Fifteen
If I thought working at the diner during peak-summer was stressful, it’s got nothing on this.
It’s like a military operation. Everyone works in perfect synchronicity, moving faster than my eyes can keep up with, while the chef, a short, dumpy man with a permanently angry face, stands there watching it all unfold, barking orders every so often and making everyone jump out of their skin. It’s setting me on edge just being in the same room as him.
And the food… holy shit, I don’t think there are even weddings that have this kind of fanfare. When the agency said tonight was an ‘event’, I pictured a cocktail party or something. Not an over-the-top dinner.
Seven courses. Seven fucking courses. I don’t even know how someone could come up with seven different courses of food, let alone how someone could eat it all.
As soon as the first course is ready - hors d’oeuvres, apparently - it’s a mad rush to get them out. Mr Brooks’ guests are all mingling in the sitting room, each brandishing a glass of amber liquid. They all look the same as him; dominant, imposing, judgmental. And filthy rich. Their suits alone probably cost more than my uncle’s house. I keep my head down, passing around the food quickly and efficiently before scurrying back to the kitchen to grab another tray.
The whole time, I don’t catch a single glimpse of Asher. But, I know it’s only a matter of time. There’s ten guests tonight, and I only counted nine back in the other room, including Mr Brooks.
As soon as the guests are seated in the dining room, we bring out the soup dish. I’m the last one to enter the room, so hyper-focused on not dropping the bowl I’m carrying that it takes me a minute to realize who I’m delivering it to. Asher watches me intently, murmuring a soft, “Thanks,” when I place the bowl down in front of him. I hightail it out of the room like my ass is on fire.
The next two courses go much the same. In and out, as quickly as humanly possible. The main course, however, doesn’t run so smoothly. I set the dish down and go to leave, but one of the other servers clears their throat, gesturing for me to stay. Panicking, I stay rooted to the spot. As soon as Mr Brooks cuts into his braised lamb, the servers jump into action, uncorking the bottles of red wine spread out along the table. I follow their lead, pouring wine into glasses until the bottle’s empty.
All night, the men have been talking amongst themselves. Business, politics, the new driving range over at the country club - real macho topics. Not one of them has said a word to any of us, or even spared us a glance.
Until now.
“Hey, I recognize you,” one of them says, pointing his finger toward me. “You look familiar. Where do I know you from?”
Heart hammering in my ears, I try to come up with a response, but all that comes out is a messed-up jumble of words. “I, uh— I don’t— you—”
Suddenly, he clicks his fingers, a satisfied smile spreading across his face. “That’s it. You’re the Chief’s nephew, aren’t you? He took you in after your parents died. Finley, right?”
“It’s Oakley,” Asher corrects, voice tight.
I whip my head toward him, shooting him an alarmed look. What the hell is he doing? Getting all irate just because someone got my name wrong. We’re not even supposed to know each other. If his dad finds out that—
Dread sits in my gut like a lead weight when I see the look his father’s giving him from the opposite end of the table. His eyes are narrowed, jaw clenched so hard I’m surprised he hasn’t cracked a molar. And judging by the silence that falls over the table, I’m not the only one who’s noticed. Expression never wavering, Mr Brooks pulls his phone out of his pocket, types something quickly, then returns it and lifts his glass into the air.
“I need a refill,” he announces sharply.
I hurry to comply, almost barging another server out of the way in the process. I feel like a fraud kissing his ass like this, but after the drama I just inadvertently caused, I don’t want to give him another reason to fire me or start lowering my pay. I start pouring him another drink, but my vision is spotty and my hands are sweaty from being so on edge. I lose my grip on the bottle, then manage to catch it again before it can hit the table, but my flailing arms knock over a water glass and it falls to the floor, smashing into a million pieces.
Mr Brooks’ nostrils flare, his face turning beet-red.
I try to suck in air, but it gets stuck in my throat.
“I’m so sorry. It slipped. I—”
“Just clean it up,” he barks.
I nod frantically. “Of course.”
I book it from the room and back into the kitchen, avoiding eye contact with everyone as I fling open every cupboard, hunting for something to clean up the glass with. I’m so focused on my search that I almost jump out of my skin when a gentle hand lands on my shoulder.
“Are you okay?” Asher asks.
I scoff. “Not really.”
I keep digging, trying desperately to ignore his presence behind me. Asher opens another cupboard to the left of me and fishes out a dustpan and brush.
“Here.”
I take it from him, nodding once. “Thanks.”
“Don’t worry about it too much. It could be worse. You could have poured the wine all over his head and then that would—”
“What do you want, Asher?”
He sighs, gnawing on his bottom lip. “I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry. And that I— I really—”
I shake my head, stepping away. “I can’t do this right now.”
I leave him standing there and hurry back to clean up my mess, both literally and figuratively.
* * *
Somehow, I manage to make it through the rest of the dinner without further incident.
Though, it’s pretty clear that Mr Brooks has neither forgiven nor forgotten my past discrepancies. Every time I’m near him he gets this look on his face like he’s about to blow a gasket. It’s kind of… terrifying.
It’ll all be worth it, though, when I get my money at the end of the night. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
After dessert, he leads his guests into his office for a nightcap, leaving the rest of us to clean up. Asher goes with them, though he doesn’t look too happy about it.
We’re almost finished, just a few more things to wash and put away in the kitchen. Anita, our supervisor of sorts, wanders over to my side.
“So, how’d you find it?” she asks.
I hesitate a beat before answering, unsure if she wants a real answer or a bullshit one. I go with the safest option. “It was great.”
She laughs. “Liar. Alistair Brooks is our worst client, but he pays well. It’s a good thing, too. Half of our team needs some form of therapy after working one of his dinners and that isn’t cheap.”
“How often does he throw these… things?”
She tilts her head from side to side. “Every month or thereabouts.” She hands me an envelope, filled to the brim with cash. “Finish drying off that pan and you can head home. I think you’ve earned an early finish. He really had it out for you tonight.”
Yeah, no kidding.
I thank her and pocket the envelope.
On the way out, the house is quiet. Almost eerily so. The further I get down the hall, the more the chatter from the kitchen fades into an imperceptible hum. I don’t know where Mr Brooks’ office is, but I’m guessing it must be on the other side of the house. I can’t hear a thing coming from him or his guests.
Not until I pass the door to the sitting room. It’s slightly ajar, just open enough for me to see Mr Brooks pacing the room, arms crossed over his chest. He’s talking to someone in a low, angry mutter that has fear skating down my spine even though I’m not the one in there with him. I look to my left, seeing the entryway and the front door that I should be running like a bat out of hell through right now.
But, like always, curiosity wins out and I find myself edging closer toward the crack in the door, straining my ears to hear what he’s saying.
“When are you gonna start taking things seriously?” Mr Brooks asks. “This is your life, Asher. Not just some fucking game.”
“I do take things seriously,” Asher counters, stepping into view. He looks just as pissed as his dad, staring him down with a murderous scowl.
“Really? Disappearing for two days last week right in the middle of the most important football season of your life? Is that what you call taking things seriously?”
“I had stuff on my mind.”
“Well, get whatever it is off of your mind. This is the time to focus, to be thinking about your future. I’ve worked too damn hard to just let you piss it all away.”
Asher shakes his head and turns away, running his hands through his hair, something I’ve come to realize means he’s trying not to lose his shit.
Clearly, his father isn’t quite as observant. He just keeps going, keeps poking the bear. “And don’t think I didn’t notice that little display at dinner. I take it that it was your handiwork that got that boy working here tonight? What do you think you’re doing, associating with people like that?”
Asher whirls on him, murder flashing in his eyes. “People like what?”
“Like him,” Mr Brooks sneers. “He’s not like us, Asher. He’ll live a miserable existence, work at some dead-end job while he’s drowning in debt, and never amount to anything. He’s trash, and you know it.”
I wait for Asher to say something back. To… defend me, in some way. But, nothing ever comes. He just stands there, letting his father’s words linger in the air, completely unaffected. And… it hurts. It hurts really fucking bad.
“Now, I have to get back to my guests,” Mr Brooks says. “But starting tomorrow, there’s gonna be some big changes around here. You will start taking your future seriously. No son of mine will be a failure. Not if I have anything to say about it.”
With that final blow, he turns and leaves the room. I duck around the corner just in time, waiting until he’s out of sight before I slip inside the sitting room. Asher’s got his back to me when I enter, hands clasped behind his head. I can hear his ragged breathing from all the way on the other side of the room. I clear my throat and he spins to face me.
“Heard all that, did you?” he asks, not even a hint of emotion in his voice. It’s completely dull. Flat. Kind of like how I’m feeling right now.
My gaze drops to the floor. “I did.”
He sighs and steps forward, stopping just inches away from me. “Oakley, I’m so sorry. I knew my dad was a piece of shit, but the way he treated you tonight is—”
“Why am I here?”
He pauses, brows furrowed. “What?”
“Why did you get me this job? Why did you bring me here?”
“You seemed really torn up about losing your job at the diner and I… I was just trying to help.”
“I don’t need your help, Asher. I’m not a charity case.”
“I know you’re not,” he says slowly, carefully. “That wasn’t what I was— I didn’t want to see you struggle. I had the means to help you, so I did.”
“That wasn’t your call to make. You don’t owe me anything.”
“But, I thought we were—”
I shake my head. “We aren’t anything. We hooked up twice. That’s it. Just… screwing around. I don’t need your help or your pity.”
My throat burns, chest aching more and more with every word that falls from my lips. But the truth is, his dad was right. I’m not like them, and I never will be. This thing between us, whatever it is, was over before it even began. It’s pointless. So, I’m doing him a favor. Cutting the cord before things get too complicated, even if it feels like I’m making a huge mistake.
“So, that’s it, huh?” he asks, his tone clipped. “You’re just pulling the plug and I don’t get a say?” He scoffs when I don’t respond. “Oakley, come on. If this is about what my father said, then–”
“It’s not. It’s about doing the right thing. For both of us.”
He stares at me, eyes bugged out like he can’t even comprehend what’s happening right now. I see the moment it clicks, the moment his mood changes from confused to pissed the hell off. He’s so mad, his shoulders are shaking.
“Leave then,” he yells. “You’re done with me? Then fucking go!”
I don’t know what I was expecting, what I thought his reaction would be. I think a stupid part of me thought he would fight for me a little more. Maybe even beg me to stay. But, why would he? It wasn’t a lie when I said we’re just screwing around. There are no feelings here.
Are you sure about that?
“Asher, I–”
“Go,” he bellows, eyes spitting fire. But I swear, even if only for a second, I can see a tiny glimpse of hurt hiding in their depths.
Still, I do as he says. I turn and storm out of the room, wondering if I just dodged a bullet or lost something that could’ve been, well… everything.