Chapter 7 - He Kept the Menu Closed
I told myself I could do thirty seconds. Walk up, ask for his order, write something down, walk away. That was the job. That was the whole job if I kept my eyes on the pad and not on his face.
He was still at the same table when I came back. White cloth, two wine glasses untouched, the candle burning low in its glass holder. The dark menu folder sat closed by his right hand. He hadn't opened it. He hadn't touched the wine.
The dining room had gotten louder around him. Someone laughed by the windows. Silverware clicked. That helped. Noise made it feel less like everyone was still watching us.
I stopped a good step back from the table. Farther than I usually stood. My pen was already out.
"Are you ready to order?" I said. My voice sounded flat. Professional. I liked it that way.
He didn't reach for the menu. He left both hands on the table where I could see them, fingers loose around nothing. The gold of his watch caught the candlelight when he shifted.
"Not yet," he said. "I'm good sitting a minute, if that's all right."
Of course it wasn't all right. I needed him to order so I had a reason to leave. The kitchen was already backing up and Marisol kept glancing my way. But you don't argue with a paying customer about taking his time. That's the kind of thing managers notice.
"Of course," I said. "Take your time."
I started to step back and he spoke again, quieter, under the room noise.
"Harper." He waited until I looked at him. "I owe you an apology."
My grip tightened on the pad. I didn't want an apology. I wanted a drink order and distance.
"For touching your face earlier," he said. "I shouldn't have done that without asking. I'm sorry."
Nobody had ever said it like that. Plain. No excuse after it. He didn't look away when he said it, but he didn't lean in either. He stayed seated, hands still on the table. I could see the tattoos across his knuckles, the same hand that had held my chin. Seeing it there and not on me made my breathing slow down a little before I told it to.
"Okay," I said. It came out quick. "It's fine. It's busy tonight."
"It wasn't fine," he said. "You froze."
He wasn't accusing. That was the strange part. He said it like he was checking a fact he didn't like. The candle flickered between us and I watched the flame instead of him for a second.
I shifted my weight. My shoes pinched. The apron string was coming loose at my back and I wanted to fix it, but I didn't want to move wrong in front of him.
"I need to check my other tables," I said.
"I know," he said. "I won't keep you. Can I ask permission to ask you one question? Work-safe. You can say no."
I almost laughed, except nothing was funny. Who asks permission to ask a question? People who want something usually just ask it. My ex never asked. He just grabbed, then said I was too sensitive after.
The restaurant pressed in. Marisol passed behind me with a tray and I didn't flinch that time because I heard her coming. Small win. My shoulders were still up around my ears.
One question. Work-safe. I could say no. He'd said that part clearly.
I glanced at the closed menu. "Make it quick."
He nodded once. He didn't smile like he'd won something. If anything his jaw got tighter, like he was being careful with the words.
"On your feet all night in those shoes," he said. "Do you get a break where you can sit down? Off the floor?"
That was it. That was the question. I had braced for something else, something about my face or home or who. My pen stopped pressing so hard into the pad.
"Yeah," I said. "We get fifteen. In back."
"Good," he said. He finally touched the menu folder, just squared it with the table edge. Still didn't open it. "Then I'll order when you get back from your next round. No rush."
Thirty seconds. That's what I'd promised myself. I'd already stayed longer. My other two-top needed refills and the host was seating a four by the window. I should have walked.
Instead I stood there one breath more. The warm air smelled like candle wax and red wine. The cool blue from the windows touched the edge of his blazer.
"Why aren't you ordering?" I asked before I could stop myself.
He looked at the closed folder, then at me. "Because if I order, you have to leave. And if you leave, I can't make sure you got that break."
May you like
I didn't know what to do with that. My eyes burned and I blinked fast. I tucked the pen back in my apron pocket to give my hands something to do.
"I'll be back," I said, and this time it didn't sound like I was running.
