Page 9 of The Writer

I avoid looking at my other co-workers as I dart to the back of the restaurant and clock in. When I approach the hostess stand to check my duties for the day, Mario is standing there, his expensive cologne peppering the air around him. He’s tall, broad shoulders, his dark hair cut close to his scalp.

“Let me guess. Rough night partying?” There’s that twinkle in his eye that lets me know I’m not in serious trouble.

“I wish I was that cool. I was up late working.”

“Not here.” He looks around the restaurant with a mix of exhaustion and pride. It requires a lot of work to keep a business running, especially in this economy, and Mario has always been an involved employer. “Don’t tell me you picked up another gig.”

“Writing,” I tell him, proudly. “I was up half the night.”

“Ah, the next great American novel. Well, I can’t punish you for that.” He starts to walk back toward the kitchen, then pauses. “But don’t make it a habit, okay?”

“I won’t.”

“You already have your first customer,” he says. “It was a special request.”

The restaurant is mostly empty except for a high-top table close to the bar. Chaz, one of our regulars, sits there, staring at the sports highlights from last night’s games. He’s in his mid-thirties with dark hair and even darker eyes, a crisp button-down tucked into black slacks.

“Early for you, isn’t it?” Usually, I only see him on night shift.

“I was going to say the same to you.” He nods toward the hostess stand. “Nikki was bitching about you being late, and I told her I had to have my favorite server.”

“Lame story.” I fidget with my apron, avoiding Chaz’s eyes. He’s always friendly, makes a point to converse with all the staff, not just me, but there’s an aura around him that always leaves me nervous. “How about you? What brings you in so early?”

“Worked all night. Figured I’d get a good meal before I sleep the rest of the day.”

My eyes move downward, landing on his service weapon, which is secured inside a holster at his waist. Chaz is a police officer with Whitaker PD. He’s one of the few customers who has tried to get to know me over the past year, mainly because he’s here almost as much as I am. No wife. No kids. If he’s not at work, he’s either sleeping or fueling up for his next shift, which makes Mario’s Pizzeria his local hangout.

“Any big happenings in Whitaker?” I ask, trying to keep my face neutral.

“Nothing too interesting,” he says. “In my line of work, that’s a good thing.”

I smile again, my nerves writhing. Maybe it’s Chaz’s gun that puts me so on edge, being close to an object capable of taking a person’s life. Or maybe it’s the badge that bothers me. He always keeps it hidden away, tucked inside the inner folds of his jacket, which is presently draped over a barstool. I’ve never had the best track record with police officers.

“You ready to order?” I ask.

“I’ll take the usual.”

“Club sandwich and a Guinness on draft,” I say.

“You know me too well.”

I smile, relieved to be walking away from his table. Even though being around Chaz—all cops, really—makes me uneasy, I have to play along and act the part of the eager, wide-eyed server. That’s how you end a shift with big tips: pretend to be someone you’re not.

Hell, that’s how I get through life in general, these days.

SIX

It’s raining when my shift ends. I hurry to my car, wishing I could afford a vehicle that included a start button. How nice it would be to let my car warm up as I’m finishing my side work, so that by the time I sat behind the wheel, the interior would be fully heated and cozy. Instead, I press my fingers to the heater, hoping they’ll loosen up before I drive home.

My apartment is only a few blocks away from Mario’s Pizzeria. In the warmer months, I usually walk to and from work. The approaching winter makes me want to be outside as little as possible. As I pull onto the main street, I recall my various interactions throughout the day. The phone call with my mother, yet another reminder that I’m an epic disappointment. Nikki and Mario putting me in my place at work, even if the former is a lot ruder about it. Chaz, my well-meaning regular whose position as a detective always puts me on edge.

Police have always made me nervous. I think it’s a power dynamic that’s ingrained in us early on. The way a person’s adrenaline spikes when they see a squad car behind them on the road, even if they’ve done nothing wrong. My discomfort with the police is more personal. Unfortunately, I’ve had moreinteractions with them than the average person, and it’s never good.

I remember when I first went to them about the black hearts. It was right around the time I moved into my present apartment. The day the moving truck arrived with my belongings, I found an envelope attached to one of the boxes. When I opened it, there was a piece of paper with a single word—Abandoner. On the other side, a black heart.

The fury that rose up inside me was immediate. Wherever I went, it seemed, these black hearts followed, and I was tired of it.

I wrote out a list of the various messages I’d received over the years, even detailing their chaotic aftermath. I wanted to make it clear I’d been ignoring these messages for far too long, and yet even when I’d changed addresses, the sender had somehow found me. There was nothing I could do to protect myself, but surely the police would have better resources.

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