1. Vivian #2
Although heaven knows our restaurant schedule isn’t conducive to child-rearing. Forget finding the guy, I’d have to find somewhere else to work. And I won’t even entertain that thought.
Claire and Raelynn are family. We stick together, no matter what. Scraping together enough band-aids to slap over whatever needs the most help, although most days there’s not enough time or money to go around. We still make it work.
“Let’s make magic happen!” she says merrily, the lines by her eyes belying her cheery tone.
It’s her go-to phrase when life is especially tough.
She’s the only person I know who can get off the phone with a bill collector, take a deep breath, and then start singing “Hakuna Matata” at the top of her lungs while swinging a giggly toddler on her hip.
If there’s anyone who can handle this level of chaos, it’s Claire.
“All right, you’ve twisted my arm. But you were closing for me, remember? That’s gonna make for a super late night,” I remind her.
“Hmm… well, you know Derrick has been wanting to get some more management experience, right?” With a devilish twinkle in her eye, her signature fake sweet southern tone rings out through the bar. “Oh, Derrrrick!”
You could get whiplash from how quickly his brown hair and blue eyes pop up from around the corner of the bar.
Like a hot bartender version of Whac-A-Mole.
I stifle my laughter. Derrick’s practically a ninja with how his eyes track her every movement. He’s always waiting, anticipating anything she might need so he can do it for her. So she doesn’t have to lift a finger when he’s around.
He’s got it so bad for her.
But she just doesn’t know it.
Or she’s deliberately ignoring what’s in front of her. Whether it’s because he’s an employee or because he’s younger than she is, she won’t tell me.
And I’ve asked. At length .
“You called, m’lady?” His eyes immediately focus on her.
His voice is confident, almost belying the flush quickly climbing up his neck.
Can it be any more obvious with the way he reacts to her presence?
The black polo he’s wearing clings to his muscles, and if I hadn’t taken one look at him and filed him away in the hot-but-not-my-type category, I would have made a play already.
How does she not see this deliciousness? Or how he’s practically salivating for a look, a touch, anything to give him encouragement?
“I have a proposal for you,” she drawls, leaning on her forearms across the gleaming bar that he keeps polished to a shine.
“A proposal? Just name it, we’ll set the date.
” He walks closer and braces himself on the hard surface opposite Claire, a mischievous smile on his face.
Their height difference is even more pronounced as she’s forced to look up to make eye contact and I swallow my giggle.
Any other place, someone might call it harassment.
But not with Derrick. His style is sweetly flirty.
His utmost respect for Claire has been proven time and time again.
His words are innocent, but the way his eyes smolder when he looks at her is not.
She’s got to be the only person on the planet who doesn’t see just how gone for her he is.
Derrick’s arrival gave us a much-needed helping hand.
He walked in looking for a job a couple months ago and said he would take whatever jobs were available: dishwasher, busser, you name it.
He didn’t care, just wanted to be here. Claire really didn’t have the payroll to be hiring, but he insisted that he wanted to get some experience in the industry.
His good humor and cheerful energy quickly landed him a spot behind the bar.
Claire was hesitant to give up that kind of responsibility to a new hire but really didn’t have much of a choice.
We’re both pretty good mutli-taskers; you have to be in this industry. But slinging drinks alongside managing the busy lunch and dinner shifts left us with nothing but spilled product, testy customers, and pure exhaustion.
In a matter of weeks, we’ve come to rely on Derrick more than we probably should. From unloading produce boxes to washing silverware, he doesn’t view any task as being beneath him. And he does it all with a smile on his face and hustle in his step.
The boy—well, I guess technically he’s a man since he’s older than me, but not by much—excels at winning people over. He’s funny, strong, and at well over six-feet tall with cute boy-next-door features, quite easy on the eyes.
It’s clear to everyone that the only thing he sees is Claire, and I shake my head again at how clueless she is. Or maybe willfully oblivious.
His charm works on everyone from eight to eighty, and when I talk to her about it, she keeps insisting that he’s too young to be flirting with her.
That there’s nothing serious behind it. She talks like their four-year age gap eliminates any chance of a relationship.
But I guess the responsibilities of being both a mother and restaurant owner make her feel older than your average twenty-six-year-old.
I think he could show her a good time. Frankly anything would be better than what she’s getting right now—zilch. Which is now me as well , I think on a sigh. That’s okay. Boys are trouble. I mentally slap myself.
Realizing that Claire is frozen in place, her eyes glazing over, I touch her elbow to bring her back to reality, and she blinks hard. Maybe she’s not as immune to his presence as I thought.
“So…” She clears her throat and twists her ponytail around.
She’s fidgeting, a dead tell if you ask me.
She takes a breath and tries again. “You know how we went through front-of-house closing duties last week? Wanna give it a shot tonight?” Straightening her shoulders, she regains her confidence as she pretends to bat her eyelashes at him like she’s asking him a favor, but we all know she’s really the one in charge here.
Not like he would deny her anything anyway.
“You know I’d do anything for you, Claire.”
See?
Derrick tries to smirk but his neck is still flushed all the way to the tips of his ears, and not for the first time, I wonder how Claire can ignore the signs. How his body responds just by being around her.
“See? Easy peasy.” She grins at me and throws her arm around my shoulders. “We are gonna have the best time!”
“We need clothes, y’know.” I pretend to huff at her. I’d come straight from the douchebag’s house in ratty cutoffs and an old Smashing Pumpkins t-shirt, too irritated at the whole Trent situation to care what our regulars might say. I’d just needed a drink.
“What about your car stash?”
“Huh?”
“That extra bag you used to keep in the trunk for going out after work.”
I hadn’t thought about that in months. “Lemme see if I still have it.” I walk outside, the humidity attacking me like I’d just stepped out of the shower, and pop the trunk of my old red Toyota Corolla to check.
Wouldn’t you know, I still have that knockoff Stephen Sprouse inside.
The obnoxious L’s and V’s are beginning to fade, but it’s still cute.
Not like I have money for an authentic one.
Scanning the contents, I find halter slip tops, Daisy Duke shorts, sundresses, and sandals: all the essential S’s apparently.
Mixed in are deodorant, body spray, and even a toothbrush for those unplanned overnighters.
Condoms, obviously. Concealer and mascara for the morning after.
And a phone card with extra minutes on it for my Nokia, just in case.
What happened to my favorite lip gloss, Maybelline Kissing Potion?
Rummaging, I grimace as I think of all the times I’ve used this as my go-to bag.
Didn’t really matter where I was hanging out after work.
It could be a nightclub in Buckhead, the Applebee’s whose last call was two a.m., or a frat house at Georgia Tech.
Enjoying the flexibility of partying when I wanted, where I wanted, and with whomever I found to entertain me.
Today, though, the thought of all those “extracurriculars” makes me groan.
The Trainspotting look is getting old.
Free drinks and hot guys notwithstanding.
Digging around the duffel, I pop the plastic lid of body spray. Even though I haven’t opened it in months, Victoria’s Secret Lovespell immediately transports me back to the last time I used it on the regular, when I was sort of dating a couple guys at Tech.
Trent and I were on an off-spell and I was having fun; my mom called it something entirely different. Her non-flattering terms stung, especially coming from a free-spirited flower child from the summer of love.
Well, we’re all entitled to our own ideas of a good time, right?
2001, and yet we’re still living a double standard. Boys screw around as much as they want and get fist bumps and slaps on the back for their numerous conquests. Girls who do the same are just labeled as sluts.
Progress, my ass.
I hold up a spaghetti strap top covered in purple sparkles, remembering how I met Tyler and Owen while wearing it. The lip gloss had come in handy that night; I think I left it at their place. Dammit.
Hopscotching from one guy to another, I tasted enough of the thirty-one flavors to learn what I liked and what I didn’t by the time I was twenty-one. What else is your youth for? In the end, I always came back to Trent, but not because he was the flavor I liked best. Just because he was familiar.
Even if I didn’t like myself much when I was with him.
Sometimes he treated me like I was the best thing to ever happen to him. Other times, he barely tolerated me. But three whole years… that had to count for something, right?
As I finger a pair of cutoff shorts underneath the purple fabric, it makes me wonder how and when things had gone wrong between us.
When Trent and I were good together, we were good.
Really good. He’d seen me before fibromyalgia and hadn’t commented on my body as I struggled to find a healthy balance from losing too much weight to going decidedly up a few dress sizes.
Funny how he’d been okay with that, but didn’t make much effort to understand that even though I looked normal, what I felt on a day-to-day basis was anything but.
That the pain in my shoulders and back really existed, and it wasn’t all in my head.
That some days it was all I could do to drive myself to work. Even breathing was painful.
I’d thought he was the one person who understood and accepted me, but after enough passive aggressive comments, I’d had enough. His curt dismissal of my symptoms made it easier to have more off days of our on–and-off again relationship.
Grabbing my bag to take back into the restaurant, it hit me that this was probably the best thing to happen to me.
Truth? I’ve been needing to break this off for a while.
I feel really stupid, honestly. I’ve wasted three years trying so hard to make something work that never would.
It’s time to try being single for a while and figure out what I really want.
Closing my eyes before I close this chapter of my life for good, I picture Trent’s face, imagine him showing up, apologizing, kissing me… and almost retch at the idea.
Yep, that won’t be happening again. Good to know my body is on board with my heart.
Clearly when I’m done, I’m done.
Slamming the trunk down with a satisfying clunk, I bring the duffel bag back inside to show Claire what we’ve got to work with and plan our outfits for the night. Even if I’m not in the market for a new hunk of hottie, I can still look cute.