Chapter 11 - Back Under the Warm Lights
The brick wall was the first thing I saw when I pushed through the back door at 7:40 in the morning. Same rough red squares, same framed black-and-white photos of the old highway. The dining area smelled like fresh sanitizer and hot oil from the fryers warming up. Daylight was coming hard through the large windows, laying long rectangles across the light wood tables. I stood there a second with my bag on my shoulder and just breathed it in.
That morning I had told myself on the bus that I could ask Marisol to switch sections. The north side, by the bathrooms, away from the windows. No one would have blamed me. But when I saw my tables, the three by the brick wall with the daylight on them, I felt something tighten in my chest. If I gave them up, I was admitting yesterday had taken something from me.
My name is Elena. I was twenty-eight and working the morning shift in a maroon polo that still smelled like laundry detergent.
I clocked in, tied my black apron, and pulled my hair back into a ponytail. My hands knew the routine before my head caught up. I stacked black serving trays on the back counter, checked the spring on the drink dispenser, folded extra napkins. I lined up white disposable cups with the yellow arch logo, lids beside them. I flattened small burger boxes and stacked them so the corners didn't catch. Normal work. The cup in my hand had a thin bead of condensation already from the humidity in the kitchen, and I wiped it with my thumb.
Denise came in behind me with her visor half on, carrying a mop bucket. She was nineteen, quick with customers, quicker to gossip.
"You heard?" she said, dropping her voice even though the store was empty except for Luis in the kitchen.
"Heard what?" I kept stacking.
"That guy from yesterday. Suit guy with the tattoos. He came back last night right before close." She leaned against the counter. "He didn't order. He just stood by the door and looked around. Marisol says he asked her if you worked mornings."
My hand stopped on a cup. I could feel the plastic give slightly under my fingers.
"What did she tell him?" I asked.
"She said you were on mornings this week. She didn't mean anything by it. She was nervous." Denise studied my face. "Elena, you can take the drive-thru window today. I'll tell Tony you wanted a swap. He won't care."
It would have been easy to say yes. The drive-thru had a glass between me and everybody. No light wood tables. No standing too close. No bald man watching from behind.
I finished stacking the cup and put it straight. "No. I'll keep my section."
"Are you sure? He was weird yesterday. Everybody saw it."
"I'm sure." I picked up a tray and wiped an invisible spot off it. "If he comes back, I don't want to look like I hid."
Denise didn't argue, but she gave me that slow blink that meant she thought I was making a mistake. She took her bucket out front. I watched her mop around the legs of my tables, the water leaving dark arcs that dried fast in the daylight.
At eight, Tony unlocked the front doors and the first rush hit. School drop-off parents, two construction guys, an older man who always wanted extra ice. I moved between the counter and the tables with the tray tucked against my forearm like always. I wiped a smear off Table Four, refilled napkins at Table Five, smiled and said thanks and have a good one until the words ran on their own. The warm overhead lights buzzed faintly. Outside the windows, cars turned into the parking lot off the county road, sunlight flashing off windshields.
Around eight-thirty, Luis slid a burger box across the pass and nodded at me. I set it on a tray with a cup, carried it out. My breathing stayed even. In, out. I counted my steps without meaning to. It helped. Yesterday afternoon I had stood in that same spot and felt my lungs lock up when Matteo had leaned in. Last night in my apartment I had sat on the edge of my bed and practiced just looking up, keeping my eyes steady. Now I was using it to carry breakfast.
Marisol caught me by the soda machine during a lull. She was in her forties, worked doubles to cover her son's braces. She touched my elbow.
"Mija, I'm sorry I told him," she said quietly. "He asked real calm. 'Does Elena work mornings?' Like he knew your name. It scared me."
"It's okay," I said. "You didn't do anything wrong."
"He's going to sit in your section if he comes," she said. "You know that, right?"
I nodded. The ice machine rumbled and dropped cubes. "Then he'll sit in my section."
She held my gaze a second longer, then squeezed my arm and went back to the register.
By nine-fifteen the dining area thinned. Sunlight had moved higher up the brick wall. I restocked cups, boxes, lids. I wiped down my counter spot until the stainless shone. I checked my ponytail in the reflection of the pastry case and tightened it. My polo was tucked, my apron strings tied double. Ready felt like armor that morning.
Then the door chime rang.
I looked up from the counter. The glass door swung inward and daylight cut across the floor. Matteo Morealio stepped in, gray suit jacket over a black shirt, hair slicked back, tattoos dark against his neck in the bright light. Behind him, the bald man in the dark suit held the door, eyes already scanning the room.
May you like
Matteo stopped just inside. He looked straight past Denise, past Marisol, past the empty tables by the windows, and found me at the counter with a fresh tray in my hands.
I didn't step back. I set the tray down square on the counter and waited.
