“That was more than thirty years ago, Nat,” Kyle pointed out, pulling away from her. “And she wouldn’t be losing you. She has mothered you, loved you, taken care of you, and now you’re an adult, well within your rights to want to know more about the woman who gave birth to you.”
Natalie sat up and looked at her husband. He’d sounded very lawyerly with that speech, as though he was giving emphatic closing arguments to sum up his case to a jury. “Guess what?” she said, teasing him with their children’s much-used phrase.
He shook his head and pretended to scowl. “What?”
“You’re right,” she told him. “Completely and totally right.”
“Was that on the record, Counselor?” Kyle asked with a grin. Natalie gave him a playful push, and he grabbed her, tickling her ribs. She squealed, and he put his hand over her mouth to keep the noise from waking the kids, who both slept just across the hall.
“What are you going to do now, huh?” he said, as she wiggled inside the circle of his strong arms. This kind of roughhousing often led to a session of passionate lovemaking, but tonight, when he finally let her go, instead of climbing on top of him, Natalie fell back against her pillows with a heavy sigh.
“Now,” she said, “I’ll have to go talk with my mom.”
Brooke
Standing beside a table tucked in the darkest corner of the bar, Brooke was certain she was about to be sick. She clutched her pen, pressing it into her pad as she tried to ignore the rolling, twisting queasiness in her gut. The symptoms had come out of nowhere, and her first thought was that she probably ate something that didn’t agree with her. She thought about asking to go home, but couldn’t afford to leave work—it was Friday night and the place was packed. It would be her best tip night of the week.
Located in Pioneer Square, the Market had opened a year ago. It wasn’t the cleanest or fanciest place to work—it was dingy and dim, catering less to Seattle’s rampant hipster population and more to the blue-collar, grease-under-their-fingernails crowd. But the owner was nice enough and didn’t try to get Brooke to sleep with him, which in her experience, was an anomaly. In her twenties, she used to apply for jobs at more upscale bars and restaurants, but when she interviewed and the owners saw her list of experience at biker bars and intermittent stints at Applebee’s, they always passed on hiring her. Now thirty-nine, Brooke had accepted a career as a cocktail waitress, taking pride in the fact that after aging out of the foster care system at eighteen, she’d never taken another penny from the state. At times, she worked two, sometimes three different jobs in order to stay afloat, which was fine by her. It could be worse, she always told herself. She could not have a job at all.
Brooke wove her way to the servers’ station at the bar and quickly punched in a ticket for her newest table—two double Jack and Cokes. She turned around, ready to walk the floor and check on her other customers, but then the gorge rose in her throat and she ran to the women’s bathroom, hand over her mouth, barely able to shut the stall door behind her before she was over the toilet and heaving.
What the hell? she thought as she was finally able to stand up, wiping her lips and chin with a handful of toilet paper. She mentally reviewed what she’d eaten that day: a bagel with the last of the cream cheese, and a double cheeseburger off the McDonald’s dollar menu on the way to the bar. It was likely the burger that did it, and Brooke immediately vowed to never again eat a fast-food meal.
She exited the stall and then stood in front of the sink, cupping water in her hand and washing out her mouth as best she could. Smoothing her black curls, she wiped away the mascara smeared beneath her eyes and applied a fresh coat of red lipstick, then popped three Altoids. The door swung open, and her coworker Tanya entered.
“Hey,” Tanya said. “I just delivered your order to table twelve.”
“Thanks,” Brooke said, turning to look at Tanya, a short black woman with a heart-shaped face, a multitude of shoulder-length slender braids, and an enormous rack. “Tits equal tips,” she liked to claim, completely unashamed to exploit her sexuality to make money.
“No problem,” Tanya said, taking a minute to glance in the mirror. She reached into her tight, blue V-necked T-shirt and adjusted her breasts for optimal cleavage exposure. She looked over at Brooke and frowned. “You okay? You look like hell.”
“Think I ate a bad burger,” Brooke said. “I’m fine, now.” After making her ill, her nausea had vanished.