14. Kennedy
Kennedy
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Present
"I love you, son," I say, stroking his little head. "Now I'm not as afraid anymore because you're going to be fine."
Your father might hate me, I think to myself, but now that I've started to remember Hades Kostanidis, I'm sure he's an honorable man and will take care of you if I'm not around.
Memories are coming back like a sort of timeline. However, the first thing I searched for in my mind—what happened on the night Pam died—is still a big question mark. Yet, I hope that in due time, everything will become clear and I can finally defend myself.
With my son in my arms, protected and fed, I close my eyes as I go back in time and remember the day I met the man who I'm now certain is his father.
Past
NEW ORLEANS
Standing in front of the closed door for about two minutes, I pray not to mess things up.
The tray trembles in my hands, and I feel sweat gathering at the base of my neck because I'm extremely nervous.
Mr. Ernest said he could talk to the general manager to get me a day off because of Aunt Riny's death, but I didn't want to take advantage of the privilege of my position as a cleaner, and I wouldn't miss my first day as a waitress. Now, more than ever, I can't afford to lose my job, and God knows this extra one came in handy.
Early this morning, Pam called me to let me know she and Grandma were coming to New Orleans for the funeral, which will be tomorrow.
I've never even seen a photograph of Pam, but if I weren't sure she's only about a year younger than me, I wouldn't believe it. Listening to her conversation, she sounds like she’s around fifteen. Or maybe it's the fact that, about to turn nineteen, I already feel like an old woman.
Pam told me she has some news to share with me and that it will be a good surprise for me. I have no idea what she's talking about, but what do I have to lose in hearing her out?
"Still not inside?" Mr. Ernest says from behind me, and the tray I'm holding wobbles, the whiskey bottle swaying dangerously on top of it. I've been instructed to serve drinks to some businessmen in a meeting. I was told they're casino owners and one more guest behind closed doors.
"How did you know I was still here?" I ask, turning around.
"Because I know you."
"I'm afraid of spilling a drink on a businessman," I confess.
"It's not just that. You're uncomfortable with the clothes they gave you."
My face heats up, but I don't respond. I don't like admitting my weaknesses, even though, yes, I feel almost naked in the short black strapless dress that barely covers my behind and fishnet stockings. The black heels they gave me are so high that if I don't end the night with a broken bone, it'll be a miracle.
"This outfit is the same as the other waitresses'," I say, as if it's not a big deal, and when I see concern and maybe some guilt on his face, I decide to joke to lighten the mood because I don't want to be ungrateful. "I would just remove these bunny-ear hairbands. They're a bit much."
To my delight, he laughs. "You're an amazing girl, Kennedy. Never let anyone make you doubt that."
"I'm ordinary."
"No, you're not. After everything you've been through at Riny's hands, being so centered is above average. Most people who lived a childhood and adolescence like yours would be broken."
"And who would pick up my pieces?"
"What?"
"Only those who have support can afford to break, Mr. Ernest. When you have a safety net, whether with friends or family, you can cry on their shoulders. I have no one. When I stumble, I need to learn to get up on my own."
"You have me now. I'll always be by your side, one way or another."
I put on a neutral smile, but inside, a strange glow warms my heart because I've never heard that from anyone. "I need to go. Wish me luck."
"Go in there and show them what you're made of, girl."
I put my hand on the doorknob, feeling all my internal organs stumbling over each other because the fear of messing up is still great.
"Kennedy?"
"Yes?" I ask, turning my head over my shoulder just slightly.
"Don't let them disrespect you. Some of those men in there think they can have anything they want. You're not on the menu, darling. As much as you need the job, you can tell them to go to hell if they try anything. We'll figure out getting you another job if they fire you."
"Alright. I'll manage."
I finally open the door and quickly look around, but I don't stop at anyone in particular. I murmur, "Good evening, I brought your drinks," and then go to the table that serves as a makeshift bar, where the crystal glasses and the ice bucket are.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves. From the quick glance I gave, there are five men present, although I couldn't say what each one looks like to save my life.
I ask if anyone wants whiskey on the rocks, exactly as I was instructed, and four of them say yes.
I serve them without looking up and walk back to where the bottle is.
I didn't make eye contact with any of them, but I'm curious to know who was the only one who wanted his drink neat, and when I stop in front of him, I raise my eyes and stare at him recklessly, bottle and glass still in hand.
The moment our eyes lock, I feel a kind of shock running through me. No one has ever looked at me the way the stranger does now.
He has deep brown, almost black, eyes, and it feels like he's cast some sort of spell on me, because I can't move, although in the back of my mind, a voice tells me to get the hell out of here.
He's not just handsome. Yes, his beauty is undeniable, but there's something more in his masculine face that's too attractive. Is it the effect of the firm, angular jawline, which shows so much strength? The straight nose, that together with the ensemble, shows a proud temperament?
And then, I make the mistake of looking at his mouth. It's well-shaped, with full lips, but they're pressed together, as if he's unconsciously clenching them, a typical action of impatient people. Even though he seems irritated, I want to reach out and feel those lips with my fingers.
His hair is completely contrary to the rest of the ensemble—a bit messy and perhaps in need of a trim. But that's the only trace of disharmony, if it can even be called that, because it complements his beauty.
However, the hair doesn't diminish the aura of power that the stranger exudes. On the contrary, it gives him an even stronger air of superiority, as if he couldn't care less about rules or what people consider to be right.
Someone coughs, and I finally force myself to pour the drink. My hand trembles as I watch the amber liquid flow into the crystal glass. I place it on the table in front of the man without looking at him and ask everyone, "Anything else?" silently hoping they'll dismiss me.
"Yes, there's a lot more I want from you," someone says, and I know it came from one of the casino owners, "but nothing that's allowed or on the menu."
I feel my blood boiling with shame and anger because his insinuation is clear, and if he acts like this on my first day as a waitress, this job definitely isn't for me. It's one thing to fend off advances from the manager, but if not even one of the casino owners respects me, my life here will be hell.
I stay frozen near the drinks table, my back to them, and repeat the question I asked earlier, determined that when I leave the room, which I hope will be as soon as possible, I'll go straight to the locker room to change clothes and leave.
Tomorrow, I'll come in to resign.
I'll lose my afternoon cleaning shifts too, but if there's one thing I've learned living with Aunt Riny all these years, it's that if we allow someone to disrespect us once, it becomes a habit. And in this case, it's not just disrespect. It's harassment.
Before any of them respond, I hear a powerful voice say, "I hope you have good labor lawyers on your payroll. You'll need them if this is how you treat your employees."
I'm sure it was the handsome stranger, who ordered whiskey neat, but I don't turn around to check.
After being dismissed by the angry voice of one of my bosses, I leave the room as if the devil were chasing me.