“I love pancakes,” I say, handing over my menu. My eyes track down to her nametag: Hi! I’m Ginny!
She’s definitely an exclamation point kind of girl.
“I’ve never seen you around before.” Pink gum snaps between her teeth. “Visiting Alaska?”
I glance around the diner I’m in—the extremely kitschy and aptly named Moose on the Loose is moderately busy for being a twenty-table sort of joint. Best of all, it’s within a few bus stops of my new home. “Actually, I just moved here.” I finger my water glass; it’s already got condensation around the sides, so I’m able to wet my fingers.
She frowns. It seems unnatural for her mouth. “To Anchorage?”
I want to laugh, but I can’t. I don’t know if I can actually ever laugh again. “Why not Anchorage?”
“Most of us,” she says, leaning in and whispering loudly but conspiratorially, “are trying to get the hell out of here.”
I look out the window next to me, at the pristine view beyond. “It’s gorgeous.”
She surprises me by sliding into the booth across from me. “Where are you from?”
I figure it can’t hurt to tell her the truth. “California.”
“Like, from Hollywood?”
I snort at the stereotype. To be fair, I’d expected a bear on every corner of Anchorage’s streets, and I’m sad to say, it’s pretty much like every other big city I’ve been to, save one.
Which shall remain nameless.
And not thought of.
Now I lie. “Yup. Los Angeles.” I’ve read up on the area, so if someone asks me, I’ll know some facts. Besides, I’m blonde and blue-eyed now. A stereotypical Southern California girl.
“Do you know any movie stars?”
Oh, lord. “Nope. Sorry.”
She leans back, tapping her pen against the table. “Hey—are you looking for a job?” I start slightly, and she adds, “Well, I figure, you’re new, right? The Moose is looking for a new waitress. If you’ve already got a job, that’s cool, but I thought I’d throw it out there. Besides, you work here, and you get all the free pancakes you want.”
I’ve been looking for a job for a week now to no avail. Can I really be so lucky? “Seriously?”
“Yeah! You seem like a cool chick who’d fit in well here.”
I don’t give her an opportunity to think otherwise. “I’ll take it.”
The perk of working at a small diner is there’s no orientation and training comes on the job. My first shift is during a Wednesday night. Ginny assures me it’ll be slow, so I’ll have plenty of time to familiarize myself with the joint.
I’m introduced to the other waitress on duty, who’s on a split shift. Ginny and I will close the joint, along with the cook and the dishwasher-slash-owner. The other waitress, named Frieda, looks like a cross between a vampire and her namesake. She’s super pale, with dark hair and eyes. But she seems friendly enough and smells like gardenias, so I figure she can’t be all bad.
The dishwasher/owner ambles out as Frieda grills me on the basics. He’s tall and extremely muscular, with short dark hair and a closely cropped beard. He tells me his name is Paul, and when we shake hands and he welcomes me, I get a feeling that Paul is a really, really good guy. I have nothing to base it on other than his warm, callused hands, but it’s a solid feeling.
“She met Will yet?” Paul asks in a deep, gravelly voice.
“Nope,” Frieda says. She fiddles with the twenty or so plastic bracelets lining her wrist. “Is Will even in the kitchen right now?”
Ginny cranes her neck around to peer into the window separating the kitchen from the diner. “I don’t think he is.” She gives Paul a meaningful look. “Did his phone ring?”
Paul laughs, all rumbly and friendly. “Come to think of it, yeah.”
“You’ll like Will.” Ginny’s bouncing up and down slightly, like her shoes have springs in them.
“Everyone likes Will,” Frieda adds.
“You like Will because he’s hot,” Ginny accuses.
Frieda shrugs. “I’m shallow.”
Silly girls. They have no clue that, hot or not, I will never, ever be interested in any of the guys they ever try to throw in my way.
“Don’t listen to these two.” Paul leans back against the counter and crosses his arms.
“What are we saying that isn’t true?” Frieda asks, picking polish off of her nails. Tiny blood red flakes fall onto a napkin nearby. A memory of someone else’s red nail polish being chipped off tugs at me, but I shut that down quick. “Ginny said Will’s hot. I admitted to being shallow. So far, there’s nothing to disagree with.”
“Paul and Frieda used to date,” Ginny tells me. “But now they’re more like friends with benefits.”
I’m sort of taken aback by how easily they’re revealing things to me. They better not expect the same behavior in return. But this hope is challenged when Paul says, “Ginny says you’re from California?”
Did he not read my application? Before I can answer, Ginny exclaims, “Can you believe she moved here? From Hollywood to Anchorage?”