Chapter 4 - The Menu Folder Between Us
I told myself I could wait him out. If I stayed by the service station long enough, he'd order dessert or wave for the check and I'd send Luis instead. But the floor manager caught my eye across the room and tipped his head toward table twelve. My table. His table.
I picked up the house red in my left hand and went back.
The candle in the glass holder had burned lower. The flame pulled left every time the air moved, then stood straight again. When I stepped up to his side, the warm light caught the left side of my face and I knew exactly what it was doing. It lit up the bruise around my eye and the tender color high on my cheek. I turned my head a little to the right, like I could pour without being seen.
"Red refill?" I said. My voice sounded thin.
He didn't answer right away. He watched my hands. I slid his stemmed glass closer by the base and poured slow, so I wouldn't spill. My breathing was too loud in my own ears. I tried to keep it even. In, out. He noticed. I could feel him noticing the way my chest lifted under the blue dress, the way my eyes kept moving to the windows and back because I didn't want to look straight at him.
I set the bottle down on the white cloth. The dark menu folder was still beside his elbow where he'd left it. I reached for it. "I'll get this out of your way."
"Leave it a second," he said. Quiet. Not a grab. Just words.
My hand stopped. I pulled it back and folded it with the other one in front of my apron.
"You said bad shoes," he said.
My stomach dropped. The dining room hummed around us, plates and low talk and someone laughing too loud near the chandeliers. It all felt far away.
"What?" I said.
"When I asked. You said you tripped. Bad shoes."
I forced a short laugh. "Yeah. These floors. And these —" I glanced down at my black service shoes, scuffed at the toe. "They're not great."
He looked down too, just a glance. Then back up to my face. "Those aren't the shoes you wore Tuesday."
I blinked. "What?"
"Tuesday. And last Friday. You had the other ones. Lower heel. With the strap." He said it plain, like he was reading an order back. "You worked a double Tuesday. You moved fast. You didn't trip once that I saw."
My mouth went dry. The candle flickered again and heat touched my bruised cheek. I wanted to step back, but the red leather chair behind me blocked half my space and his table blocked the other.
"You remember my shoes?" I said before I could stop myself.
He didn't smile. "I sit here a lot. I notice who takes care of people."
I didn't know what to do with that. A regular. That's all he was supposed to be. Black shirt, black blazer, gold chain catching the candlelight, watch loose on his wrist. Someone who ordered the same water without ice and never snapped his fingers at anyone. Not someone who kept track of my shifts.
"I switched," I said quickly. "My other ones broke. That's why — that's why I fell. New shoes." The lie kept growing legs. I hated how fast I said it.
He studied my eye movement. I felt my gaze dart to the menu folder, to his tattooed hand resting beside it, to the wine glass. Anywhere but him.
"Harper," he said, low enough that only I heard it over the room. "I'm not trying to corner you."
I swallowed. My throat clicked. "I know. I just — I need to keep working. Please."
He nodded once and slid the dark menu folder toward me with two fingers. The leather made a soft drag on the white cloth.
"Go on, then," he said.
May you like
I took it and held it against my apron like a shield. My hands were shaking and I pressed them harder into the folder to hide it.
As I turned, it hit me all at once and settled cold in my chest. He hadn't guessed. He remembered. He'd been watching long enough to know my shoes, my shifts, the way I moved when I wasn't hurt. And that meant my trip story was already gone.
