“Thank you,” she said, holding it up. “Just happened last night!” Dylan added as Mrs. Mimosa reappeared, stumbling slightly as she slid into the booth. Dylan glanced at the simple gold band on Mrs. Mimosa’s finger, something a lot more along the lines of what Dylan would have wanted, and suddenly felt silly about the size of her bauble. She buried her left hand into the pocket of her black apron.
“Congratulations,” Mr. Mimosa said, his eyes wandering over to Mrs. Mimosa as if he were silently imploring her to speak.
“When’s the big date?” Mrs. Mimosa asked, her words slightly slurred.
“Oh, we don’t know yet.” Dylan waved her hand in the air. “Don’t people usually wait at least a year?”
“Sometimes. But we didn’t,” she says, pointing at her husband and grimacing so slightly that Dylan almost didn’t notice it. Dylan wondered what the woman’s pinched face represented. Was she thinking they should have waited longer? Or not gotten married at all?
“Everyone’s different, I suppose,” Dylan said.
“Well, good luck to you,” Mrs. Mimosa said, holding Dylan’s gaze for a few beats longer than was comfortable.
“Thank you,” Dylan said, thrown off by what felt like more like a warning than a sentiment. She started to clean the neighboring table, taking a napkin and scooping the ketchup onto a barely touched plate of pancakes, the red sauce dripping from the cloth and settling into the accent diamonds in her ring, dulling their sparkle slightly.
Later, Dylan clocked out on the computer and caught her reflection in the small mirror hanging on the wall. She sighed. Her face had that bad kind of shimmer to it—a combination of sweat and grease.
She grabbed her purse, a weathered Kate Spade that was older than the ketchup kid, one her mom had proudly announced she’d found on clearance at the outlet. She still loved the quaintness of the black-and-pink sunglasses print and refused to part with it, despite the frayed edges of the straps.
She fumbled for her keys as she walked up the street to the employee lot. Parking was scarce in Laguna on the weekends, and the best spots were sold for upward of twenty-five dollars on a Sunday. But even after her worst shift, she didn’t mind the trek to her car. Laguna Beach had majestic views and a sea breeze that was addictive, and Dylan’s spirits would always rise the minute she exited the restaurant and turned right to take in the sweet, salty air and waves breaking below.
“Excuse me,” a familiar voice called out, and she knew before looking that it was Mr. Mimosa. She turned and saw him gripping a twenty-dollar bill.
Dylan froze. She’d never had a customer track her down. In her mind, she wasn’t the type of girl you went to great lengths for. Nick was the exception. He always found a way to do something extra when he didn’t have to, like carrying her trash down to the dumpster when the chute was broken or taking her Volkswagen to the car wash after she’d made a passing remark about how someone had scrawled wash me in the dirt on the back window.
“Yes?” Dylan answered, trying to keep her voice neutral. Really good-looking (possibly older?) men like him had gleaming black Range Rovers and gorgeous brunette women like the one he’d been with earlier. They certainly didn’t need Dylan.
“I wanted to give you this.” He waved the money at her.
“You already tipped me,” she reminded him, thinking back to how she’d known Mr. Mimosa would be generous. It was the way he’d slowly given Dylan their order so she’d have time to write it down, how he said please and thank you whenever he asked her for something, how he’d made small talk about her personal life. A customer like that was always a good tipper. He’d given her almost 30 percent.
“So maybe I thought you deserved more. Is that wrong?” He smiled sheepishly, and there were those beautiful eyes again.
“That depends,” Dylan said, pressing her lips together in a failed attempt not to grin. But it was impossible, and she felt the corners of her mouth inch upward anyway. There was something about him. Dylan had never known anyone who shined from the inside out before. She found it intriguing, even though she really didn’t want to. What she really wanted to do was get home and soak her shirt before the ketchup stain became permanent.
“Depends on what?” He said it like he already knew what her answer was going to be. She liked that too.
“How much more you think I need.” She laughed.
He joined her, his laugh low and strong. “Here.” He held out the money again.
“I can’t,” Dylan said, fidgeting with her diamond.
“Is it because you’re engaged?”
Dylan absorbed his words, looking at his bare ring finger. “No. Well, yes,” she stuttered, flustered at his straightforwardness. “But more because you’re married. You are, right? That was your wife?”
“Right,” he said simply.
Dylan wanted to ask more questions about her. Why did her face tighten when she talked about her husband? And why had she drunk so much she’d be sure she wouldn’t remember the two-hundred-dollar brunch she had with her handsome, seemingly charming spouse? But instead Dylan just said, “I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s James Morales. And it’s very nice to meet you.” He took her hand in his, slipping a business card and the twenty into it before she could refuse again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
JACKS—AFTER
I’m so tired of condolence cards. First off, they are ugly—like your-grandmother’s-curtains kind of unattractive. Second, they never say the right thing. I’m sorry for your loss. My thoughts are with you. You have my deepest sympathy. I stopped opening them last week, and they’re now stacked on the kitchen counter, where I add three more that have arrived today.
I’m still waiting for the card that says, I’m sorry your husband careened off a cliff with his mistress in a Jeep he couldn’t be bothered to rent for you. I know, because he’s dead, that it’s bad form to write this, but fuck him!
That’s a card that would speak to me.
I’m clearly in the angry phase now. I’m all kinds of pissed. Like the seeing-red, flaring-nostrils type of mad. I took it out on someone who called the house this morning. I don’t even know why I answered the phone. Maybe I was looking for a fight. The unfortunate woman, who sounded like a teenager, was calling from the alumni office of my alma mater, San Diego State University, to update my information. I held it together until she asked if I was still married, and then I unleashed all the pent-up frustration that had been building. I told her off, then threw the cordless receiver across the room.
I know I have misplaced aggression. Clearly it’s James I’m raging at. But I can’t tell him to go fuck himself and will never get the chance to yell at him for being a lying cheat. To see his gorgeous green eyes shift to the side when I confront him as he decides which way he wants to go—deny it or come clean? To see him hang his head as I cry and ask him, Why? To feel the shame deep inside that I might already know the answer to that question.
Naturally the cause of my rage, that little detail, is something that no one in my family besides Beth knows: James was in Maui because he was having an affair—with a girl so young she probably didn’t know who Debbie Gibson was. It’s obvious my mom suspects there’s more I’m not telling her, her eyes searching mine each time she asks why in the world James was in Hawaii without me, not quite accepting my answer that he had a very important client he was courting there. I hate to lie. Especially because it’s lies that have brought my world crashing down around me. But I remain tight lipped, knowing she’ll just add to the confusion.