I trudge back to the kitchen. Amy is scraping food scraps off a plate into a big green garbage bin by the dishwashing station. It’s steamy and smelly back here, like old fried food.
“Table nine?” she asks, catching sight of me. She sets the plate on top of a towering stack of dirty dishes waiting to be loaded into the industrial dishwasher.
I nod, feeling miserable.
Amy passes me a rag. “Cheer up. Only three hours till closing.”
I dab at the stain but it’s no use. The velvet has soaked up the milk and rubbing at it only seems to make it worse. Also, the fluff from the white rag is now sticking to the dark material.
Most nights aren’t this bad. Most nights I actually like working here. And not only because I need the money, although I do. I’m saving for the school band trip to London in the fall.
I’ve wanted to go to England since I was a kid and my gran would tell me stories about growing up in London after the war. She used to go back every year and she’d always bring the best stuff home for me—magnets shaped like Big Ben, a snow globe of Buckingham Palace. All kinds of British chocolate.
I can hardly believe I’ll be there in a matter of months.
I’m still rubbing fruitlessly at the stain when Joe sidles up beside me. He’s dressed in a green brocade long vest, black breeches, and shiny, knee-high black boots.
“Quinn. Excellent. I’ve been looking for you,” he says, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “I’d like you to meet the newest addition to the Tudor Tymes team.”
New Guy is beside him. He’s a few inches taller than me, with wide shoulders that strain against his billowy pirate shirt. The eye not covered by the patch is a stormy gray. When he pushes the pirate hat back on his head and out of his face, I catch a glimpse of shaggy blond hair.
Definitely cute.
I smile at him, ready to welcome him to our strange little world, when he lifts the eye patch and I fully see his face.
“No need for introductions,” New Guy says with a smirk. “Q and I go way back.”
The smile freezes on my face. Because even though it’s been five years and he’s now taller than me and has a light scruff of facial hair, I recognize that smirk. Of course I do.
Wesley James.
Oh fie.
two.
“You two know each other?” Joe’s eyebrows lift in surprise. “Huh. Small world.”
Yes. Too small. Way, way too small.
I glance warily at Wesley. “I thought you moved to Portland.”
He snaps the eye patch back over his eye. “And San Francisco. And Chicago. And Vegas,” he says. “But my mom has always wanted to move back to Seattle, so … here we are. Again.”
Here you are again, indeed.
I stuff the rag into my apron and glance at Joe. “I have a table waiting. I should probably get back out there.”
“Do me a favor and take Wesley with you,” Joe says. “Show him the ropes.”
Ugh, really? It’s a struggle to keep the smile on my face, but I can’t exactly refuse my boss. Not without explaining why. I don’t want anyone to know my history with Wesley James, so I turn on my heel and lead him through the kitchen to the small bar tucked in the back. Bar may be a bit of a misnomer, since we don’t actually serve alcohol. What we have is a soda fountain, an espresso machine, and a few gallons of milk tucked into a small glass-front refrigerator.
“So, Q. It’s been, what? Four years?” Wesley watches as I grab a carton of milk and start to fill a plastic goblet stamped with the Tudor Tymes logo—a silver crest with a monogram of two interlocking Ts.
I can feel him assessing me, marking the changes since we last saw each other. My hair is longer, but still blond and curlier than I’d like it to be. I also have a lot more happening in the chestal area than I used to, which, judging from the way Wesley’s staring, he’s definitely noticed. It makes me wish I had a sweater or jacket or something to cover up with.
I may look physically different, but I still feel the same inside.
I still Hate. His. Guts.
“Five, actually,” I say, sticking the milk carton back into the fridge. I set the goblet on a round silver tray along with a wicker basket lined with blue cloth.
“So fill me in. What have you been up to?”
What have I been up to? Hm. How to boil it down? Well, my parents got a divorce and my dad has pretty much been living like a nomad, bouncing from job to job. Still struggling with his gambling addiction, thanks for asking. Oh, and my gran, well, we had to put her in a home a couple of months ago. She has Alzheimer’s.
And all of this is your fault, Wesley James. Well, maybe not the part about Gran getting Alzheimer’s; I guess I can’t blame him for that. But he’s definitely had a hand in everything else.
This isn’t exactly the place to unload on him, though, so I just say, “Stuff.”
“Stuff?” Wesley shakes his head. “Yeah, that really doesn’t tell me anything.”
Kind of the point.
I use a pair of tongs to pinch two rolls from underneath the heat lamp. There’s a beat of silence while Wesley waits for me to hold up my end of the conversation. This is the part where I’m supposed to ask him what his life has been like, how he’s spent the past five years. When I don’t, he jumps back in, like I knew he would. Wesley never could stand silence.
“Well, I see one thing hasn’t changed,” he says. “You haven’t outgrown your fascination with all things English.” He catches the surprise on my face. “It’s why you’re working here, right?”
I nod, dropping the rolls into the basket. “I can’t believe you remember that.”
“I remember a lot of things about you,” he says.
I remember things about you, too. And none of them are good.
Wesley reaches past me, grabs the rolls out of the basket, and starts to juggle them. Which is not only weird but completely unhygienic. “How’s your gran?”
The mention of Gran makes my heart squeeze. I guess that must show on my face, too, because Wesley stops mid-juggle. “Wait … she’s not…?”
I shake my head. “Still alive.” If you can call it that.
His face relaxes in relief. “Great. You know, I’d love to see her. Catch up.”
Not going to happen. Wesley’s already taken so much from me. I’m not letting him have Gran, too.
“You know, juggling with the food is generally frowned upon,” I say.
“Whoops. Sorry. Force of habit,” he says sheepishly, dropping the rolls back in the basket.
I toss the soiled buns in the garbage and grab some fresh ones. Lifting up the tray, I push through the kitchen door and make my way, once again, to table nine. Fortunately, it’s a slow night and I only have the one table to worry about.
The kids seem to have settled down, probably because they’re stuffed full of nutritious, deep-fried turkey. I set the milk down in front of Boy Number One and place the basket in the center of the table. They didn’t ask for more bread, but sometimes more bread is the key to getting a better tip. Or any kind of tip.
“How now.” I bob a curtsey. “Prithee, I’d like to introduce—”