Chapter 8 #2
The sound of the receipt printing jolts me back to reality, and I scan the diner guiltily, as if the customers can somehow see the images in my head.
I half expect one of the tables of older women—retired teachers on a trip back from Portland, they explained—to be staring at me with matching expressions of shock and judgment.
Of course, they aren’t. That would be ridiculous.
Slamming shut that train of thought—again—I slide the receipt into the checkbook and head back over to table thirteen.
I tell them thanks and to have a good day, then take another quick look around the dining room to figure out what I need to do next.
Table twelve is still eating, and they look happy.
Fourteen is waiting on their burgers, but I haven’t gotten buzzed for them yet.
Table ten needs bussing, so I decide to tackle that first, finding an extra tray and loading it with empty glasses and plates.
Just as I’m hefting the tray onto my shoulder, the TV above the counter flickers. A second later, the screen goes black.
One of the regulars sitting at the counter groans, “The race. They were in the final lap.”
He spins in his seat, his gaze sweeping around the diner, ostensibly to see if one of the other four TVs is showing the end of the race. But just like the TV above the counter, the rest of the screens are dark.
From a table in the corner, a man gripes, “Damn cable company. Charges a fortune and the service is crap.”
It’s not the cable company though, I silently counter, it’s a streaming service. And I know the internet is working, because table thirteen’s credit card payment wouldn’t have gone through if it wasn’t.
Maybe it’s the Wi-Fi, I consider. It’s possible the router needs to be rebooted.
Inwardly sighing, I head back to the kitchen to ask Doug about the router. If it were up to me, I’d leave the TVs off, but I don’t think that would go over with this crowd very well. Not when it’s baseball and horse racing season, and a lot of our regulars are big fans.
“Do you know what happened to the TVs?” Glenda calls to me from a few tables over. “Did the internet go down?”
“Nope,” I reply. “I just ran a card and everything worked fine. I bet it’s the—”
All at once, the TVs come on again.
The man at the counter lets out an irritated huff. “Great, now that the race is over, it comes back on.”
But the TV isn’t showing the end of the race, with horses loping around the track to cool down while the winner cheers victoriously.
Just like the rest of the TVs aren’t displaying the baseball games and random cornhole tournament we picked for variety.
At first, as I look at the screens, I can’t comprehend what I’m seeing.
My brain won’t allow it.
A tiny voice in the back of my head insists, This can’t be real. It has to be a figment of my imagination.
“Hey, what’s this?” the man in the corner asks. “Is Doug putting on R-rated movies now? Because if he is, I’m definitely in favor of it.”
At the table beside me, a mother claps her hand over her son’s eyes. “Don’t look at that,” she hisses. “It’s not appropriate.”
And then there’s me.
Frozen in the middle of the diner, staring at myself on the television screen.
Or rather, five matching images of myself, one on each TV in the diner.
My shirt is off, and I’m wearing a pale blue bra, one I actually ended up throwing away because the lace was too itchy.
To my horror, I watch myself reach beneath the band to scratch my skin, leaving a series of pink lines behind.
Then I adjust the bra, lifting my breasts and smoothing the fabric over them.
Finally, I bend over slightly to grab my shirt off my desk, so there’s a clear view of my face, front and center on the TV screen.
“Noelle?” Glenda asks quietly. “What’s going on?”
But I can’t answer her.
I can’t speak.
I can’t move.
No, the little voice pleads, this has to be a nightmare. It can’t be real.
My heart races so fast I’m lightheaded from it, echoing in great, thundering beats in my head.
A tingling sensation spreads through my body.
My lungs forget to work.
Tears spring to my eyes, prickling and burning.
Without warning, the tray I’m holding falls to the ground with a crash. Glass shatters. Plates break into pieces. Silverware clatters.
I can feel all the eyes in the diner on me. Staring. Speculating. Judging.
“Noelle?” Glenda asks. “Are you—”
“Hey, what’s going on?” Doug enters the dining room, sounding confused. “Is everything okay out here?”
My humiliation ratchets even higher as I realize that not only have fifty or so patrons and several wait staff seen me shirtless, touching my breasts, but so has my sixty-year-old boss. Not just seen me, but they can watch me on repeat, as the video of me fixing my bra starts playing again.
A low whimper sounds in the back of my throat.
Hot tears leak down my cheeks.
“Noelle,” Doug says. The concern in his voice makes my tears flow faster. “Why don’t you come into my office.” He pauses. “Glenda, take her tables. Please.”
Panic explodes inside me. I can’t lose another job. I can’t. And especially not this one. Not when I’m finally getting comfortable here. Not when I have Webb—
God, Webb. He won’t want to be with me after he finds out about this.
I drop to my knees, barely feeling the sting of glass shards poking through my pants. Then I start collecting the broken pieces of glass and ceramic while I say in a shaking voice, “I’ll… get this cleaned up. Please… just don’t walk over here. Not until—”
A large piece of glass stabs into my palm.
Swallowing back a yelp of pain, I yank the glass out and toss it onto the tray. Then I reach for another piece, but my vision is blurry, and I end up cutting myself again.
A hand lands on my shoulder. “Noelle, honey. Stop.”
It’s Doug. And he sounds so worried, so kind, he reminds me of my dad. Which makes me cry harder, because I wish my dad was here. I wish I could tell him what happened, and he’d have my back—
“Noelle, honey, you’re bleeding,” Doug says. “Stop. I’ll take care of this. Just come into my office and we’ll get you cleaned up. Figure this out.”
Belatedly, I realize I’m making things worse. I have blood smeared on my hands, there are red marks on the floor, and no doubt, everyone’s still staring at me. So I climb to my feet and clasp my bleeding hand to my chest. “I’m sorry,” I mumble with my gaze still on the floor. “I’ll just…”
“Is the waitress the lady on the TV?” a childish voice asks from across the diner. “Why was her shirt off?”
And that’s it.
The last straw.
Ducking my head, I race into the kitchen, banging my elbow hard on the swinging door as I go. Then I sprint to the employee bathroom, which—small bit of luck—is empty, and lock myself inside of it.
Once I’m there, I sink down onto the cold tile and burst into tears.
As I sob, my mind spins with unanswerable questions and ones I don’t want the answer to.
Will he ever leave me alone? Will these awful videos follow me wherever I go?
Do I have to move? Can I ever hold my head up in town again?
Will Webb want to be with me after this? Will he believe me if I tell him the truth?
The pain in my hand is nothing compared to the ache in my heart.
In the last few weeks, I’ve seen glimmers of hope for my future—a new home in Williston, working in the diner while I play around with the idea of starting a small community theater, a relationship with Webb—but after this, they’ve all been extinguished.
I feel pitiful, hiding in the employee bathroom, leaving other people to clean up my mess. But I can’t bring myself to go back out there. I can’t even bring myself to move.
As I shift on the floor, my phone presses into my butt, and I have a fleeting thought of calling Webb.
I could ask him to come, and I think he would.
He would hug me and get all growly in that protective way of his, and I can even picture him walking beside me as we leave the diner, him throwing warning glances at anyone who dared look at me the wrong way.
But calling Webb means dragging him into this whole mess. It means telling him the truth about why I came here. It means him finding out about the video—
Another wounded sound comes from deep inside me.
Stupid Noelle. Of course he’s going to find out. If not from me, someone else will mention it the next time he comes to Williston.
A broken sob escapes as I think about the other night at the movie. Webb was so sweet, planning a date he thought I’d enjoy, even though I know the movie wasn’t really his taste. He packed a picnic, and he gave me my adorable stuffed Bigfoot that I’ve slept with every night since then.
We won’t have dates like that again. Not when I’m the town pariah—the woman who was shirtless on the diner TV. I wouldn’t blame Webb—
“Noelle? Are you in there?”
Webb’s rumbly voice comes through the door, startling me so badly I let out a screech of fright.
His tone is rough. Urgent. “Noelle? What’s going on?” He pauses. “Doug said you cut yourself. Are you okay? How badly are you hurt?”
“Webb?” My voice is so small, I’m not sure if he can hear me. “Why are you here?”
“Doug called me,” he replies. “Since he knows we’re dating. He said something happened and you were really upset.”
“Did he… tell you? What happened?”
Something solid thunks softly on the other side of the door. Maybe his hand? “Yeah, sweetheart. He told me. Are you okay?” Another pause. “Shit. Of course you’re not okay.”
Now that Webb’s here it’s almost worse than when he wasn’t. I desperately want to open the door and throw myself into his arms. But knowing that Doug told him about the video, that he may have even seen it…
“Did you see it?” I whisper.
Webb sighs. “Only because Doug showed it to me on the TV in his office. He wanted me to know what happened. But the TVs in the diner are all off.”
Another whimper escapes. “You saw?”
“Yeah. But there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Why don’t you open the door and we can—”
“No. You should go home. This… it’s too much of a mess. This wasn’t what you imagined when we started dating. It’s not fair to ask you to be a part of it.”
“Noelle.” Webb sounds offended. “I didn’t start seeing you with conditions attached. Whatever’s going on, I want to help.”
“Then just go home,” I retort. I’m not sure why I’m being so stubborn, or why I’m telling him to leave when my body is aching to be held by him. “I’ll handle it.”
When he doesn’t answer, I’m certain that he left.
Disappointment creeps through me, which is ridiculous, because I’m the one who told him to go.
Then the doorknob rattles. A series of soft clicks follows.
Several seconds later, the door opens, revealing Webb standing on the other side.
As I gape at him, his gaze sweeps over me. Though his expression is worried, his features are hard. A muscle ticks in his jaw. His shoulders are high and tight.
“Noelle,” he says. “Oh, sweetheart.” Then he crouches beside me and takes my hand carefully into his. “You’re bleeding.”
“I’m fine.” Which would be more convincing if I wasn’t crying as I said it.
Webb stares at me for a long moment. “No. You’re not.” Then he kisses my cheeks, first one, then the other. “And I think it’s been a while since things were okay. Am I right?”
Even as I’m shaking my head, I whisper, “Yes.”
His jaw works. Intensity burns in his eyes. Then he stands, grabs a long roll of paper towels, and carefully wraps my hands in it. “Okay,” he says, “here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to Doug’s office to clean and bandage your hands. After that, we’re leaving. I’m taking you home, and—”
“I can’t leave,” I blurt. “I’m working a double.
I have to get back out there, clean up the mess I made.
” Glancing down, I realize my shirt is covered with bloodstains.
“I need a new shirt, and I have to replace all the glasses, so I have to work to pay for it. Assuming Doug doesn’t want to fire me for making a scene in his diner.
But he probably will, and I’ll be unemployed again, and I won’t be able to pay my rent… ”
Webb silences me with a soft kiss. Then he puts his arm around me and helps me to my feet. “You’re not going to get fired, Noelle. And if Doug insists on you paying for the broken glasses or a new T-shirt, I’ll pay for it.”
I peer up at him, blinking away my tears. “You can’t.”
His tone is firm. “Yes, Noelle, I can. And I will, if it comes to that. But you’re not working anymore today. Period. I already told Doug I’m taking you home, and he agreed.”
Maybe another time, I’d take issue with Webb’s no-arguments proclamation. But right now, I don’t have the energy or desire to resist. Not when I’m feeling so raw and vulnerable. So I just nod against his neck and mumble, “Okay.”
Webb leans back slightly so he can look at my face. “Do you want to go to your place or mine?”
“Mine,” I whisper. “So I can shower and change my clothes.”
“Okay.” He tucks my wrapped hands against my chest, holding them carefully. Then he leads me out of the bathroom, supporting me when my legs wobble. “We’ll take the back exit, so you don’t have to see anyone else, alright?”
“Okay.” As we start down the hallway to Doug’s office, a belated thought hits me. “How did you get into the bathroom? I locked the door.”
Webb hugs me closer. “I picked the lock.”
“You picked the lock?”
“Yeah.” His cheeks turn the faintest pink. Then he lifts his chin. “Doug said you were upset. Hurt. Bleeding. I wasn’t about to just leave you in there, Noelle. Not when you needed me.”
Oh.
Despite the horribleness of my day so far, a tiny spark of warmth flares to life inside me. Swallowing hard against the lump in my throat, I reply quietly, “I’m glad you did.”