“Alright, alright,” I say, holding up my hands. “I’ll drive you over.”
Flushed with victory, Mara grins at me.
“Can I drive?”
7
Mara
It feels good to be back at Sweet Maple. This place has been my anchor through some of the most chaotic times in my life.
So has Arthur. He might be the only man who’s ever done something kind for me without trying to put his hand on my ass afterward.
“There she is,” Arthur says, chucking my apron directly into my face. “You know you’re in the paper this morning?”
“I am?”
He tosses that at me too, already helpfully folded back at the right page.
It’s an article in the Chronicle, in the arts section. Just two columns on the bottom of a page, but it includes a large color photograph of The Mercy of Men, and a smaller picture of me, lifted off my Instagram.
This is Cole’s doing, I’m sure.
He’s constantly working behind the scenes, pushing me into the spotlight. He seems to get more pleasure out of grabbing attention for me than for himself.
I try to catch his eye, where he’s seated himself at the furthest corner table, but true to his word, he’s not distracting me and is only quietly taking out his laptop like any normal business-bruncher. Assuming that person just so happened to look like an off-duty supermodel in a cashmere button-down.
Arthur raises one thick, grizzled eyebrow at me.
“Isn’t that your other boss over there?”
“Yes.”
“I could be wrong but … didn’t you drive into work together? Quite early in the morning?”
I can feel my face flaming while I try to maintain a dignified expression.
“Yes, that’s right. I’ve been staying with him.”
“What!?” Arthur cries with mock surprise. “How did that happen? When you weren’t even trying to date him …”
I take back everything nice I said before. Arthur is the fucking worst.
I scowl at him.
“We’re not dating. It’s … complicated.”
“It always is,” Arthur nods wisely.
I throw myself into the business of waiting tables so I can avoid further interrogation.
Arthur is not going to be repressed that easily. He’s in a shockingly chipper mood, whipped into something approximating actual happiness at the prospect of teasing me all shift long.
This is catnip to Cole.
He immediately shoves his laptop to the side so he can gang up with Arthur against me.
I’m actually quite fucking busy as Sweet Maple hasn’t stopped being delicious. The sidewalk tables are crowded with people clamoring for bacon.
Meanwhile, Arthur has completely abandoned his duties and is sitting down with Cole, laughing and chatting like old friends. One thousand percent for sure discussing every intimate detail of my life that I’m heartily regretting sharing with either of them.
As I carry a backbreaking load of mimosas past them, I hear Cole saying, “I’m setting up a show for Mara in December. You should come, I’ll put your name on the list …”
The thought of Arthur coming to see my new series is too much to bear.
The more intimate and personal my work, the more it frightens me for other people to see it. Especially people who know me. Paradoxical as it seems, I’d rather strangers view it, because they won’t know how deeply self-referential my work has become. They won’t recognize how I’ve opened myself up, guts and all, laying myself bare across the canvas.
It feels good to work for money again, in a direct exchange, where a tray of food carried out equals a five-dollar tip. I’m puffing and sweating, but in a nice way. The way of good, honest labor.
Cole has never had to work for money at a menial job. That’s why money is only an abstract concept to him. He knows its power, of course, and wields it like a weapon. But he has no attachment to it. It comes easily to him, and he can always get more.
I don’t know if his way is better than mine.
In so many things, there is no better or worse. Just differences.
Cole will never feel the wild thrill of opening up a billfold and seeing a twenty-dollar tip on a fifty-dollar bill.
One thing I know for sure about myself: wherever I go in life, however rich I become, I’m always going to tip big. I know what it means to the server. How it can change their whole day, or even their week. How it gives hope far beyond any dollar amount.
Another useful thing about waitressing: you’re too busy to worry about anything else for long. I can’t stress over what Cole might be telling Arthur, or vice versa, when I have ten tables shouting requests.
The six-hour shift flies by in a moment.
Soon the tables are clearing out once more, and Cole has eaten the meal I ordered for him, and Arthur has drunk way too many cups of coffee. He interrupts me as I start my closing duties.
“You don’t need to bother with that.”
I keep rolling clean cutlery into napkins, saying, “What the fuck are you talking about? You used to chew a strip off me if I didn’t roll up every last fork in this place.”
Arthur taps a heavy finger on the newspaper article, still resting on the table next to me.
“I’m sure you’ve got better things to do with your time.”
My stomach squirms. I don’t want to hear whatever he’s trying to say. I keep rolling cutlery, stubbornly refusing to look at him or the newspaper article.
Arthur rests his hand on my shoulder instead.
I don’t know if he’s ever touched me before. His hand is heavy, calloused, and warm. It lays on my shoulder like a blessing.
“I’m proud of you, Mara,” he says.
I look up into his wrinkled face, at his faded brown eyes behind their thick, smudged lenses.
I want to say something back to him, but my throat is too tight.
Arthur murmurs, “You’re really doing it, Mara. And look, whether you want to date this guy or not, take his help. Take as much as you can get. Don’t be proud—be successful. You deserve it.”
I put my hand over his on my shoulder, holding it in place so he can’t let go.
My eyes burn, his wrinkled face swimming before my view.
“Why do I feel like you’re firing me?”
“You’ll always have a home here,” he says. “But I don’t want to hold you back. Not even for a Saturday morning. You don’t need this place anymore.”
I’ve worked at Sweet Maple for six years. Other jobs I quit or lost, but this one was always here. Arthur was always here.
“Come back to eat breakfast with everyone else who’s rich and famous and doesn’t have to carry a tray.”
“The best people carry trays,” I say ferociously. “You carry a tray.”
“I will if you come eat,” he says, squeezing my shoulder once more before letting go.
I leave quickly so Arthur won’t see me cry. Tears run down my face, hot and fluid, like there won’t be any end to them.
Cole chases after me, still stuffing his laptop back in his bag.
“Mara!” he cries. “What’s wrong?”
I wheel on him, furious.
“What did you say to him? What did you say to Arthur?”