Page 37 of I Do, You Don't
Pen meets paper. Breath meets purpose.
I’m building this, brick by brick, dollar by dollar, truth by truth.
Chapter 14
Lara
That same day, I leave the office feeling lighter, like someone’s removed a sandbag from between my shoulder blades, and head straight to work. The diner assaults the senses, silverware scraping against ceramic plates, dozens of conversations melting into a honeyed murmur, the ancient jukebox crackling in the corner as Frank Sinatra fights through decades of dust and neglect.
I duck into the cramped staff room, where the fluorescent light flickers, casting everyone in a jaundiced glow. I tug on my polyester uniform, forever scented with fries no matter how many times I wash it, and smooth my hair with palms still carrying the faint trace of office hand sanitizer. When I step back into the dining area, the wall of noise hits like a physical force. And then I see her.
Delilah.
Perched in a booth near the window, one leg crossed over the other, revealing an expanse of tanned calf. Her blood-red manicure taps a silent rhythm against her water glass, condensation beading beneath her fingers. Expensive, whiskey-colored eyes lock on me, precise, predatory, like a sniper waiting for the perfect shot.
My stomach plummets.
I glance at the dog-eared seating chart taped beside the register. Relief floods me when I see she’s not in my section.
Before Ican slip past, Barbara rushes up, coat half-buttoned over her uniform, her usually perfect lipstick smudged at one corner. Panic widens her pupils. “Emergency. My kid’s school called. I have to go. Can you cover?”
My tongue dries to sandpaper. “Which tables?”
She points directly at Delilah.
Of course. The universe has impeccable comedic timing.
I nod, stretching my lips into what I hope passes for a professional smile. Plastic wrap over teeth.
Delilah’s face lights up with malicious delight as I approach. “Well, look who’s finally making herself useful,” she says, each word dripping with saccharine venom.
“Just doing my job,” I reply, voice as flat as a frozen pond. “Ready to order?”
“I already did,” she says, flicking her wrist at the plate. “But this soup is cold. I’d send it back if I thought you’d actually fix it instead of spitting in it.”
I bite down a retort that tastes like battery acid and take the bowl, careful not to brush her fingers. On my way to the kitchen, I pass my manager, Diane, whose perpetually furrowed brow has carved permanent lines between her eyebrows. I murmur, “Can we nudge the thermostat?”
She raises one penciled eyebrow, the arch so perfect it could support architecture. “It’s 74 degrees.”
“Customer request,” I say, sparing names and explanations.
Okay, so I lied a smidge. I knew Delilah would complain about the diner’s temperature next. I clock her t-shirt and leggings when she usually sports sweaters. Lady is perpetually chilled. Must be from her darkening heart.
Back at the booth, Delilah smirks, glossy lips curved like a scythe. “It’s freezing in here. Can you turn up the heat? Or do they not trust you with the thermostat either?”
“Already handled,” I say, setting down the fresh, steaming soup.
“Hmm.” She dips her spoon, letting the liquid drip back into the bowl without touching her lips. Her gaze flicks to mine. “I’ll take a refill, too. No ice this time.” She hugs her arms across her chest. “Too cold.”
I retrieve her drink, setting it down with steady hands. Her French-manicured nail taps the rim. “Lemon,” she says, not looking up.
Three minutes later, I slide a lemon wedge onto her table.
Five minutes: “Ketchup.” She points to a half-full bottle.
Seven minutes: Her finger jabs at my apron pocket. “Pepper.”
Nine minutes: She unfolds her napkin with two fingers, as if it’s contaminated. “Is this recycled toilet paper?”
