11. Chapter 11

11

Wren

J oe's diner is only four blocks away, but it might as well be four miles. I break into a run, my lungs burning as I dodge early-morning commuters and a homeless guy pushing a shopping cart.

My phone keeps buzzing in my pocket, probably Rosie updating me on Joe's increasing blood pressure. That crusty old bastard's gonna have an aneurysm one of these days, and I'll be damned if it's because of me.

I round the corner, the neon sign of Joe's Diner coming into view. Through the grimy windows, I can see Rosie darting between tables, her flaming red hair a beacon in the dingy interior. She looks up, spots me, and her eyes widen.

I burst through the door, the bell jangling like it's trying to announce my tardiness to the whole fucking world.

"Well, well, well," a gravelly voice drawls from behind the counter. "Look who decided to grace us with her presence."

I turn, panting, to face Joe. He's a barrel-chested man with a permanent scowl etched into his leathery face. Right now, that scowl is directed squarely at me.

"Sorry, Joe," I gasp, trying to catch my breath. "Family stuff; won't happen again."

He snorts, clearly not buying it. "Save it, princess. You're lucky I don't fire your ass right now."

"Aw, come on, Joe," Rosie pipes up, sliding behind the counter with an empty coffee pot. "Cut her some slack. You know she's good for business."

Joe's scowl deepens, if that's even possible. "Yeah, yeah. Just get to work. Table 3's been waiting for their refill for five minutes."

I nod, grabbing an apron from the hook and tying it around my waist. As I pass Rosie, she leans in close.

"You owe me big time," she hisses. "I've been covering your ass for the last fifteen minutes."

"I know, I know," I mutter. "I'll make it up to you."

She rolls her eyes, but there's a hint of a smile on her lips. "You better. Now get moving before Joe blows a gasket."

I grab a coffee pot and plaster on my best fake smile as I approach Table 3. It's occupied by a couple of truckers who look like they've been on the road for days.

"Sorry for the wait, gentlemen," I chirp, filling their mugs. "Can I get you anything else?"

One of them, a burly guy with a ZZ Top beard, leers at me. "How about your number, sweetheart?"

"You're cute," I say, lips curving into a smirk. "But I'm not that kind of gal. Unless you wanna get burned with some coffee. Your call."

As I turn away, I catch Rosie's eye. She's grinning, having overheard the exchange.

I shoot her a wink.

But the exhaustion hits me like a freight train, and I can't stifle the massive yawn that escapes. Of course, that's the exact moment Joe decides to poke his head out of the kitchen.

"Am I boring you, princess?" he growls, his bushy eyebrows furrowing.

I roll my eyes and stick out my tongue. "You know me, Joe. Living for the thrills of grease and coffee stains."

He grunts, but I catch the hint of amusement in his eyes before he disappears back into his domain. Asshole's got a soft spot; he just hides it well.

I pour another round of burned coffee for the regulars at the counter, fighting to keep my eyes open. Two hours of sleep ain't shit, but it's all I got. My feet are already aching in these cheap-ass shoes, and we're not even through the morning rush.

"Order up!" Joe bellows from the kitchen, his voice grating on my last nerve.

I grab the plates, loaded with greasy eggs and hash browns, and shuffle over to Table 5. "Here ya go, folks. Enjoy," I mutter, plastering on a smile that feels more like a grimace.

As I turn, I catch Rosie's eye. She gives me a sympathetic look. "You look like death, hon," she says, low enough that Joe can't hear.

I snort. "Feel like it, too. Thanks for covering my ass earlier."

She waves it off. "Don't mention it. You'd do the same for me." She glances at the clock. "Lunch break in an hour. Joe's making his famous meatloaf."

I nod, grateful. It's one of the reasons I stick around this dump. Joe might be a grouchy bastard, but he feeds us. Saves me from having to buy lunch, which means more cash in my pocket.

Speaking of cash, I feel the wad of bills pressing against my back, tucked into my jeans. I resist the urge to check it for the hundredth time. Paranoia's a bitch, but in my world, you can't be too careful.

Just as I'm about to head back to the kitchen, my phone buzzes. I glance at the screen and feel my blood pressure spike. It's him.

I duck into the back, ignoring Joe's glare, and answer. "What?"

"Where's the fucking money, Wren?" John's slurred voice comes through, thick with booze and anger.

"What money?" I snap, even though I know exactly what he's talking about. Bastard must've gone through my room.

"Don't play dumb with me, you little bitch. I know you've been holding out on me."

I clench my fist, fury rising like bile in my throat. "You mean the money I earned? The money that keeps a roof over our heads and food in the fridge? That money?"

"It's my house—"

"Bullshit!" I cut him off. "You haven't paid rent in months. I'm the one keeping us afloat while you drink yourself stupid."

"Watch your damn mouth—"

"No, you watch yours," I snarl. "You want money, John? Get a fucking job. I'm done."

I hang up, my hand shaking with rage.

Fuck him .

Fuck everything.

Sometimes, I wish he'd just die. I know it's harsh as hell, but fuck it, I'm past caring. We'd probably live a hell of a lot better without his drunk ass dragging us down. No more stolen money, no more tiptoeing around his moods, no more—

"Done talking? Table 10."

Joe's gruff voice snaps me out of my dark thoughts. He's leaning over the counter, dropping a plate of greasy burgers and fries.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm on it," I mutter, snatching up the plate.

As I turn to leave, Joe's voice stops me. "Take a break after this, will ya? You look like shit warmed over twice."

I roll my eyes, but there's a warmth in my chest I can't quite squash. "Gee, thanks, Joe. You sure know how to make a girl feel special."

He grunts, already turning back to the grill. "Just don't fall asleep in the ketchup again. Bad for business."

I flip him off behind his back, but I'm grinning as I deliver the food to Table 10.

After I'm done, I make a beeline for my sanctuary—the cramped supply closet near the back. It's barely bigger than a coffin, stuffed with mops and cleaning supplies, but it's quiet and dark. Perfect for a power nap.

I squeeze in, shoving aside a bucket to make room. The smell of bleach and old mop water hits me, but I'm too tired to care. I slide down the wall, my ass hitting the cold tile floor.

Leaning my head back, I close my eyes. Just fifteen minutes, that's all I need. Fifteen minutes to recharge before I have to plaster on that fake smile again.

My mind drifts to tonight. At least I get off early from the diner. But then it's straight to The Rusty Nail, the dive bar where I sling drinks every Friday and Saturday. It's only a few blocks from here, thank fuck. I don't think my feet could handle much more abuse.

The bar's a shithole, but the tips are decent, and the regulars aren't total assholes. Plus, it's cash under the table, which means more money for the never-ending bills that are stacking up at home.

I feel myself starting to drift off, the exhaustion finally winning out. But even as sleep claims me, I can't shake the nagging worry about John. If he's desperate enough to call me at work, who knows what he'll do next?

I'll deal with it later, I tell myself. Right now, I've got fifteen minutes of peace, and I'll be damned if I waste them worrying about that asshole.

Just as I'm about to completely zonk out, the closet door swings open, flooding the small space with light.

"Jesus Christ!" Rosie yelps, nearly dropping the stack of menus she's carrying. "Wren? What the hell are you doing in here?"

I blink up at her, momentarily disoriented. "Uh… inventory?"

She snorts, shaking her head. "Yeah, right. Come on, Sleeping Beauty. Break's over. We've got a bus full of seniors pulling up."

I groan, hauling myself to my feet. My body protests, muscles stiff from the awkward position. "Shit-fuck… Alright, I'm coming."

As I'm about to step out of this cramped hellhole, my phone buzzes again. Fuck me, what now? I yank it out of my pocket, ready to tell John to go fuck himself with a rusty fork, but the name on the screen stops me cold.

Sophia.

My stomach does a weird flip. Shit . A video call from Hawaii? She's probably just checking in, wanting to make sure I'm okay. Or maybe she wants to share some news about her new baby girl. Knowing Sophia, she's more worried about me than excited about her own life.

Christ, I can't deal with this right now.

Sophia's too good, too kind. She doesn't need to see the mess I've become. And I sure as hell don't need another reminder of how far apart our lives have drifted.

My thumb hovers over the screen. Part of me wants to answer, to see a friendly face that isn't covered in grease or puke. But then I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of a nearby mop bucket. Hair a mess, shadows under my eyes, looking like I've been rode hard and put away wet.

Nah, fuck that. I can't let her see me like this.

The phone keeps buzzing, insistent as hell. I know Sophia. She's probably just worried, wants to check in. Maybe even offer to "help out" again . The thought makes me want to puke.

No fucking way am I dragging her into this shitshow. She got out, made something of herself. Last thing she needs is to get pulled back into the cesspool that is my life.

I hit decline, shoving the phone back in my pocket like it's burning a hole through my jeans.

Sorry, Soph, I'll get back to you when I'm in a better place… which might be never.

Guilt gnaws at my gut, but I push it down. It's better this way. For both of us.

"Wren! Those dentures ain't gonna serve themselves!" Joe's bellow cuts through my internal shitstorm.

Right.

Reality check.

I've got a diner full of hungry seniors waiting, and this pity party ain't paying the bills.

I take a deep breath, straighten my shoulders, and plaster on my best "fuck you" smile. Time to go earn my keep.