Chapter 3: Back Of House Breath
I didn't realize I'd been holding my breath until the corridor air hit me.
The service station was ten steps from table seven, past the arched mirror and the stacked water glasses, but it felt longer with that cream menu closed tight against my side. My thumb had pressed a crease into the edge. The embossed crest caught the light every time my hand shook. I could still hear him. Not the words now, but the way he'd leaned in when he asked. Your name? Like it wasn't part of ordering at all.
I tucked the menu into the slot at the POS stand and tried to make my hands do something normal. I reached for the order pad even though we'd switched to handhelds months ago. Old habit.
Jenna came up from bar with two old fashioneds balanced on her tray. She clocked me in that quick server way, eyes flicking from my face to the menu to the dining room behind me.
"What happened at seven?" she said, low enough the couple at table six wouldn't hear.
I kept my eyes on the screen. "Just ordering."
She set her tray down and slid her hand to her hip. "You sure? I saw red dress go kinda pale. And suit guy wouldn't stop looking at you."
I swallowed. My earring swung when I moved my head and I wanted to tuck my hair back but my hands were damp.
"He asked my name," I said. "After the wine."
Jenna frowned. "He did the whole lean-in thing?"
I nodded once.
She exhaled through her nose. "Yeah. He does that." She glanced toward the floor. "You want me to take them back? I can swap. I've got five and eight, but I can cover."
The offer sat there and for a second I wanted it so badly I could feel my shoulders drop. Let someone else carry the bread basket over and smile through whatever he said next. But then I pictured him watching me disappear and deciding that meant something. Or Jenna going over and him pulling the same line on her.
I didn't answer yet because Marlon was coming through the pass with his clipboard. Floor manager, always moving like he was late even when he wasn't.
He stopped at the POS and tapped the screen with his pen. Table seven was lit up yellow. No food fired yet, just the bottle of Chateau Laffertoti and two waters.
"How we doing on seven?" he said to me, not unkind, but his voice had that thin edge it got when he was doing math in his head. "That's Whitaker's table. He does four hundred minimum when he's happy. Sometimes more if she orders dessert."
I didn't know his name was Whitaker until then. It made my stomach turn a little, putting a name to the suit and the chain.
"He asked about the list," I said. "I read it. We're good."
Marlon looked at me, then at the dining room. The woman in red had her hand around her water glass but she wasn't drinking. The man was turned half in his chair, watching the corridor. Watching for me.
"They're celebrating, I think," Marlon said. "Let's keep it warm. Whatever they need, you give them the good version. No gaps in service, okay? You know how probation reviews go. I want to be able to write you up as solid."
It wasn't a threat exactly. It was worse. It was a reminder. Rent was due on the first, my review was Friday, and I'd already been late once after the bus broke down on 38. He didn't have to say keep them happy. I heard it anyway.
Jenna cut in, "Marlon, he was asking her personal stuff."
Marlon's pen paused. "Asking what?"
"Her name," Jenna said. "Like, not in a normal way."
He looked at me again, really looked this time. I tried to keep my face still the way I'd practiced since I started here. Calm, restrained. Don't give the table anything extra to read.
"He asked my name at the end," I said. My voice was smaller than I wanted it to be. "I didn't answer yet. I stepped back."
Marlon considered that for half a second and then did that thing managers do where they make it about service flow instead of what it is.
"Just keep it professional," he said. "Deflect nice, keep it moving. 'I'm your server tonight, can I get you...' You know the script. He tips big when service feels personal. Don't give him a reason to get cold on the check."
He tapped the screen again and walked away toward table twelve, already smiling for someone else.
Jenna leaned against the station. "So do you want me to? I can literally just bring the bread. Say you got slammed at the bar."
I stared at the POS. The cursor blinked in the field for table seven appetizers. My breathing had evened out a little but my ears were still hot.
If I let her go, I'd be hiding. And he'd know I was hiding. And Marlon would log it as I couldn't handle a high spend table. If I went back myself, I could control how fast it went, keep my body angled toward the woman, keep the script tight.
"No," I said finally. I picked up the handheld. "I'll take it. If I swap now it'll be weirder."
"You sure?" she said.
"Yeah." I punched in the two waters again even though they'd already been served, just to have my hands do something. "But if he does it again—"
"I got your back," she said. "I'll keep my eyes on you. You touch your earring or whatever, I come over."
I almost laughed. It was such a small plan and it made me feel less alone.
I slid the cream menu into the clean stack where it belonged, spine out. My palm left a faint sweat mark on the cover that I wiped off with my sleeve.
May you like
The dining room hummed behind me. Glasses clinking, someone laughing too loud near the mirror. Table seven was waiting.
I picked up the bread basket and the tongs, took the extra bottle of water I didn't need as an excuse to keep my hands full, and turned back toward the light.
