2. Levi
TWO
Levi
When he said I’d be serving his table, I didn’t know he meant the front table. As in the one with all the richest people and the lady who’s hosting this whole thing, raising money for some youth outreach center.
Fortunately, there are two to three servers per table, so it’s not totally on me. And it does mean that I get to finish the event, which means I’ll get paid in full, and that means I can pay back some of the rent I’m behind on.
But I’ll still be so close to eviction that it hardly matters.
Fuck, I can’t think about that right now. I have to study the diagram of the table to memorize the food orders and seat assignments of each person I’ll be serving. Of course my eyes snag on his name first: Ethan Castle. He’s sitting right next to the host, Ruby Castle.
Oh my God. This is his family’s charity.
I always imagined charities as something that people sent in twenty-five dollars to because an ad on TV showed a sad puppy or a sick kid. I had no idea they looked like this, with a string quartet playing and lobster tail as an appetizer.
I grab my two assigned plates from the kitchen, Ethan’s and one for a man across the table from him. The other servers have heavier loads, but for obvious reasons, I’m not really trusted.
I follow the other servers out, one male, one female. They share a disdainful look, but they otherwise pretend I don’t exist. That’s fine. I’m used to it.
What I’m not used to is the way Ethan grabbed my hand and led me across the ballroom.
Okay, that sounds weird.
But it was weird.
I was so stunned the whole time that I just kind of let it all happen. He took charge and… there I was. And, really, what was I going to do? He was helping me.
But why did I feel so strange the whole time? Not bad-strange, just strange. Alert but also kind of relaxed? And maybe… warm?
I’m overthinking it.
I’m sure it was nothing. This is a charity event after all. He was probably just being nice. He’s probably already forgotten me.
The thought weighs a little heavy for some reason, but it’s for the best. I just have to get through this dinner, get my money, and go. I mean, what did I think, that we were gonna be… friends or something? God, I’m such a dumbass.
I follow the other servers through the ballroom.
Even from a distance, I spot Ethan easily.
It’s partly that he’s so handsome. Objectively, of course.
I mean, it’s way too obvious to not notice, especially with that Henry-Cavill hair.
But it’s more than that. I’m not sure what the more is, but it’s hard not to look at him.
And for some reason, he’s looking at me. At least, I think he is. I repress the urge to look over my shoulder to check whether he might be looking at someone behind me. I have to focus. The last thing I want is to drop another tray.
I get to Ethan, but I’m watching the other servers so I can mimic them. I don’t really look at Ethan until I’ve set down his plate and only then because the hair is lifting on the back of my neck.
His dark eyes are hard to read, but he’s staring at me so intently that I almost think he’s angry.
I jerk my eyes away. I need to do my work, nothing more.
I see that the other servers are moving clockwise, so I do the same, moving around the table to set down the second plate in front of my other assigned person, John Clifford.
He’s gray-haired and sort of grandfatherly.
Mr. Clifford smiles a little and thanks me, which seems unusual but nice. I nod and offer a quiet, “Sir,” before stepping back. As I wait for the other servers so we can retreat together, I scan the glasses around the table, but nothing needs bused or refilled.
I try so hard to not look at Ethan again, but my eyes jump to him anyway.
He is angry. I can see the muscle bunching in his jaw, and he’s looking right at me.
Then his eyes move with a sort of predatory slowness to the man I just served.
Ethan watches Mr. Clifford for a moment, then his eyes come back to me with something like…
warning. Goosebumps erupt all over my body, and I feel something strange in my groin.
The seconds drag by agonizingly until the other servers finish, then I turn away in relief to follow them.
We have a brief interval before serving the sorbet, so I find a space out of the way in the servers’ room.
I have to calm down. I’m imagining things.
There’s no reason for someone like Ethan to be paying attention to someone like me.
I’m creating a story that doesn’t exist, and I don’t know why. I don’t even know what the story is.
A female voice asks, “Are you okay?”
I startle, looking up at the female server from my table. She looks around my age, mid-twenties. Her tone is cold, and so is her expression. I become very aware that I’m being too expressive with my face and body. People don’t like that.
I feel myself close up and go still. It doesn’t exactly feel good, but it feels like how I’m supposed to be.
“Yeah,” I reply. “Thanks.”
I don’t know why I thank her. She wasn’t really asking. She doesn’t care. The point of the question was to tell me to get my shit together, and she confirms that by walking off without another word.
But maybe I needed it, because by the time we’re serving the sorbet course, I’ve got myself under control.
I don’t look at Ethan, at least not directly. When Mr. Clifford touches my arm and asks me to change his entrée, I could swear I feel Ethan’s gaze on me, but I ignore it. I have to focus. I have to stay in reality, not wander off into some weird, half-formed fantasy.
Reality is being two months behind on rent because I got fired—again. I can’t fuck this up. I’d be removed from the list of temps, and I have nothing else right now. The only reason they took me for this was job desperation.
I escape with the other servers and report the entrée change to the kitchen.
Halfway done.
When we serve the main course, I’m still closed up.
I’m functioning correctly, and there are no mishaps.
I accept Mr. Clifford’s thanks for the entrée adjustment.
But when I step back to wait for the other servers, I look at Ethan.
I try to tell myself that I’m checking on him because it’s my job, but my eyes lock, caught by his gaze.
An electrical current seems to travel through the air and shock my nerves. It lifts all the hair on my body. I don’t know why I feel so strange when he looks at me.
I take in his face more fully than I have before. I see past his handsomeness to the actual characteristics of his face. It’s slightly broad, with dark, beautiful eyes and a strong, clean jawline. His cheeks are hollow, his lips are full and firm, and there’s a subtle cleft in his chin.
His hand lifts from the white tablecloth.
He motions for me to come. My feet obey at once, but tension hums along my nerves as I walk around the curve of the table to his side.
I don’t know why I come so close, but it feels right.
It is right, because his eyes are on me the whole time and he motions me closer. I bend down.
My face is right at his shoulder. His lips are close to my ear. It makes my scalp prickle.
He speaks in a quiet but forceful tone. “Don’t talk to him.”
Startled, I turn my head to look at Ethan—and I find his face so close to mine that we could kiss. I don’t know why that bizarre thought occurs to me. I’ve never kissed a man. I’ve never kissed anyone.
“You know who I mean,” Ethan whispers, and somehow I do. He means Mr. Clifford.
I don’t know how to respond, so I just hover there, frozen, until Ethan says, “Get me a fresh drink.”
My eyes drop to his glass. It’s about half full, so it doesn’t really make sense to me, but what would I know? I don’t drink. Everything I’ve tried has been disgusting.
“Same?” I ask.
“I’ll switch to whiskey. The Macallan 18. Neat.”
He holds up the half-full glass for me to take. I’m careful not to touch his hand and he doesn’t touch mine. But it feels like we touch.
I leave with the glass on my tray and make my way to the bar. It’s not actually the standard procedure. I’m supposed to relay the order to an unassigned server, but Ethan told me to do something and I’m going to do it.
When I’ve got the whiskey, I return to him.
Somehow, I manage not to run into anyone, which is a miracle because I don’t think I ever take my eyes off Ethan.
He, however, is no longer watching me. He’s been drawn into conversation with the woman beside him.
Ruby Castle. I don’t know their relationship—mother?
aunt? much older sister?—but it looks strained to me.
They’re polite, but something feels off.
I don’t like it. It’s none of my business, obviously, and I wouldn’t dream of saying anything, but I really don’t like seeing him talking to her. He’s different with her. Sharper. Almost sly.
When I set the glass down, it thumps. It startles me because I don’t feel like I’m the one doing it. I would never set a glass down like that. In irritation. For attention. It was an accident.
Ethan’s eyes snap to me. They’re dark and unreadable, but a slow smile forms on his lips.
He all but purrs, “Thank you, Levi.”
Why am I breathing so hard?
Why does my body feel so strange?
I swallow it all down.
I nod.
I leave.
I take a bathroom break. The entrée course is the longest, so there’s plenty of time. Too much time actually. I’m agitated. Something feels off. Something feels incomplete.
In the bathroom stall, I close my eyes and try to settle. Things always feel incomplete. That’s just life. Connections are always imaginary. No one cares. No one notices.
I return to the servers’ room, where several dozen people, all dressed like me but better than me, are sipping water or talking in little groups. A few are alone but on their phones.
I find an empty corner and put myself there to wait. I’m tempted to get out my phone and pretend that I’m busy too, but I don’t. I wouldn’t be able to focus.
Like clockwork, the servers leave their conversations to rotate through the ballroom and check the status of drinks and plates. When I go out, Ethan watches me. I’m not making it up. It is reality. But I don’t know how to understand it, and it’s too much. I escape.
Others bus the tables while we collect the desserts from the kitchen, then we sweep out into the ballroom to deliver the final course.
Mr. Clifford pats my arm in what feels like an affectionate way. There’s nothing I can do about it, so I just accept it and walk around the table to deliver Ethan’s chocolate torte.
His nostrils are flared. His knuckles are white.
For some reason, I get that strange feeling in my groin again.
When I set down the plate, Ethan’s fingers touch my wrist like two hot coals.
I freeze there under the burning touch, waiting, anticipating, hoping for more.
And for some reason, in my mind, more is a sudden, bizarre desire for him to attack me.
To leap from his chair and push me down.
To pin me to the ground like I have to stay there.
He doesn’t, of course.
He withdraws his hand.
He lets me go.
And though he has to, and though I’m used to being let go, I still find myself feeling like I’m going to cry as I follow the other servers from the ballroom.
* * *
It’s over.
Finally, it’s over.
After the dinner, there was an auction then drinks. The drinks went on forever, especially because I lost track of Ethan right after the auction. I think he left.
I’ll never see him again.
I don’t know why that thought weighs so heavy, given that I generally avoid people. Case in point, I’m stepping out into the alley so I don’t have to walk through the crowd of servers talking and smoking at the back doors.
At least I’m back in my own clothes. I hated all that restriction, especially having my feet crammed into shoes that were too small. But that’s me, I guess, always existing places that I don’t fit.
Fuck, why am I depressed?
I’m not, I tell myself. I’m just tired. Everything will be fine tomorrow. Fine enough anyway. Back to normal.
Pointless.
Stop it. Get the hell over yourself.
I stuff my hands into the pockets of my old bomber jacket, partly out of habit, partly because the September evening is cool, and I start walking.
“You know, you really should pay attention to your surroundings.”
I yelp and wheel around to see a dark figure moving toward me through the alley.