I’m already swinging the tray away, but I pause mid-action. “I think it’s baked macaroni. Do you at least want the drinks? No charge.”
The woman pushes her glasses up on her head, finally noticing the missing lens. Her laugh surprises me. It rings through the room. “Well, that’s embarrassing. And shows you what kind of birthday I’m having. You know, it’s the oddest thing, but this macaroni looks and smells exactly like what my mom used to make us on our birthdays.”
“Gramma?” the oldest child asks, perking up.
The mom’s face softens. “Yeah.” She touches the edge of the pale yellow dish. “This even looks like one of her baking dishes. That’s so strange! You know what, we want this.”
“Yeah?” I ask, confused.
“Yes. If we could get some plates?”
“Of course!” I rush behind the counter and grab four plates and silverware sets. The mom is in the middle of telling some story about a birthday treasure hunt. Everyone has calmed down—the older ones have stopped whining, the baby is eating the Cheerios, and the toddler is satisfied with his chocolate milk. The mom looks about ten years younger than she did when I walked in here.
“Can I get you anything else?”
She gives me a happy shake of her head. “This is perfect, thanks.”
I retreat, relieved but puzzled. Why did the new cook make that? Maybe someone else was here? I push through the door to ask what’s going on. And then I’m grateful my mouth is already open, otherwise I couldn’t have covered my jaw-drop.
Because the new cook is not some paunched, sixty-something, chain-smoking deadbeat.
He’s tall, a ridiculous chef’s hat making him even taller. Lean, with shoulders slanting inward so he seems to take up less space than he really does. Thick, dark eyebrows. There’s a single line between them that should make him look like a worrier, but there’s something inherently pleasant about his face. Maybe it’s the way his nose has the slightest off-center curve, like it was broken into a sideways smile.
Oh, and he’s not old. Maybe twenty, tops.
Oh, and he’s not unattractive.
“Hi!” He looks up from something boiling on the range. And there—when he smiles, his whole face lights up. It’s like his other expressions are placeholders.
I realize I’m beaming back. I tame my own mouth so I don’t look like a total idiot. “Hey. So. You’re the new cook?” Oof, yes, ask the guy cooking if he’s the new cook.
“Yeah! Isn’t this place amazing?”
“There … was no sarcasm in that statement. I’m confused.”
He laughs. “I couldn’t believe my luck when they hired me.”
Maybe I don’t know him well enough to understand when he’s joking. Surely he’s not sincere. He removes the pot from the stove, wipes his hands dry, and then holds one out to me. “I’m Ben.”
“Maria.”
His hand is big, but not in a meaty sort of way. I let go before he does, self-conscious. I don’t know what I look like right now. I didn’t bother checking myself in a mirror before coming over, because again: this is not what I expected to find.
There must be something wrong with him. Like, seriously wrong. It’s the only explanation for why he would consider himself lucky for getting this job.
The front door jingles as Santa insults another customer. Ben returns to whatever he’s making—for no one, apparently—and I walk out and scan the restaurant. It’s still empty except for the family, who seem to be having a great time. After checking to make sure their drinks are filled, I go back to Ben. I lean as casually as I can manage against the counter, but the kitchen is weird now. No comforting sameness. Ben has transformed it into an unknown quantity.
“So, who ordered the macaroni?” I ask.
“Table two needed it.”
“Right. But she didn’t order it.”
He shrugs, as though he, too, is unaware of how this all worked out. But there’s a sly pull at one corner of his lips. “They like it, though.” It’s not a question.
“They’re thrilled. Have you looked at the menu? We don’t offer baked macaroni. Probably because Dottie couldn’t think of a way to make it Christmassy.” Her signature dish is the Rudolph’s Delight Salad—iceberg lettuce, ranch dressing, and one token cherry tomato.
He shrugs again, and this time both corners of his lips follow the upward movement. “First day. I’ll figure things out.”
“Maybe it’s better if you don’t. That looked way yummier than anything we make.” Since it looks like Candy isn’t here, I reluctantly grab my uniform from its peg. It’s a red polyester dress that never sits right, with a red-and-white-striped apron. We also have to wear sequined reindeer-antler headbands.
Year. Round.
The door to the women’s bathroom always sticks, so I shove it open with my shoulder. It nearly slams into Candy, who’s leaning over the sink.
“Oh, sorry! I thought the bathroom was empty.” I turn to go, when I realize her shoulders are shaking. “Candy? You okay?”
Her reflection is drained of color by the fluorescent lights. She has dark circles under her eyes, but that’s nothing new. At least they aren’t bruises this week. Two years ago, when she first moved in with her boyfriend, Jerry, she was bubbly and bright. We used to hang out sometimes after work, if Jerry was still on a shift at the mine. She wanted to be a hair stylist, someday open up her own salon. She even had plans to go to business school so she could run it. But little by little, she stopped talking about school. Jerry didn’t like it. Then she stopped talking about doing hair. Then she pretty much stopped talking at all. I see her every single day, but I miss her.
She holds up a white stick, expression blank. “I’m pregnant.”
I close the door behind me. “Congratulations?”
“I had to sneak out from my shift to buy the test. I’m sorry. I couldn’t go any other time, because then he’d know.”
Jerry always picks her up. I see him sometimes, on the front sidewalk, counting her tips. And on payday he holds out his hand for her check without even asking.
She leans over the sink. Her spine curves, her head droops. “How am I ever gonna get away now?”
*
I make Candy stay in the bathroom. It’s not like it’s busy. When the family leaves, I trudge toward their table, dreading the mess. Instead, I find everything neatly stacked, no spilled drinks, no overturned plates. And—gloriously, impossibly—a twenty-dollar tip.
I squeal so loudly that Ben sticks his head out of the window. “Everything okay?”
“Better than okay! Best tip I’ve ever gotten! Thank you, Benjamin!”
“You’re welcome. But Ben isn’t short for Benjamin.”
The door jingles, announcing my mom … and Rick? Rick always says, “Why would I pay for someone else to make my food?” as he boils a scoop of rice or beans or whatever else he got in the bargain bin.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
My mom glances around. She works in the back and rarely visits the actual dining area. She never can get over the diner’s shock-and-awe decorating tactics. A penguin nativity, complete with little baby penguin Jesus, snags her attention. “Our shift was halted. Machine failure. We thought you’d be home. We wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Candy’s … sick. So I’m covering.”
Rick’s hands are jammed in the pockets of his Wranglers. “Your homework done?”