4. Chapter 4
Chapter four
Lucy
When Dax left me with the growing pile of dishes, I took a moment to gain bearing of my surroundings. To my right, a long counter was buried in plates, ramekins, and trays still smudged with the remains of someone’s dinner. Beneath it were stacks of plastic dish racks.
What in the fuck was I doing here?
I should have run out of the building when I had the chance. My feet were already screaming in protest, still crammed into the strappy heels I’d worn out. I probably looked ridiculous.
Overdressed—perhaps underdressed—and completely out of place.
I didn’t miss the way the different staff members gawked at me as I teetered across the busy kitchen. There was a mug I once saw in an airport gift shop that read, Anything you can do, I can do in heels.
That person had clearly never worked in a restaurant kitchen.
I moved toward the dish machine and examined the switches: Heat, Wash, Drain.
“Okay,” I talked myself through it. Not rocket science. I flipped the “Heat” switch. The machine gurgled to life, filling with water until it suddenly hissed and released a puff of steam. I flinched back.
Okay…noted.
I decided to start with plates—there were more of those than anything else. I pulled a plastic rack free and balanced it on a sliver of free counterspace. Then I started sorting plates into the rack…only to realize they still had bits of food stuck to them.
Right. Rinse first.
I grabbed a small stack of ten and brought them to the sink. I sprayed each one clean before transferring them to a rack and sliding them into the machine.
I hovered for a second, then pressed the “Wash” switch. The dishwasher rumbled to life.
Okay, good. This was progress. I tried to keep my balance against the slippery mats on the floor. I could do this. I could do this in goddamn heels.
I grabbed bowls and started rinsing. I was almost done loading the next rack when—
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
The machine wailed. A red light blinked. No label. No off button.
Panic rising, I yanked open the metal cover. Hot, soapy water exploded out, soaking my chest, legs, and shoes. I stumbled backward, drenched.
I spotted a roll of paper towels across the way and shuffled toward it, slipping slightly. I tore it free, dropped to my knees, and tried to mop up the mess.
A southern drawl pierced through the chaos, “Mateo was kind enough to lend you an—oh god, what did you do?”
I turned to find Bianca looming over me, holding a pinstriped apron in what could have been a peace offering but looked much more like a weapon at the moment.
“I don’t know what happened!” I blurted. “It was fine, and then—” Tears threatened, but I fought them back.
Bianca stepped forward, pointed at the blinking machine, and sneered. “You didn’t hit the drain button. If you don’t do that first, it overflows. Duh,” she scoffed and disappeared.
I sat there, soaked and humiliated, trying to absorb the flood with the paper towels to no avail.
She returned a moment later with a mop and bucket. “I knew this was a terrible idea, clean this up.” She tossed the apron at me and vanished again.
The apron felt pointless now, but I looped it around my neck anyway, hoping it would cover the soaked, now see through, fabric clinging to my body. I grabbed my phone from my purse and checked the screen. It was already past nine o’clock and I still hadn’t heard from Tara.
We may have been fighting, but she never went this long without texting me. Even worse, all my messages seemed like they were getting rejected, undelivered popping up next to each of them. Did her phone die? Was she somewhere she didn’t have service?
Either way, something wasn’t right.
I cleaned up the puddle as best I could, then peered around the corner for Dax. I was ready to give up. He could call the police, I didn’t care. I would explain everything that happened and surely we could come to some kind of less humiliating mutual agreement.
He was nowhere in sight. A line cook paced toward me and grabbed a stack of plates from the metal racks near the dish-pit. I stopped him and asked for Dax. He looked confused.
“Chef is busy,” he said, eyeing the growing mountain of dishes in the station I’d stepped away from.
“I really don’t think this is a good idea,” I said as I watched a busser drop off another load of dirty dishes into an already overflowing bus tub.
“If Chef told you to wash dishes, then you wash dishes.” He turned to go.
“But look at my shoes!” I pointed. “I can’t keep doing this, it’s dangerous.” I sounded fucking useless. It didn’t matter. None of this mattered. I must have been living in some kind nightmare, and I was begging my subconscious brain to wake the hell up.
The cook gave me a long look before nodding. “I’ll be right back.”
I watched him go, praying he’d return with Dax and we could work something out. I’d pay him back—I’d find a way. Just not this way.
Tara’s silence pestered the back of my brain. Something wasn’t right. Sure, we got into a fight. But I really couldn’t picture her leaving me alone here. What happened with those two assholes after I went to the bathroom?
My spiraling thoughts were interrupted by the cook’s return. He wasn’t with Dax. Just a pair of enormous black Crocs in his hands.
“You can wash the dishes now,” he said, dropping them into my arms and walking off.
“Hey!” I yelled in his direction, but he had already taken his place back behind the busy kitchen line. I glanced down at the massive, hideous shoes in my hands, stunned. This was definitely some kind of cruel hallucination.
Dejected, I returned to the dish-pit. I begrudgingly unbuckled my ruined heels and slipped my feet into the Crocs. They were about four sizes too big for me, but my toes cried with relief the moment I stepped into them.
I trudged over to the treacherous machine and first flicked on the drain switch.
I’d give it one more go before I gave up and handed myself over to the cops for dine and dashing of all things.
This time, luck seemed to give me a leg up because it actually worked.
Rinse. Wash. Drain. Repeat. I pulled out the steaming racks of clean dishes and stacked them before I started all over again.
I lost myself in the rhythm. Rinse, wash, drain repeat, rinse, wash,
drain... The minutes ticked by and the piles of dishes slowly began to shrink. I was finally getting somewhere.
Then I heard it—a chorus of happy cheers from all over the kitchen.
“Don’t worry everybody, Mother has arrived! Tequila sunrise shots and cold beer!” A garish voice sang though the clattering of dishes and whoosh of water draining from the machine next to me.
I turned off the water and risked a peek around the corner.
A tall, vibrant figure wove through the chaos with a tray of drinks.
His platinum blonde hair spiked like a halo around the delicate features of his face.
I recognized him as the bartender from earlier who I watched at dinner, who now looked like a sparkly angel.
I tried to shrink back into the dish-pit.
I wasn’t here to draw any attention. I was here only so I could get the hell out of this restaurant.
It was too late though, the ethereal, sing-songing being was already making his way toward me.
He peered around the dish-pit with distaste, but his eyes lit up when they focused on me.
His eyebrows knitted together when he saw my drenched dress, which was now plastered to my skin beneath the apron. His eyes narrowed in on the Crocs.
“Oh no, honey.” He let out a gentle laugh. “Is it your first night? You look like you’ve had a rough one.” He balanced a tray of small glasses filled with an orange-colored liquid.
“It’s a long story.” I made to move back toward the sink. There were only a few racks of flatware and ramekins for me to wash and then I could be on my way.
“I’m sure it is.” He winked, the glitter on the tips of his lashes catching the fluorescent light of the kitchen. “I’m Ricky, head bartender.” He reached out a hand to me.
Resigned, I turned back toward him and shook it. “Lucy,” I said.
“Well, Lucy, while I have to say that is the least conventional uniform I’ve seen for a dishwasher, you’re pretty enough to pull it off.” He offered me a kind smile.
I choked out a laugh. “Thanks. Sadly, I don’t think my shoes are going to make it out of here alive.” I nodded toward my wet heels on the floor.
“Oh, you poor thing.” Ricky gave me an empathetic look. “Sadly, I’m not that kind of fairy godmother. But I have heard my drinks carry magic powers. How about a shot?” He plucked a glass off the tray and held it out to me.
I hesitated.
“Trust me,” he said. “This won’t make your troubles disappear, but at least those Crocs might look a little better with some beer goggles.”
I gave a tired chuckle and took the glass. “Fine.”
He beamed, taking another glass for himself and tapping it against mine. “Cheers, darling!”
The shot burned going down, but warmth quickly spread through me comfortingly.
“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Lucy. I hope I’ll see you again,” he said with a wink, then twirled away to deliver more drinks.
Did I just make a friend? Maybe. The only friend I was concerned about was the one who abandoned me at this damn restaurant and was refusing to take my calls.
I turned back to my station and powered through the final waves of dishes. When I was done, I wiped everything down and shut the machine off. I picked my purse and heels up from the floor. The cheap soles of the shoes were peeling off from the soapy water.
I was exhausted, wet, and completely out of patience.
The kitchen was nearly empty by the time I rounded the corner and made my way back into the main dining area of the restaurant. The ambient lighting was now turned up bright, and all the customers had left. There were a few servers scattered at tables near the bar and I spotted Bianca.
Her lips twisted into a frown when she saw me, but then she looked away. Bitch. I approached the table, and a few of the staff members glanced at me.