Chapter 7

Wednesday comes and goes, and as I wipe down the counter, I sigh. It’s nearly nine o’clock now, and still no Beefcake.

For days now, I’ve been daydreaming about him. While that’s admittedly more than a little creepy, a ridiculous infatuation with a man I’ve shared a total of five minutes of conversation with, I can’t stop looking up every time the bell over the diner door dings. And I can’t help feeling a stab of disappointment each time it’s not him.

Maybe Char’s right. I don’t need Gabe... I need Hitachi.

“Izzy, you have a minute?” Martha asks from the door to the back, waving me toward her. I glance around the diner and see we’re pretty quiet. We’re in between the dinner rush and the late-night surge. The other waitress on duty, Shelley, can handle things by herself for a few, but still, I glance at the door one more time before heading back.

“What’s up, Martha?” I ask when we get to her office. “Everything okay?”

Martha always does paperwork on Wednesday nights, which usually means she’s locked in her office for the bulk of the evening. Hopefully, whatever she needs won’t keep me here long because I need to get back on the floor after having to scrape my bank account down to six dollars and thirty-two cents to get together enough cash to keep Russell off my ass, I need every extra quarter.

“Not quite,” Martha says, picking a receipt up off the table with a perplexed look on her face. “You got a complaint over the weekend.”

“What?” I ask, surprised. “Who?”

Martha hands me the receipt, and I glance at the time and date. Sunday night, near closing...

“Oh. That guy.”

“What do you mean?” Martha asks as I look at the note he wrote on the back of the receipt. Weitress is crap. Zombie the hole time. POS servus.

It’s not the bad spelling that hurts. It’s the big fat double zeros in the tip space on the receipt, not even rounding up to the nearest dollar. Not even a line through the space... a big set of double zeroes.

“This guy came in last week too,” I explain to Martha, handing the receipt back. “He bitched about the pork chops, sent them back, and scammed for a burger. When he came in this time, he sat down already bitchy. I did my best, but I don’t think he’ll be happy, no matter what.”

“He’s a regular?” Martha asks, and I shrug. “What’s he look like? Somebody I’d know?”

“He’s a delivery driver,” I reply, sighing. “He comes in occasionally. I guess you could call him a regular. Anyway, if you want backup on his attitude, ask Elaine and Henry.”

“No, your word’s good with me. Next time, feel free to give him a little sass or have Elaine take care of him. We don’t need troublemakers like that around, so if we can run him off nicely, all the better. Otherwise, I’ll pull out the big guns,” Martha says.

I appreciate that she has my back and that she’d be willing to kick the guy out for being an asshat, because she is definitely the big gun that takes no crap and tells you what’s what with blunt efficiency and a solid lack of fucks about what you think.

“There is one other thing, though. I need you to cover another shift.”

“Another?” I ask, torn. Right now, I’ve got twenty-one dollars to my name, including the few dollars I have in the bank. I do some fast figuring and think I can make it last, but a couple more bucks would make it easier.

But I’m also struggling to stay awake in class, and I know my grades are starting to suffer because of it.

You’re still passing classes though.

“What do you need?”

It’s the sound of the hamster wheel turning.

Martha looks at me carefully for a moment, then turns to the calendar on the wall. “Hiring a new server for the front’s been tough. I wanted to see if you’d like to pull a double this Saturday, and next month, I might need you to do Wednesdays.”

“Martha, that’s potentially like an extra twenty-five hours next month, and a double on Saturday?” I ask, torn between joy and frustration. On one hand, it’s money I desperately need. On the other hand, Vash is going to forget what I look like, and I’m going to have a feral cat by Christmas at this rate.

Martha blinks. “Shelley can’t do it because of the kids, but I can ask Elaine if you want me to?”

Way to guilt trip me, I think. Elaine is fierce and feisty, but I know the years of being on her feet caught up to her long ago. An extra shift each week would kill her. “Okay, you know I’ll try my best.”

Martha starts scribbling my name on the color-coded calendar, and all the orange ‘Izzy’ entries make me a little dizzy.

“Thank you. Listen, I can’t do much on the pay stub side of things, but I’ll talk with Henry. Maybe we can at least help you on the tip side of things. Uncle Sam doesn’t need to know about an extra twenty bucks cash you get as a shift incentive.”

“Thanks,” I reply, knowing that over the next four Wednesdays, I certainly won’t be pulling in eighty bucks in cash tips. Still, Martha’s trying and I appreciate that, especially considering how she’s always had my back with my changing school schedule and lets me study at the counter when we’re not busy. “I should go help Shelley.”

I head back out, reminding myself that I was the one who came to her saying I needed extra hours recently. She’s just giving me what I wanted. But the enormity of my schedule is killing me, slowly but surely.

As I hit the diner floor, I look around, hope that Gabe has arrived blooming in the desert of my heart. But the room’s empty other than Shelley, who is marrying ketchup bottles in a booth by the window.

Stupid heart. Gabe’s no Prince Charming, sweeping in to save me from the stress of my crazy life. Not even as a momentary distraction.

I grab a bottle of sanitizer and a rag, making my way to the table in the corner furthest away from the door. Ducking my head down, I get to work. Not once do I look at the door or even out to the parking lot for headlights. It feels like a hollow victory.

“I think Char’s right,”my other best friend, Mia Karakova, soon to be Mia Goldstone, says. We’re not at The Gravy Train for once, but at a coffee shop near campus, mainly because she’s buying and it’s got free Wi-Fi.

“Are you nuts?” I reply before rolling my eyes. “This isn’t a new bra she wants me to buy. It’s a friggin’ gun.”

“Obviously, but that doesn’t change the fact that Charlotte’s right,” Mia repeats, sipping her latte. “Russell’s bad news, Izzy.”

“I’m not disagreeing with that. He’s an idiot, and as soon as he gets his next hit, he’ll forget all about me,” I repeat, even as I wish I hadn’t told Charlotte about my problem with Russell at all.

I know she means well, but I don’t need to hear about it from two sides at once, especially since that lets me know without a doubt that my besties have been talking about me. I know they worry, but their comparing notes on me brings back too many crappy childhood memories.

Plus, Charlotte’s not even having coffee with us today so I can give her shit about selling me out. I stick to my usual party line, hoping it shuts down this attack as well as it usually does.

“Seriously, next week, I’ll be fine.”

“You’ve been pitching that same line for a long time now,” Mia says, disappointed in me. “Next week, you’ll be fine. Next paycheck, you’ll be fine... same thing ever since your aunt passed away. You’re more stubborn than even Papa, and he’s worse than a damn mule.”

“Then you know not to argue with me,” I reply, hoping to sidetrack the conversation to safer ground. “How is he doing, anyway?”

“Gushy. He can’t wait for the wedding,” Mia admits. “It’s sort of cute. But stop deflecting. You want to be stubborn, I’m going to be blunt.”

Before I know it, Mia’s reached into her pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. She plops it on the table in front of me. It unfolds on its own, and I feel a stab in my gut as I see the number of zeros on the check Mia’s giving me.

“Mia, come on, this is bullshit! You know I can’t accept this!”

“I’m not giving it to you,” Mia says simply. “It’s a loan. Izzy, we’ve been friends since we were munching on Lunchables together. I’ve subjected you to hundreds of hours of anime and video games, and meanwhile, you keep refusing help from the friends who love you, choosing to work yourself to the bone instead. Do you think Char and I don’t know how tough things get for you?”

I startle, wondering exactly what they know because I thought I’d done a decent enough job hiding the rougher aspects of my life. Sure, they know I’m busy and strapped for cash, but definitely not that there are days I only eat my employee meal and that I’ve uselessly searched my couch for coins to keep the lights on.

But my pride still won’t let me take the check. “I appreciate it, I do. But I can’t.” I try to shove the check back her way, but the paper sticks to my fingers. Well, okay, it doesn’t stick so much as my thumb and pointer finger won’t let go of it.

“Look, I know I’ve let you push off help, but that was when we were all struggling to some degree. Things are different now. I’ve got enough money to help you, and I promise my bank account won’t feel it.”

“Feelin’ your privileges now?” It’s a tacky and vicious thing to say, and I’m not jealous of Mia’s fairy tale. She deserves it, worked for it with the beast she calls her man, but I can’t help the shock of pain that goes through my gut at her ability to write a check like this and not give it a second’s thought.

Mia stares at me with enough venom that I blush in embarrassment, looking down in shame. “Sorry, Mia. I know you didn’t mean it like that. And I’m glad you’re doing so well. You’re my hashtag-goals, you know that. Degree, a job you love, and a guy you adore.”

“It’s okay,” Mia says gently, thawing a little. “Listen, babe, I get it. I remember the way kids used to bully you. I remember those busted ass hand-me-downs you wore through high school. I know why you didn’t go to prom, and I know why you still rode a bike to school after everyone else had their licenses. And as if that wasn’t enough, fate bitchslapped you again when your aunt died. You’ve struggled for so long, I think it’s just your normal. But this thing with Russell is different. And I’ve got the means to help.”

“I feel more comfortable working for it, though,” I reply with finality. “Mia, I love you. You’re my number one girl—”

“Your future wife’s gonna hate hearing that,” Mia teases, knowing about the drunken pact Charlotte and I made. I smile a little at the joke.

“But I have to refuse this. It’s too damn much! And I’ve heard too many stories about friendships getting ruined over dollar amounts a lot less than this. I won’t risk us on that,” I say, pointing at the check.

Before Mia can reply, I pick up her check and tear it in half, then in half again two more times before dropping the pieces in the glass of ice water that came with my Americano. Mia sadly watches the paper soak through and sink into the glass, then looks up at me.

“I was going to drink that,” she deadpans.

“Didn’t you just say you’ve got stupid money? I’m sure you can afford another glass of free ice water,” I joke, grinning. “You mad?”

“I can’t be mad at you for long,” Mia says, leaning back. “But I want you to promise that if Russell amps up his stupidity, you’ll reconsider. You can’t pay anyone back if you’re dead because some junkie got grabby hands for your cash or your other assets.”

It’s probably the reason she and I are best friends, because as I look her over, you wouldn’t know she’s getting married to one of the richest guys on the West Coast. She’s still the same Mia she was a few months ago, with a green streak and red tips in her hair, a T-shirt for some Korean boy band, and ripped jeans.

If there’s any difference in her lately, it’s that she’s got a little bit of a happy glow to her... probably from all the bedroom gymnastics she’s getting up to, because I know she’s not pregnant. Her Papa would have a heart attack if his princess so much as hinted at a pregnancy out of wedlock.

We drink our coffees, and as she finishes her latte, Mia smacks her lips. “By the way, I heard you un-godmothered me.”

“Well, Vash doesn’t quite fit the penthouse lifestyle. I promise you, give her a week, and she’d end up in Thomas’s office or something, leaving a hairball on his desk blotter.”

“Yeah, well, she’s still my fur baby,” Mia says before pivoting in that sudden, not-quite-sneaky but disconcerting way she has. “Which is why you need to learn to defend yourself.”

Most people would say she’s being mean, sucker punching... but I know her. I know the way she thinks, and there’s a connection in her mind that most people just aren’t seeing. And this is definitely another seed Charlotte planted.

“Why?”

“To defend my fur baby!” she exclaims, and then she smirks. “Oh, and you too.”

“Ah,” I reply, lifting my cup for a refill. “What are you saying, I should get some pepper spray?”

“Pepper spray isn’t a good idea. Vashy could get into it and lick the tip or something,” Mia says, assured in her correctness. “Can you imagine that poor cat with her tongue hanging out, numb and burning from what she just licked?”

“Probably what Thomas looks like most evenings,” I reply, laughing.

She grins, then grows serious. “Seriously, Char told me she mentioned you should learn how to handle a gun. It might not be a bad idea. Hopefully, you’d never have to use it, but just in case. Papa taught me how to handle one. If I were in your situation, I’d at least consider it.”

“But I have Vash to protect me,” I reply weakly, knowing I’m fighting a losing battle with my besties. “She’s a trained scratcher.”

She glares at me, compelling me to take this issue seriously.

“Fine,” I say, crumbling. “I’ll look into it.” But I know I’m not going to, still resisting even as I half-promise nothing.

“And you’ll take this,” Mia says, holding out a folded-over pile of bills. “No arguments, and if you say no, I’m giving it to Charlotte’s arms dealer buddy anyway. Take it and make sure you get a quality piece and learn how to use it.”

I grumble but take the wad of cash. I still don’t want a gun, but this seems like the lesser of two evils considering the big check she tried to give me. I realize she played me like a damn pro, knowing she’d win either way. I’d take the big loan or the money for the gun, but I can’t turn them both down.

And I am scared, in denial and full of wishful thoughts that Russell will OD before the next payment is due but fearful about the dangers his presence brings my life. I think about going home late after my Saturday double, the street dark and quiet, no one around but me and Russell hiding around the side of my house.

Or worse, in my house. He’s threatened that before too.

“Okay, but I’m giving you a receipt and change on this.”