5. Valentina
— ? —
Valentina
The lunch rush is a blur of orders and aching feet and forced smiles, and I’m fairly certain I’ve never been this exhausted in my entire life.
“Got it.”
I grab the water pitcher with one hand and the check presenter with the other, weaving through the crowded dining room with a grace I didn’t possess a week ago.
My first day, I dropped a tray of drinks on a businessman’s lap.
My second day, I mixed up orders for an entire four-top.
By day three, I was seriously considering whether living in my car might be preferable to this particular form of torture.
But now, a month in, my body has learned the rhythm.
My feet still ache - God, do they ache - but I’ve stopped noticing the pain.
The calluses on my palms from carrying heavy trays have hardened.
I know the menu by heart, can recite the specials without thinking, have memorized which tables tip well and which ones will run you ragged for pocket change.
It’s not the life I imagined for myself. But it’s a life.
I refill the waters at 12, drop the check at 14, and swing by the kitchen to pick up an order for table 8. The chef, a broad-shouldered man named Diego who terrified me during my first week, gives me a nod of acknowledgment as I balance the plates on my arm.
“Looking good, Montero.”
“Thanks, Diego.”
I deliver the food, recite the requisite warnings about hot plates, and make my way back to the server station where Marianna is leaning against the counter, stealing fries from the staff plate.
“You’re getting good at this,” she says, popping a fry into her mouth. “Remember when you couldn’t carry more than two plates without looking like you were about to cry?”
“Vividly.” I grab a fry for myself. The afternoon lull is starting, the lunch crowd thinning out, and my feet are screaming for a break. “I think I still have nightmares about the drink tray incident.”
“The businessman’s face.” Marianna laughs, covering her mouth with her hand. “I thought he was going to have a stroke.”
“He left a twenty percent tip out of pity.”
“Pity tips are still tips.”
We laugh together, and something warm spreads through my chest. This is what’s kept me going these past weeks - the camaraderie, the shared exhaustion, the way the staff has folded me into their ranks without question or judgment.
Most of them don’t know about Sebastian, about the affair, about the viral video that ended my career.
If Marianna recognized me from that night at the hostess stand, she’s never said a word, and I’ve never asked.
Here, I’m just Val, the new waitress who works hard and doesn’t complain.
It’s the closest thing to peace I’ve felt in a month.
Marianna glances around, making sure no one is within earshot, then leans closer.
“You know the only real entertainment we get around here is when the boss shows up.”
I raise an eyebrow. “The owner?”
“Yeah. Eric Bailey.” She says the name with a mixture of reverence and amusement. “He shows up sometimes out of nowhere, and half the girls lose their minds.”
I think about the mysterious waiter from that first night. The dark eyes, the gentle hands, the way he bandaged my cut without asking questions. I’ve looked for him every shift, scanning the faces of the staff, hoping to see him again. But he’s never there.
He probably found another job, I tell myself. Better pay, better hours. Why would anyone stay here if they had other options?
“That bad?” I ask, refocusing on Marianna.
“Worse.” She grins. “And then there’s the whole Sophia thing.”
I know Sophia. Senior server, been here for years, walks around like she owns the place. Perfect hair, perfect nails, perfect attitude problem. We’ve worked the same sections a few times, and she has a way of making me feel like an insect she’d rather squash than acknowledge.
“What about her?”
Marianna lowers her voice further, her eyes bright with the pleasure of sharing gossip.
“Some people say Sophia and him had something a while ago. Like dated, or almost dated, or whatever.” She waves her hand vaguely.
“It didn’t last. But that’s why she still acts like she’s the boss half the time when he’s not around.
Touches his arm, laughs too loud, acts super familiar.
He never confirms it, never really shuts it down either.
Just gets all cold and ignores her. The rumor never died though. ”
I glance across the restaurant to where Sophia is resetting a table, her movements precise and practiced. She catches me looking and narrows her eyes before turning away.
“Sounds messy,” I say.
“It is.” Marianna shrugs, stealing another fry. “But it’s free drama, so nobody complains.”
We laugh again, and then Marco is calling for someone to take table 20, and the afternoon picks back up, and I don’t think about mysterious waiters or complicated owners or anything except the next order, the next table, the next tip that will get me one day closer to something resembling stability.
The dinner shift bleeds into evening, and my phone buzzes in my apron pocket. I ignore it until my break, then check it in the back hallway.
Sebastian.
The name on the screen makes my stomach clench. I haven’t spoken to him since that morning at the house. He’s texted a few times - cold, businesslike messages about the divorce papers - but I’ve managed to avoid responding with anything more than monosyllables.
I open the message.
Papers are ready. Sign them and this is over. You have a month.
I stare at the words until they blur. Sign the papers. Give up the house, the company, the accounts, everything I built. Walk away with nothing but a pile of garbage bags and a waitressing job, living tip to tip, one night of motel rent at a time.
Or fight.
The thought rises unbidden. I could fight him. Hire a lawyer, go to court, prove that those assets were built with my money, my labor, my sacrifice. I could drag this out for years, make him pay for every lie, every betrayal.
But with what money? What resources? I can barely afford my motel room. A lawyer would cost more than I’ve made in a month of twelve-hour shifts.
Another text arrives.
A month. Then I go to court myself.
I shove the phone back in my pocket and return to the floor.
The weeks that follow blur together. I work doubles when I can get them, picking up shifts no one else wants, saving every penny that doesn’t go toward keeping a roof over my head. Sebastian’s deadline looms like a guillotine, and I still don’t know what I’m going to do when it falls.
I’ve stopped looking for marketing jobs. The video is still out there, still circulating, still poisoning every application I submit. Two interviews in the first week, both of which ended abruptly when my name was Googled. After that, I stopped trying.
This is my life now. This restaurant, these tables, these endless hours on my feet.
And somehow, impossibly, it doesn’t suck.
The staff becomes something like family. Diego saves me the good bread from the kitchen. Marianna covers my tables when I need bathroom breaks. Even Marco, gruff and demanding, has started calling me “kid” in a way that feels almost affectionate.
I’m laughing more than I have in months. Not the polished, practiced laugh I used in meetings and client dinners, but something real, something that bubbles up from my chest without permission.
Marianna and I are closing out our sections on a slow Tuesday night when she brings up the owner again.
“He’s supposed to come in this week,” she says, wiping down a table with practiced efficiency. “Marco got the call this morning.”
“The mysterious Eric Bailey?”
“The one and only.” She grins. “You should see everyone scramble when he shows up. It’s like the Pope visiting a convent.”
I snort. “That’s a weird comparison.”
“You know what I mean. Everyone wants to impress him.”
“Even Sophia?”
Marianna rolls her eyes. “Especially Sophia. She practically vibrates when he walks in. It would be sad if it wasn’t so entertaining.”
I think about what she told me before, about Sophia and the owner, the rumored relationship that never quite resolved itself.
“You think it’s true? That they dated?”
“Honestly?” Marianna pauses, considering. “I don’t know. Sophia acts like it’s true, but Eric - Mr. Bailey - he never treats her any different than the rest of us. Cold, professional, barely acknowledges her. If they did have something, it clearly didn’t end well.”
“Maybe that’s why she’s so intense about it.”
“Maybe.” Marianna shrugs. “Or maybe she’s just delusional. Either way, it’s not my business.”
We finish closing and walk out together, the cool night air a relief after the heat of the kitchen. Marianna waves goodbye and heads for her car while I start the walk to the bus stop, my feet aching with every step.
The motel room is waiting for me. The garbage bags in the corner, still mostly unpacked. The thin walls that let in every sound from the rooms around me. The stained ceiling I stare at every night while sleep refuses to come.
But also: the money I’ve saved, slowly accumulating. The calluses on my hands that prove I can work, I can survive, I can build something from the wreckage of my old life. The laughter with Marianna, the nods from Diego, the small kindnesses that remind me I’m not alone.
Sebastian’s deadline is in three weeks. I still don’t have a plan.
But for the first time since that night at the anniversary dinner, I feel something that might be hope.