWO

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I jog downhill, speeding along the sidewalk, houses and overgrown lawns flying past in a blur. I'm way out of breath by the time I reach Highway 101, but at least I've arrived.

The restaurant-slash-bar that I work at is simply called "The Rock," in reference to Ashford Rock and the mythical battle our town never fought.

A quick peek through the front windows tells me I haven't missed much. All I see is our two regulars, drinking coffee in a booth. That's good. Hopefully my boss'll be up front. He doesn't usually yell at me in front of the customers.

I enter through the side door, trying to catch my breath.

Dammit. Keith isn't up front. He's in his office, doing money-counting, office-y things. Working on the budget tends to make him irritable.

I try to tip-toe past his half-open door.

"You're late!" he barks. His bald head's shining under the fluorescent light in his cramped office, and he pushes his glasses down over his large, ruddy nose to give me a dirty look.

"I'm sorry." I hang my head and stare at the cracked linoleum, trying to look contrite.

I don't even bother with an excuse this time. I ran out of good ones a long time ago, and now they just sound like the bullshit they are.

Had to visit some trees. Stopped to say "hello." Sorry, sir.

He turns back to his calculator, ignoring me.

Guess I'm getting off easy today. My shoulders sag with relief as I hang my jacket on a hook. I'm wearing jeans and a black t-shirt that has "The Rock" printed on it, and I check to make sure I'm not also wearing any dirt or Redwood needles before putting my apron on. My tennis shoes are a little muddy, but oh well.

The chair creaks in Keith's office, and I freeze as the door swings open with a bang. He leans on the door frame, arms crossed over his chest, a scowl on his face.

Uh-oh.

"Tell me, Miss Hart. Why shouldn't I fire you?" His voice drips with contempt. "You're constantly late. And how many dishes did you break this week? Four? Five? Worst of all, I had three new complaints about you from last weekend. You can't seem to manage your tables in a timely manner or get their orders right. That loses me money." His whole face is red now. "And how many times have you messed up an order this month alone? How many meals had to be made twice? Well?"

I swallow and try to find some words. He's angrier than I've ever seen him before.

"Do you know," his voice rises, "how many people are waiting in line for your job? I know of at least three girls in this town that I can call right now who would love to take your shift tonight."

I wasn't aware of an actual waiting list, but I'm nauseous at the thought of losing tonight's pay to someone else. Of losing all my pay. Forever.

"Please. I'm sorry. I'll try harder." I meet his eyes, but he's looking at me with such contempt, I go back to staring at the floor.

"I've put up with this because your mom worked here for so many years. But she was on time, did her job, and never lost me money and customers."

Oh, no. His voice is lower now, dead serious. My hands turn clammy and cold as I clench them into fists and meet his eyes.

"I'm letting you go. You can stop in next week to pick up your final check."


I'm shaking as I wipe my hands down my apron and stand up taller. "Please... don't." My voice cracks on the words. "I'll do better. I swear it."

"I've given you more than enough chances." He sighs and pushes his glasses up his nose. Then he shakes his head. "I'm running a business, not a charity. You need to leave."

"I... I know this isn't a charity. I promise I'll be more careful." I feel woozy, like my blood pressure has dropped to zero, and I'm about to pass out. "I'll make sure I don't make any customers wait."

Keith shakes his head and points to the door I just came through.

"Please." I know I sound pathetic, but darkness is threatening to swallow me whole. "Please. Just one more chance."

He stares down at me for what feels like forever.

"Please." The word comes out in a near-whisper.

He lets out another sigh. "One! One more chance. I'll let you work tonight. And tonight only. This is your last chance! Prove to me you can handle it."

Relief floods me, leaving me weak. "Thank—"

"I better not see one more broken dish. I don't want to hear a single complaint that the service was slow or that you messed up the orders. Do you understand?"

I nod vigorously. "I do. Thank you. I'll... I'll do a good job, I swear it."

He curls his lips like he doubts I'll prove a thing. "I've given you a fair shake."

"I'm grateful, really—"

"If you mess up tonight... you're done here. You can count on it."

"Thank you for giving me another chance. I'm very grateful for this job, sir." I barely hear myself saying the words. I pause, swallowing, unsure what else to say.

"Well?" He looks at me like I'm an idiot. "Go on." He points down the hall, toward the dining area.

I whirl and hurry away, wiping the sweat from my brow.

I have to be perfect tonight. Perfect!

As I'm passing by the walk-in freezer, I realize the door is open a crack. The cook-slash-assistant-manager, Mateo, steps out. My cheeks burn even hotter, and I keep my head down as I pass him. He definitely heard all that.

But I haven't completed my gauntlet of shame yet. Deb, the waitress on the morning shift, will be out front. She won't be happy I'm late either.

I need to try to calm down, but I'm nauseous, and my thoughts are all over the place.

An empty fridge. Unpaid bills. That's my future if I screw up tonight. Will trying harder even work? Or will I end up fired anyway?

I'm a mess as I step into the dining area. It's still mostly empty, except for the two old guys drinking coffee.

The Rock looks like every small-town 1950s diner you see on TV, only everything's a lot less shiny and new, because the last time this place was fixed up, it probably was the 1950s.

I always mop the floor and clean as well as I can when I close, but there's only so much I can do.

The walls are completely covered in dusty memorabilia. Fishing and ocean-themed photographs and drawings hang on the walls, surrounded by lengths of rope, boat paraphernalia, and pieces of old shipwrecks. The jukebox in the corner's been dead for months. Masking tape holds all our booths together, covering up the cracks and tears. Half the ceiling tiles are brown from water damage or... something. Who knows? People used to be allowed to smoke in here. A lot of times I still smell it.

Or maybe that's just Deb.

She's seen me sneaking up behind the counter, and her eyes widen.

She shakes a gnarled finger at me. "About damn time!" Her voice creaks on the words from her many years of smoking three packs a day. She loves to reminisce about the past, when she could work and smoke at the same time.

"Well? Why the hell are you late?" Deb slams her hands down on the counter, a deep scowl wrinkling all her wrinkles. "Let me hear it. What's your excuse this time?"

"Sorry." I smile meekly at her. "I'll come in early tomorrow, okay? I promise."

If I have a job tomorrow.

"Pfft! Your promises." She rolls her eyes at me and pushes past, theatrically tearing off her apron as she does. Her eau de cigarette scent wafts over me as she plucks a fresh one from her apron pocket. "I need a damn smoke."

She shoots me another angry look, holding my gaze longer than necessary. I look away first, and before I know it, she's gone, having clocked out without another word. Her cigarette scent lingers, making my nose itch.

"Vape pens are garbage," she always says with disdain, every time a customer steps outside to use one. "Nothing can replace the taste of the real thing."

I just nod my head and smile, but what I'm really thinking is, "Yeah, but is the taste worth dying for?"

But I'd never say what I think. If she wants to smoke herself into an early grave, who am I to judge? Says right on the pack what will happen. She knows the risks.

Just like my mom knew the risks.

Deb was best friends with my mom—they both worked here since they graduated high school. If seeing my mom die young of liver failure from her own addiction didn't scare her, well... nothing will.

Live and let live, that's my motto. And die how you wanna die.

I swallow past the lump in my throat.

You can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved.

I know. I tried.

I look up to find the two old men staring at me from their booth. Bert. And Ernie. Yep. Bert and Ernie. Really, though.

Like usual, Bert and Ernie have stern looks of disapproval waiting for me. That's no surprise. They see me show up late and screw up regularly. Out of all our customers, they're here the most... and spend the least. They leave me exactly fifty cents each day for a tip.

"Would you two like more coffee?" I call to them, keeping my voice friendly and light.

They nod and allow me to top off their mugs. Then they both turn away from me, looking out the window at the gray sky and the near-empty Highway 101.

"Looks like rain." Bert says. "Wonder how the boys'll be doin' out on the water today."

"They'll get a good haul," Ernie replies in a raspy voice.

Bert says the same thing every day. Ernie responds with the exact same line. Every. Single. Time.

Deb jokes about it, but she's friends with these guys and will talk about the rain all day. Oh, man. Deb is a nice person. She's the only person who stopped by my house and brought food after my mom died. She told me to apply here and probably helped me get hired.

Why do I have to be such a screw-up?

Why'd I take a stupid detour today? I wish I could just start this day over. I have to be better. Do better. I swear... I'm gonna focus tonight. And tomorrow morning, I'm gonna go get a watch and show up on time.

My hands are shaking as I return the coffee pot to the warmer.

"Hola, chica." Mateo gives me a nod from the kitchen, and he's got sympathy in his eyes. Or pity.

Is there a difference? Mateo's in his forties and a long-time cook who never seems to mess up an order. I'm the one who messes up. And yet he's always kind to me.

"Hey." I try to give him a real smile. "Pretty dead in here, huh?"

"Yep." He grins at me. "But it'll be busy in a couple hours!"

"Why?"

His brow furrows, and he looks at me like I'm a little slow. "It's Friday."

"Ohhhh. Yeah. I know. Busy, busy."

I grab a rag and wipe down the counter to hide my red cheeks. I lose track of time and days. The days all blend together since my mother... Well, since I dropped out of school. But Fridays at The Rock are the worst. They're the hardest for me, the busiest nights of the week.

I glance toward the hallway where I left my windbreaker. I think I have half a dose of my ADHD medication in one of the pockets. Meds and monthly doctor's appointments are expensive without insurance, so I try to ration my pills, saving them for my worst days.

Today is definitely one of those days.

But half a dose will only last two or three hours. I have to wait to take it if I want to survive the night.

Coffee helps my ADHD. Not a lot but enough. Keith lets us have unlimited drinks and one meal per shift. So I load up on coffee with too much sugar and manage to suck down half a pot as I do my prep work. I breeze through chopping vegetables, slicing lemons, and refilling saltshakers. Soon my heart's pumping, and I'm jittery, but at least I haven't dropped anything or cut myself yet.

Keith goes home at eight, before the late summer dinner rush begins.

"Remember what I said." He wags a finger at me as he opens the door. "This is your last chance. I told Mateo to keep an eye on you. He will let me know if you screw up."

"I won't let you down." I offer Keith a reassuring smile, but he just scowls at me and slams the door on the way out.

I drink more coffee. A lot more.

Then Mateo makes me my usual dinner of French fries, and I finish right as our first group of customers arrive.

The second they're seated, a group of eleven fisherman arrive for their usual Friday night food and beer. They take up nearly every seat at the counter.

It's on.

I drain yet another mug of coffee, my nerves on edge at the sudden noise and chaos.

I just gotta make it a few hours. Then I can take my medication.

I won't let Keith fire me. Nope.

I'm gonna be perfect tonight, the best waitress ever.

I can do this.

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