He’s just as anxious to leave as I am to get him out of here. Guess that marks the one and only thing that puts us on the same page.
“I’ll be right back with this,” I tell him. His card—plain navy plastic with the VISA logo in the lower corner and NAVY ARMY CREDIT UNION along the top—bears the name “Isaiah Torres.”
When I return, I hand him a neon purple gel pen from my pocket and gather his empty dishes.
“Thank you for the …” he points at the sticky plate in my hand as he signs his check. “For that.”
“Of course,” I say, avoiding eye contact because the sooner I can pretend he’s already gone, the better. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”
Asshole.
Glancing up, I spot our hostess, Maddie, flagging me down and mouthing that I have three new tables. Great. Thanks to this charmer, I’ve disappointed the Carnavales, risked my job, and kept several tables waiting all within the span of a half hour.
Isaiah signs his check, closes the leather binder, and slides out of his booth. When he stands, he towers over me, peering down his nose and holding my gaze captive for what feels like a single, endless second.
For a moment, I’m so blinded by his chiseled jaw and full lips, that my heart misses a couple of beats and I almost forget our little exchange.
“Ma’am, if you’ll kindly excuse me,” he says as I realize I’m blocking his path.
I step aside, and as he passes, his arm brushes against mine and the scent of fresh soap and spicy aftershave fills my lungs. Shoving the check presenter in my apron, I tend to my new tables before rushing back to start filling drinks.
Glancing toward the exit, I catch him stopping in the doorway before slowly turning to steal one last look at me for reasons I’ll never know, and it isn’t until an hour later that I finally get a chance to check his ticket. Maybe I’d been dreading it, maybe I’d purposely placed it in the back of my mind, knowing full well he was going to leave me some lousy, slap-in-the-face tip after everything I’d done for him. Or worse: nothing at all.
But I stand corrected.
“Maritza, what is it?” Rachael asks, stopping short in front of me, hands full of strategically stacked dirty dishes.
I shake my head. “That guy … he left me a hundred-dollar tip.”
Her nose wrinkles. “What? Let me see. Maybe it’s a typo?”
I show her the tab and the very clearly one and two zeroes on the tip line. The total confirms that the tip was no typo.
“I don’t understand. He was such an ass,” I say under my breath. “This is like, what, five hundred percent?”
“Maybe he grew a conscience at the last minute?” Her lips jut forward.
I roll my eyes. “Whatever it was, I just hope he never comes here again. And if he does, you get him. There isn’t enough tip money in the world that would make me want to serve that arrogant prick again. I don’t care how hot he is.”
“Gladly.” Her mouth pulls wide. “I have this thing for generous pricks with dashing good looks.”
“I know,” I say. “I met your last two exes.”
Rachael sticks her tongue out before prancing off, and I steal one last look at Isaiah’s tip. It’s not like he’s the first person ever to bestow me with such plentiful gratuity—this is a city where cash basically grows on trees—it’s just that it doesn’t make sense and I’ll probably never get a chance to ask him why.
Exhaling, I get back to work.
I’ve worked way too damn hard to un-complicate my life lately, and I’m not about to waste another thought on some complicated man I’m never going to see ever again.
Two
Isaiah
* * *
“You doing okay, Mamåe?” I step into my mother’s bedroom in her little South-Central LA apartment after grabbing breakfast and running a few errands. I’d have eaten something here this morning, but all I could find in her cupboards were dented cans of off-brand soup, a loaf of expired white bread, and a couple boxes of Shake-n-Bake.
I intend to hit up the grocery store here soon, and after that, I’ll remind my piece-of-shit siblings that this is their job in my absence.
“Ma?” I ask, drowning in the pitch blackness of her room. “You awake?”
The sound of police sirens wailing down the street and the neighbor kids above us stomping up and down the hall has become the common soundtrack in these parts. Ironically enough, it all blends together into some kind of white noise, making it easier to tune out.
She rolls to her side, and the room smells like death despite the fact that Alba Torres is still kicking. The doctors have been attempting to diagnose her for years, saying she has Chronic Fatigue Syndrome or Fibromyalgia one minute, then saying she has Lyme disease the next. Other doctors claim to have ruled those out in favor of doing more testing. More lab work. More MRIs. More examinations. More referrals.
And still … we know nothing—just that she’s always tired, always hurting.
“Isaiah?” she asks with a slight groan, attempting to sit up.
I go to her side and flick on the dim lamp on her pill bottle-covered nightstand. Mom’s face lights up when she sees me, reaching up to hold the side of my face with a thin, shaky hand.
“Que horas sao?” She reaches for her glasses on the table next, knocking over a tissue box. Despite the fact that she’s lived in the states since she was twenty, she tends to revert to speaking Portuguese when she’s especially exhausted.
“Almost four.”
“PM?” she asks.
I nod. “Yes, Ma. PM.”
“What’d you do today?” She takes her time sitting up before patting the edge of her bed.
I have a seat. “Had breakfast at a café. Ran a few errands. Caught a movie.”
“Sozinho?” She frowns.
“Yes. Alone.” I don’t know why she acts disappointed or heartbroken that I do things alone. I’m twenty-seven and despite the fact that I have more siblings than I can count on one hand and I’ve lived in enough states to have accumulated hundreds of friends and associates over the years, I’ve always preferred to go about things my own way—by myself.
Life’s a hell of a lot less disappointing that way.
“I’m so glad you’re home, Isaiah.” She offers a pained smile, reaching for my hands. She places them between hers, her palms warm but her fingers like ice. “Please tell me you’ll be staying a while?”
“I leave next week,” I remind her. “In nine days, actually.”
My mother shakes her head. “I don’t know why you keep going back there, Isaiah. It’s a blessed miracle that you make it home each time, but one of these days it’s going to be in a box in the belly of an airplane.”
She makes the sign of the cross, mouthing a short Catholic prayer under her breath.
I pinch the bridge of my nose before resting my elbows on my knees. I can’t look at her right now, not when her dark eyes are getting glassier by the second. I hate seeing her in pain, and I especially hate seeing her in pain because of me.
“This is my job,” I say, knowing full well it won’t make any of this easier for her. “My career.”