Chapter 10 - Break Room With the Door Cracked
The break room was just a narrow space behind the dry storage, with a chipped laminate table and two folding chairs and the smell of old coffee grounds stuck in the air. I slipped in and let the door fall almost shut behind me, not latched, just cracked enough that I could hear the dish pit and the low hum of the dining room beyond it. My hands were shaking so bad I had to press my tray down on the table with both palms to keep it from rattling.
I had told myself I would not look until after my shift. That was the rule I made that morning. Don't check, don't answer, just get through service and deal with it at home. But my apron pocket was buzzing again against my hip, and once I was finally alone I couldn't pretend it wasn't there.
I pulled the phone out and sat down hard. The screen light hurt my eyes. One missed call. Then the messages stacked under it. I read the top one twice because the words blurred the first time.
It was a check-in. That was what he called it. Where I was, who I was with, why I wasn't answering fast enough. The time stamp was from twelve minutes ago, right when I'd been standing at his table with everyone watching. My stomach dropped so fast I felt cold all over. He knew I was at work. He knew I was supposed to be working. Still, the tone underneath it was clear enough. Answer now or there would be a problem when I got back.
I stared at the little preview of the second message without opening it. My thumb hovered over it. Part of me wanted to type back something quick, something that would smooth it over — busy, sorry, tables full, love you — the kind of line I'd sent a hundred times before. But my fingers wouldn't move right, and I could hear Marcy's voice in my head from last week telling me not to engage when he got like this on a shift.
I deleted the call log instead. I didn't know why. It felt stupid as soon as I did it, like I was trying to erase proof that only existed on my own phone anyway. Then I opened the thread and deleted that too, message by message, until the screen went blank. I shoved the phone deep into my apron pocket and folded the flap over it twice, like if I couldn't see it, it couldn't keep pulling at me.
The chandelier light from the hall cut through the cracked door and laid a thin line across the linoleum. I watched dust move in it and tried to slow my breathing. Inhale through my nose. Out through my mouth. The way the clinic nurse had showed me last year when I thought I had the flu and it turned out to be panic. My cheek throbbed under the makeup. The skin around my left eye felt tight and hot.
I stood up to splash water on my face. The little sink in the corner had a cracked mirror taped at the edge, and I avoided looking straight into it. I just ran the faucet cold and pressed damp paper towels to the back of my neck. The cool helped for a second. I thought about the back exit past the dumpsters, the parking lot with the one flickering pole light, my car with the dented fender. I thought about how much longer I could stay hidden back here before someone came looking.
A knock hit the door frame and I jumped so hard the paper towels tore.
"Harper?" It was Luis, our floor manager, his voice low but clipped. He pushed the door open another inch and didn't come all the way in. His tie was loosened and he had a spot of red wine on his cuff. "You okay? You're white as a sheet."
I nodded too fast. "Yeah. Just needed water. I'm going back out."
He didn't move. He glanced at my pocket, at the way my hand was still pressed over my apron like I was holding something in place.
"Your table," he said. "The corner. He asked for you specifically. Said he doesn't want anyone else to take over."
My throat closed. I could hear my own breath catch.
"Did he — did he complain?" I asked.
Luis shook his head. "No complaint. Just said he'll wait for you. Harper, listen. Whatever that was out there, keep it tight, okay? We got a full house and people are talking."
"I know," I said. "I'm sorry."
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He held my eyes a second longer, then stepped back to let me through. "Fix your apron. Then get out there."
I smoothed the white fabric with damp hands, felt the hard rectangle of the phone against my thigh, and followed him toward the warm noise of the dining room. With every step the buzzing in my pocket felt louder, even though the screen was dark, even though there was nothing left to read.
