“Nothing!” we chirp in unison.
“Uh-huh.” He chuckles, shuffling past with a tray of freshly made burger patties, his eyes on Misty. “Don’t think I wanna know what that Cheshire Cat’s grin is all about, but it’s too busy out there to be fawning over hockey players.”
Misty huffs and takes two steps toward the door before stopping. “Do you know how many people want you two to get together? You should see all the stuff online.”
“No, thanks.” I fumble with the apron ties around my waist. “Why do people even care? They don’t know us. What happens between us has no impact on them.”
“Because it’s like a fairy tale!”
A fairy tale.
The poor, lonely waitress with a past, the jaded single mother with scars, who scrubs ketchup off tables and serves fries to truck drivers, ensnares the rich, gorgeous, kind prince. I guess it’s kind of like Cinderella. Though Cinderella got herself beautiful glass slippers on her night of magic. Mine involved shabby black heels, which were left for dead in a ditch.
I open my mouth to warn Misty that we need to get out front when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I smother the excitement. “Who else is working tonight?”
“Rose and Caitlyn.”
Two thirty-something-year-old ladies who know how to manage their sections. Good.
“You should get out there before Lou finds you. I’ll be another second.” I wait until the door to the diner stops swinging behind her before I pull out my phone, my heart pounding against my bones.
Can I call you?
I exhale and try to calm my racing heart. Maybe Misty was right, all I needed to do was reach out.
I’m just starting my shift now. After?
I should be home and settled before ten.
Sure. Let me know when you’re free.
The kitchen door flies open. “Is Cath here—oh, thank heavens.” Lou’s face is flushed. “I don’t know where these people keep crawlin’ in from, but they’re all asking if you’re workin’ tonight. It’s gonna be another busy one.” She frowns. “Where’s your security guy?”
I tuck my phone into my pocket. “At home, with Brenna.”
Lou’s brows raise.
“I’m fine. Leroy’ll protect me.”
His face splits into a wide grin as he deftly swings his cast iron frying pan by the handle. “Are you tellin’ me I get to deliver an ass whoppin’ tonight?”
“The only ass gettin’ whopped around here will be yours if you don’t get Table Twenty-nine’s food up in the next three minutes!” Lou scolds.
Loading my arms with a rack of clean glasses, I march out onto the floor, my spirits soaring as I count down the hours until I hear Brett’s voice again.
July 2010
I pedal languidly in the early-morning heat, just fast enough to keep my bike upright as I coast down quiet Main Street, eyeing the strip of colorful storefronts and cafés. Places where owners greet tourists with wide smiles and welcoming gestures.
Owners whose eyes flashed with surprise when they saw my name at the top of my résumé, who forced polite smiles and “We’ll let you know” about jobs they immediately decided they would never consider me for. I never got so much as a phone call from anyone.
I don’t even try to push aside the bitterness that edges my thoughts lately. It’s going to be a long-ass summer of killing days at the park, at the library, at Jasper’s public beach. Anywhere but home. But at least it’s summer.
At last I’m away from the whispers and sneers that trail me through the claustrophobic halls and classrooms of Balsam High. I wonder if people will be bored of talking about me and Scott by the time I have to go back.
I stop to avoid the car door that’s thrown ahead of me, an elderly man stepping out without bothering to check his side view mirror. A small part of me wonders what would have happened if I’d been pedaling a little faster, if I’d been knocked to the left, into the traffic that coasts past. Would anyone truly care? How fast would they come running?
I’m still waiting for the man to move when the door to Balsam’s little French café—aptly named Le Petit Café—opens.
My breath catches in my chest as Scott steps out, a brown paper bag in one hand, a tray holding two paper coffee cups in the other, a smile on his face. He uses his foot to hold the door open for a blonde woman.
She’s pretty. She’s older. She’s polished.
She’s his ex-girlfriend.
And when she offers to take the tray of coffees from him, it frees his hand to take hers.
My stomach plummets as I watch them walking side by side, hand in hand, away from me.
“Hey, Cath! Your guy’s at the game!” Chip calls out from his barstool, pointing the remote at the flat-screen as he turns up the volume. The arena is filled with a sea of white and blue as thousands of Maple Leaf fans pour into their seats. The place isn’t without a healthy smattering of orange-and-black jerseys, though.
“He’s not my guy,” I correct him, even as my heart skips a beat and my eyes glue themselves to the TV screen, waiting for a glimpse of Brett’s handsome face. I guess the doctor’s orders of rest don’t apply to game seven.
Ever aware of the prying eyes around me, I try to hide my smile as the TV cameras zoom in on him in the box, looking sharp in a charcoal suit and tie, his navy shirt drawing out his piercing eyes, talking to another man. The bruises are nothing more than faded yellow-tinged marks now, and his hair is styled in that tousled sexy way that I love.
Brett glances up and, realizing that he’s on camera, offers a small, reserved wave to the crowd. A loud roar of cheers and hollers erupts and I can’t contain my grin.
However, I can’t miss the low undercurrent of jeers as well. Nor do I miss the flash to the crowd, to see that it’s not fans wearing Leaf jerseys doing it.
“Are Flyers fans booing him?”
“Yup,” Chip confirms through a sip of his Coke.
“Why?”
“Because we were pretty much guaranteed the Cup and now it’s a crap shoot.”
“But they’ve made it to game seven!”
“This series should’ve been done three games ago. People are blaming Madden and Grabner for it.”
“They’re blaming a dead guy? Are you kidding me?”
He shrugs. “They’re blaming the guy who was driving his Corvette too fast down a winding road in the fog. That accident was completely avoidable. And because they were on their way to a “work function,” we’re gonna be paying out Madden’s monstrous contract as if he got hurt on the ice, even if he never puts on skates again.”