Chapter Two Summer #2
Across the table is another woman, maybe a tad younger than the couple but dressed similarly in slacks and a silk top.
She has her back to me so I don’t get a good look at her.
To her left, a younger guy sits sort of off to the side, almost like he’s trying to escape them.
His hair is the same shade as the woman sitting across from him.
The ends curl at the nape of his neck. His skin is tan and the polo shirt he’s wearing feels less snobby.
Maybe because it’s wrinkled. Or maybe it’s the way his arm muscles distract me from the clothing all together.
Few kids our age eat in the restaurant, most preferring to sit outside by the pool with friends or avoid this place entirely.
In all honesty, the restaurant is 99 percent couples and groups in the fifty-plus age bracket.
And 100 percent rich or rich-adjacent. You know, people who work with or for wealthy people.
I can always pick them out. Rich people have an ease about them that most people can’t fake in this environment.
Myself included. Luckily, no one expects me to.
Smile, be friendly and polite, and most importantly, be invisible.
Smiling, I approach the table on the right.
“Good evening.” I hold the tray up and place the waters down. First in front of the man, then his significant other, followed by the other woman, and finally the younger guy.
Once I’ve successfully delivered the waters without spilling, I tuck the tray under my arm and let my gaze roam the table.
The man has kind blue eyes that put me at ease. There’s something a little unnerving about some of the people at the country club. It’s like they can see that I’m not one of them.
The man’s partner is as pretty and put together as she appeared from afar. The other woman has a more businesslike feel to her. An accountant or lawyer maybe, something that requires her to always look important. It’s the power suit she’s wearing almost like armor that gives her away.
“Can I get you something to drink besides water?” I ask. When my stare lands on the younger guy, my eyes widen. He’s looking back at me with something like amusement in his expression. It’s the same way he stared at me on the field today.
Rowan Blakenship. He’s a senior on Frost Lake’s boys’ soccer team.
A midfielder, like me. Except nothing like me.
His style of play is different from mine, something I already knew from watching him play against my brother but found out for myself today.
I wasn’t expecting to see him. Not earlier today (though I should have been) and definitely not now.
He’s the picture of cool indifference as he watches me grapple to rein in my surprise. I’m flustered, and I loathe being flustered.
I straighten and pull the tray at my side in front of me like a shield. Only I’m too close to the table and I knock over a water glass.
A polite but strangled sound leaves the man in front of me. The man, who I’m now sure is Rowan’s father, is soaked. I just dumped his entire full water glass directly on his nice black pants. I reach for a stack of napkins on the table and shove them toward him.
“I’m so sorry,” I say in a rushed jumble of words.
“Oh my goodness!” The woman—Rowan’s mother, most likely—gasps. She does her best to help mop up some of the water with the napkins, but when she sees it’s hopeless, her gaze lifts to me like she expects me to fix it. And I guess I should, but I’m frozen.
“I’m really sorry,” I say again, wishing the words could take back my clumsiness, or maybe the floor would just swallow me up.
Tense silence falls over the table.
“It’s okay.” Rowan’s father’s jaw is tight, and his expression is filled with polite irritation. I know he’s as annoyed as his wife, but he’s better at hiding it.
“Maybe we could use a few more napkins,” the other woman says with a smile that’s pitying.
Right. More napkins. I’m thankful for something to do and flee quickly. But not before I mistakenly glimpse Rowan. He’s smiling like he’s watching the greatest comedy routine of his life.
I’m glad he finds this entertaining. Meanwhile I’m probably going to get fired for this. My stomach clenches. I can’t lose this job. They’re great about working around my schedule, and Charlotte is here. Now that I’m going to Frost Lake, it’s likely the only place I’ll see her once school starts.
Hot, angry tears blur my vision as I walk back into the kitchen. I can’t believe I was so stupid. I don’t have long to bask in self-loathing.
“What the hell happened?” Brent asks as he comes to stand in front of me.
I open my mouth to defend myself, but a glance back at the table has me hating myself all over again.
“It was an accident,” I say in case that wasn’t obvious. I don’t make a habit out of spilling drinks on people.
He blows out a breath, looking tense enough that I almost feel bad for him instead of myself. “This is bad,” he says. “That’s Lee Blakenship.”
My blank stare prods him to say, “Of Blakenship Ford and Blakenship Bank.”
I don’t know anything about the Blakenships except that Rowan is a jerk who my brother hated his entire high school career.
But it seems that who they are and what they own is of great importance because when I glance back toward the table, Jackie is there next to Mr. Blakenship.
I don’t need to hear her to know she’s apologizing profusely.
Shame heats my cheeks. Of all the people to dump water on, it had to be Rowan Blakenship’s dad. I care less that he’s someone important and more that Rowan was the one to witness my failure. The guy gets under my skin. It’s no wonder Silas hated him.
I grab a stack of napkins, enough to soak up three times the amount of water I spilled, and start back to the table.
Brent steps in front of me. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I’m taking these to the table.” I can’t bring myself to say their name.
“Oh no. You’ve done enough. Let Jackie smooth things over.”
“Really? I can’t even show my face?”
He offers what is probably a sympathetic expression, but it only makes me feel worse.
“What about my other tables?”
His mouth opens and twists before he speaks like he’s choosing his words carefully. “Just…don’t move for a few minutes.”
“Fine.” I hand him the napkins, and after a brief pause, where he seems to be making sure I’m going to stay put, Brent leaves me in the back and beelines for the table.
I watch from the safety of the kitchen. The way that everyone is acting, you’d think I doused Mr. Blakenship in blood and tar and then feathered him.
I’m still hiding in the back, eyes glued to the commotion at table eight, when movement catches my eyes.
I hadn’t seen him stand up or start this way, but Rowan is heading right for me.
I stiffen and seriously contemplate sprinting in the opposite direction.
Since I’m in trouble enough as it is without adding another faux pas, I stand my ground.
“That was wild, huh?” His smile is sheepish as he shoves both hands into his jean pockets.
He’s casual, bordering on messy, but there’s an air about him that I’ll never have.
Just like his father. I could dump water on him too, and he’d fit in better than I would regardless.
Or maybe that’s just my own insecurity talking.
He quirks a brow as if waiting for my reply, but I have no idea how to respond to him, and the gravity of the situation has also made it hard for my brain to focus on anything but my job.
He takes another step forward and ducks his head slightly to catch my line of sight, which is how I realize that I’d been staring at the floor between us. I blink and am mortified when a tear falls from my eye. I swipe it away quickly and stare hard at Rowan.
“Do you need something? The kitchen is off-limits to customers.” I pull my shoulders back and blink a few more times until I’m certain I won’t start crying for real in front of him. How humiliating would that be?
“Look, it’s no big deal. Stuff like this—”
“No big deal?” I cut in.
His brows pull together and he looks at me with genuine confusion. Of course he wouldn’t understand.
“I’m probably going to get fired, and you think it’s no big deal?” I scoff. “Maybe for you, but I need this job. Okay?”
“Fired?” He glances back at the table. To his credit, it seems as if the thought never occurred to him. When his stare returns to me, there’s more sympathy there, but it’s still laced in confusion. “For spilling a little water?”
Brent returns. His face is a mask of polite professionalism—no sign of the keg-stand guy here. “We’ve got it from here. You can return to the concession with Charlotte.”
“But I—” I stop and look at Rowan, which has Brent also acknowledging him. He gives Rowan a stiff nod.
Rowan lets out a small disbelieving laugh. “Look, it’s not a big deal. Accidents happen, right? There’s no need for all the dramatics.”
“We appreciate your understanding,” Brent says, then looks at me, brows lifted in a silent signal to get the hell out of here.
Which is exactly what I do.