Iced Romance Read online

  “I started three days ago,” I finally say, somewhat lamely. “How’d you know I’m new? Did my poor waitressing skills give it away?”

  He leans on the table and laughs. “Nothing like that. Just the sticker on your name tag made it a little obvious.”

  I glance down and spot the I’m in Training! sticker that Max said this morning we all have to wear for the indefinite future. Something about liability and how if we wear it, he can’t get sued if anything goes wrong. Leila and Christine wear them too, and they’ve been here for, like, five years or something crazy like that.

  I blush even deeper, feeling quite stupid now. I’m sure I look ridiculous too, with my hair all limp and floppy with the humidity, my face flushed, and my ugly green waitress uniform on.

  “So, uh, do you want something to drink?”

  The guy nods. “Sure, could you get me a Pepsi?”

  “Of course.” I scribble the word down on my notepad and as I walk away, I feel his eyes follow me.

  I hurry to the soda machine and pull a clean glass off the rack.

  “You look awkward.” Leila has materialized beside me and places a large pile of dirty plates and utensils into the sink. “Everything okay?”

  I laugh and shake my head. “I’ve just determined that I’m an idiot. The guy who came in? He’s a total stud and I got all tongue tied and acted like a . . .” I can’t think of a word to describe myself well enough, so instead I simply hit the ice button and the cup fills up halfway almost immediately with the large, frozen chunks. Then I place it under the Pepsi nozzle and begin pouring the bubbling drink into it.

  “No words, huh? He must be pretty hot.” Leila tilts her head to one side, her dreadlocks flopping over her shoulder. “Lemme see.” She walks to the door and peers out the small window at the top. Then she looks over her shoulder at me and wrinkles her nose. “He looks like my ex-husband. Sorry, girl, that look doesn’t do it for me anymore.”

  “You have an ex-husband?” I’m in shock. I mean, I’m twenty-five and Leila is at least a good four or five years younger than me. Twenty is way too young to have been married and divorced.

  Leila shrugs her shoulder and reaches down into her pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. “It was a mistake. Eighteen, thought we’d run away together and join the Peace Corps or something. Ended up smoking way too much weed in Mexico and when my head finally cleared, I realized the guy was a tool. Well, actually I didn’t realize that until after I was thrown into a Tijuana prison for three months and my dear husband didn’t even bother to visit.” She hits the Camels against her leg and grimaces. “You know, the usual story.”

  She is so casual about it. She opens the pack of cigarettes and pulls one out, putting it between her teeth. I shake my head at her and roll my eyes. “The usual story? Yeah right! I have never known anyone who eloped, ran off to Mexico at eighteen and then got divorced after being thrown in jail. No one.”

  “You’ve been sheltered. You need to get out more.” Leila smiles at me and then turns toward the door. “I’ll be back in ten.”

  I watch her go, feeling a mix of admiration and envy. She’s lived.

  I grab the Pepsi off the counter, push through the swinging door, and head back to the guy at the table. On my way I glance around quickly. Nobody else has come in. Good. Maybe after Leila gets back, I’ll be able to go on break. I’m pretty starving despite how nothing in this place seems appetizing after smelling it all day.

  The guy is back on his smart phone but smiles when I place the drink on the table.

  “Uh, are you ready to order?” I don’t want to interrupt him, especially since he looks like he’s awfully busy, but I need to get his order in soon. The evening rush will start in a little while, and if he wants to eat without massive delays, he better make up his mind.

  He puts down the phone and peruses the menu. “Yes, I’ll have a burger and fries, with mayo and ketchup on the side.”

  Forgetting myself, I wrinkle my nose without meaning to. “Really? Mayo on the side? What do you do with it, dip your fries?”

  He chuckles and closes the menu. “Yes, I dip my fries in it. I actually mix the mayo and ketchup together, but no restaurant out here is ever willing to mix it up for me, so I just order them separate and mix ’em myself.”

  “Okay, that sounds disgusting.” I take the menu from the table and shake my head. “No offense,” I add, tucking the menu under my arm.

  “None taken.” He leans back in his chair, and his eyes meet mine. I feel my stomach flutter again, but try to hold it together.

  “Well, if you’re sure that’s what you want, I’ll see what I can do,” I say, smiling unconsciously. Something about this guy just makes me feel so comfortable, so happy. “Maybe the chef here will be willing to make you your mayo mix.”

  “Fry sauce,” he says, taking a sip of Pepsi.

  “What?”

  “It’s called fry sauce.”

  I shake my head. “Fry sauce? That’s boring! You should call it maychup, or ketchyo, you know, something cooler.”

  “As much as maychup sounds brilliant, I think the Western states would freak out if you tried to patent that as something other than fry sauce.” He leans on the table and smiles back at me.

  There is a whole lot of smiling going on, and I like it. I don’t want to leave.

  “Western states? I don’t think so, pal. I’m from Colorado and I’ve never heard of this.”

  “Really?” He sounds surprised. “Utah and Idaho even have it in their McDonalds. I’d have thought for sure Colorado was in on the secret too.”

  I bite my lower lip. “No, never heard of it. Of course, to be fair, I didn’t really frequent McDonalds.”

  The guy laughs. “Well, if the burgers here are any good, I may have to quit going to McDonalds too, especially if your chef manages to make a decent fry sauce.”

  I want to keep talking to him, but from the corner of my eye I see Max leave the cash register and pace around the restaurant, probably making sure no tips have dropped on the ground that we’ve missed. He looks at me quizzically and I swallow. I don’t want to get in trouble. Max isn’t a prude, from what I can tell, but he also doesn’t like waitresses spending too much time with customers who won’t have a big bill.

  I can’t remember what the guy just said, so to avoid looking stupid, I simply nod and take a step back. “Well, I’ll go get your order in and hey, let me know if you need anything else.”

  I walk away, not looking over my shoulder at him even though I am tempted. Man, I feel like a giggly schoolgirl who just got kissed behind the playground at recess. What is wrong with me? Sure, I haven’t flirted with anyone except for Todd in the last five years, but I can’t be all shaky and excited just from one conversation, can I?

  I go into the kitchen and read out my order to Gary. He grunts in reply and plops a frozen hamburger onto the grill.

  “Hey Gary,” I add, and wait until he looks up at me. “Do we have any mayo?”

  He motions toward the fridge with his nose. “Miracle Whip.”

  “That’ll work. Could you mix up some Miracle Whip with the ketchup that you usually put on the side? The customer requested it special.”

  Gary scowls. “What do I look like, a performing monkey? I don’t do special orders unless someone’s allergic or willing to pay extra.”

  “Please?”

  Gary flips the burger and sizzling noises fill the air. He steps over to the freezer again and pulls out some French fries. He dumps a few handfuls into a metal basket and dips the whole thing into the deep fryer. “No.”

  “No?” I want to protest more, but still feel uncomfortably conspicuous as the new girl. I hesitate and then say, in what I hope is a polite tone, “All right, I’ll mix it myself.”

  Sheesh, I c
an see what Leila meant when she called Gary a ‘pain in the butt.’ I open the fridge, grab the Miracle Whip and the ketchup, pour what looks like equal portions and mix them up. I wrinkle my nose.

  “That looks like crap,” Gary notes, slapping the burger onto the bun and putting both on a plate. Then he dumps the fries beside it, spears a dill pickle from a nearby container and lays it on top. He hands the plate to me and I spoon the fry sauce onto the edge near the fries.

  I don’t want to agree with Gary on anything, but he’s sort of right. The fry sauce looks a little funky . . . like sickly pink cough syrup or something.

  I walk back outside and place the plate at my customer’s table. He is on the phone now, chatting with someone, but when he sees the fry sauce he holds up his fingers in an “okay” sign. “Thanks,” he mouths and then winks.

  I feel warm all over at the small show of praise. I beam at him and then, to my horror, drop into a curtsey. I don’t even realize what I am doing until I am already bent at the knees. I straighten and turn away, my face flaming.

  Are you kidding me? I actually curtseyed? I wish I could sink into the floor and disappear.

  I somehow make my way back to the kitchen and lean shakily on the counter, ashamed beyond belief. Way to go, Kennedy. Way to ruin everything. Now he probably thinks I’m a total bimbo. Not to mention I singlehandedly pushed the women’s rights movement back about fifty years.

  Max walks in. “Kennedy, have you had your dinner break yet?”

  I shake my head, still mortified.

  “All right, I think I saw Leila come back in from her smoke break. Check that she’s here and then go take your thirty minutes. I want you back before the main dinner rush starts.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Oh by the way,” Max turns back to me. “I liked how you curtseyed there for the customer. I think it’s a good look. Remind me at the next staff meeting to make it a mandatory thing for all the waitresses. You really have something going there.”

  I think Anna Howard Shaw just rolled over in her grave.

  “You sure, Max?” Oh boy, Leila’s going to kill me. “I, uh, actually wish I hadn’t done that. It seems a little patronizing, don’t you think?”

  Max is shaking his head vigorously even as I protest, his toupee looking like it might go flying at any second. “Absolutely not. I love it. In fact, I think you earned yourself a raise. Ten cents! I’ll notify payroll in the morning.”

  “Um, aren’t you payroll?” I’m pretty sure the only people who work here are me and the other five waitresses, Gary in the kitchen, and then Max.

  Max grins and pats my arm. “Sure thing, toots.”

  Ugh, he called me toots? I thought only grody old men in eighties movies called people that. Before the situation gets any worse, I flee, checking first that Leila’s in the dining room. She is, so I push open the back door into the dirt alley and take a long, deep breath.

  The door shuts behind me with a bang and I lean against it, feeling weak. I can’t believe I’ve introduced curtseying for all the waitresses, and all for a mere ten cent raise. I also can’t believe I looked so lame in front of a nice guy. In fact, I probably looked like a fool before I even curtseyed, to be honest. Who am I kidding? I was hitting on him, laughing, and pretending like he was my BFF.

  And not only that, I was flirting about fry sauce! That’s got to be the worst pick up line ever. “Hey, baby, wanna come get some fry sauce?”

  Sheesh, I’ve clearly been out of the game for much too long.

  The only good thing about this whole situation is I got sent on my break at a very opportune time. In all likelihood, I won’t have to face that guy again. He’ll pay and be on his way before I get back.

  For some reason though, the thought makes me both relieved and sad. Snap out of it. I just got out of a horrible relationship. This is no time for a rebound fling.

  Stupid Todd.

  Right this second, though, I miss him. Even thinking his name makes me hurt a little bit inside. And I resent that fact very much.

  To make myself feel better before I go find a place to eat dinner, I walk to a phone booth down the street, put fifty cents into the slot and punch in Todd’s familiar cell number. Some creepy heavy breathing into his machine ought to make me feel better. Maybe even a growl or two.

  Whoever says that crank calling is juvenile has clearly never dated a cheater hockey player. Even though Todd doesn’t know it’s me, since all I do is breathe heavy and hang up, it is possibly the only thing keeping me sane.

  When I get back into Maxie’s after my thirty minutes, I peek into the dining room. Relief floods over me. The gorgeous guy is gone, just like I had hoped.

  So why the heck do I feel disappointed?

  Chapter Ten

  The sun shines through my bedroom window and I lazily open my eyes, enjoying the morning silence despite the fuzziness of my head. The bed, considering it’s a no-name brand—the first mattress I could find in downtown Kissimmee—is surprisingly soft, but my legs are absolutely aching and, when I investigate, I discover that my big toenails on each toe have cracked. Waitressing, even with the flat shoes that I’ve worn since my second day, definitely has its drawbacks.

  I stretch and move my neck from side to side, feeling it pop and crunch a bit. When I was in middle school, my nanny always told me that she hated the sound of me doing that. She also claimed it had to be unhealthy for my neck. Now it’s become a habit.

  I pad across the slightly prickly carpet and enter my living room. It’s a glorious morning already. Birds chirp on a nearby tree, my air conditioner blows full force, keeping me refreshed, and I can smell bacon cooking somewhere.

  “Mmm,” I moan softly, going back to my room and throwing on my plush bathrobe. I walk to my front door and step outside. That smell, that delicious smell!

  The aroma must be coming from the apartment upstairs, which is disappointing. I had had this hope that maybe it was a free bacon giveaway in our front lawn. It triggers a random memory about Todd.

  When we lived in Edmonton, one summer we drove down to Calgary for the Stampede. The Greatest Outdoor Show on Earth, they had claimed. And it was. The rodeo was fantastic, with bucking broncos and lassos and bulls chasing clowns. There were the crowds of people, all dressed up in cowboy gear with white cowboy hats and spurs and jeans and plaid. Men, women, children. The whole city of more than a million people was into it. And the best part was all over the city they had these stampede breakfasts at shopping centers and on front lawns of churches. Free pancakes and bacon and sausages for everyone who came.

  We ate on hay bales with paper plates and orange juice boxes at our feet. It was crazy and insane and I will never forget it. The smell of bacon always takes me back to Calgary. I mean, sure, I didn’t actually eat any of the bacon I was given. I just liked looking at it and then Todd wolfed it down.

  Oh, that beautiful smell of bacon.

  For a moment I can imagine I’m back there. Back in Canada before Todd became hugely famous. Back when I was content thinking he was the only guy in the world and I was his girl. His only girl. Back before the millions of dollars and all the blonde girls screaming his name. If I open my eyes, maybe I’ll find all this has been a dream.

  And Todd will be beside me. And we’ll—

  “Tengo buenas noticias, amigo. Dáme el número de celular de María, ¿bueno?”

  The noise of a latino teenager, chattering away in Spanish on his cell phone jerks me out of my reverie. I’m in Florida. This wasn’t a dream. It is all real.

  My heart sinks and I try to forget all about Todd and Calgary and life back then. I sniff the air one more time and return to my apartment. The clock on the microwave says it is ten after nine. It’s Tuesday, a whole week since I arrived in Florida. It feels like I’ve been here forever, and at the sa
me time like it’s only been a day.

  I have to be at work at eleven today. What shall I do in the meantime?

  I look around my little apartment. I need to go shopping again, buy some more things for the place. A nice sculpture and a bookshelf, maybe. A funky coffee table with one of those bright red Ikea lamps in the center. Maybe a plant or two. Not to mention all the things I need in my kitchen.

  I really ought to go grocery shopping too. Eating out is bad for my waistline. There is a little corner store across from Maxie’s, so maybe I’ll swing by on my afternoon break. Some milk, bread, cheese, Lucky Charms, spaghetti. The usual. I sit down on the couch.

  I’m antsy, wanting to go out and do something, wanting to stop thinking about my former life. It’s hard to turn off my brain though, and thoughts of Todd keep swirling around and around.

  He got back to Denver three days ago. I wonder how soon it will clue in for him that I’m gone for good, that I’m not coming back? I wish I could have seen his expression when he entered the condo, dropped his sweaty duffle bag on the floor, called out for me, expecting a cake and candles and wine and me draped suggestively on the couch or something.

  I’m going to crank call him again, I think with perverse satisfaction. Right now. He’s definitely still sleeping. He’s always exhausted after away games, especially when he gets injured. I try to mentally count the time zones from here to Colorado but give up after a minute. Whatever time it is, it will be much too early for him to be awake.

  I toss on some sweat pants, make a mental note to get myself a new cell phone soon, and slide into my flip flops. Then I lock the door behind me, sniff the air happily for the bacon smell again, and hurry down the street, looking for a pay phone where I can make my call.