I hope he’s okay. Both of my parents are still alive. The idea of one of them passing is horrible. Of someone who’s been such a huge part of your life being gone. Then there’s the whole part where he’d said he wanted to steer clear of his family for the foreseeable future. Now he’s going to have to deal with the loss of his father and all of them en masse. Poor Beck.
I swill down the last of the wine, wincing because it’s not only warm but acidic and generally disgusting. Damn me and my cheap alcohol. However, it was the only thing I had in the apartment. Stupid to be lonely when you live in a city surrounded by millions. Makes no sense at all. But I miss him. Dumbass feelings.
Guess I might as well put my half-drunk ass to bed. Get up later and do laundry and get some groceries and go through the motions of my normal life. Because that’s what I’m back to…normal. The word never felt so small and sad.
Back at work, Rob is infuriated by his latest busboy’s desertion. I try to explain about the deceased father and everything, but it doesn’t help. Rob keeps right on yelling. The man is a bag of dicks. Anyway. Pretty sure Beck isn’t coming back anytime soon and doesn’t need the job or the money. Not after seeing the luxury vehicle and the dude in the slick suit taking his orders.
What was with that and who the hell is he? These are both questions I’d dearly love to have answered. Though the likelihood of this happening is low. Google could possibly answer these questions if only I knew his last name. Since he was working for cash under the table, not even Rob can tell me, if he were so inclined.
Beck and I never really discussed family or finances. Not in depth. Though you don’t normally get into personal shit like that within the first few days of knowing someone. It takes time to build trust. And we had plenty of other things to talk about. But maybe he really is a single man with a fortune. How bizarre. My parents are both schoolteachers. That’s how they met and fell in love. We were okay, but not rich or anything. Any knowledge of how the other half lives is restricted to TV and the internet. I can’t imagine the Beck I knew collecting dirty glasses and mopping the floor being waited on hand and foot. It just does not compute.
Two and a half days since he left and my heart is still hung over. I want to see him again. Best not to hold out hope, though. It just leads to further harm.
Meanwhile, work sucks. It’s twice as busy now that we have to clear tables as well as take orders. Kari is also being even more useless than normal and half her customers move to my side. But more importantly, Beck’s absence feels huge. My whole world is smaller and less special somehow. No sharing smiles with him. No listening for his voice among all of the noise. No end of the night/early morning walks on the beach, dancing, or eating at the diner. Without him here, I feel like I’m back to just going through the motions. Not even wearing my favorite navy boho-style shirt is helping.
I need to get a life. That is the big ugly truth. The hole inside of me can’t be filled with love interests or other distractions. My happiness is my own job. I just need to figure out where to start.
Halfway through the night, a big dude in a black suit sits at one of the tables. He puts down some money and gives me a bland impersonal smile. “Diet Coke. Keep the change.”
“You only want the soda?”
His hands rest on the table in front of him, fingers laced. “That’s right.”
“This is a fifty-dollar bill.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Okay, then.”
I fetch him his drink while he plays with his cell. And that’s it. He sits there sipping his diet soda. After an hour is up, he orders another, leaving a second fifty-dollar bill on the table. The process is repeated. Aside from his excessive tipping, there’s a strange formality to the man. I don’t know how else to describe him. But the night is busy and I don’t have time to think about it. Though he keeps watching me. Which is more than a little creepy.
“Are you sure there’s nothing else I can get you?” I ask, upon delivering his third diet soda of the night.
“There is something I’d like to discuss when you take your break.” A statement like this deserves red lights and warning bells.
“I’m in a relationship,” I lie.
“Nothing like that,” he says in a rush. “Beck asked me to pass on a message to you.”
My heart stutters. “Beck?”
“Yes.” The man’s brows rise. “You are Alice, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Yes, I am. And I already had my break earlier.” As per usual, I spent said break hiding out in the lady’s bathroom sitting in a locked stall (with the toilet seat down). It’s the one place I can usually rest my feet uninterrupted for five solid minutes. “What’s the message?”
“That I’m here in case you change your mind.”
Huh. “That’s what he said? That’s everything?”
“Yes, miss,” says the big buff man. “My name is Smith and I’ll be in the bar every night between eight and two for the next week. Then I’ll wait out in the parking lot to ensure you get to your vehicle safely. Those were my instructions.”
I don’t know what to say.
“And should you decide to change your mind, I’m to get you to Denver.”
Someone calls for me, but I ignore them. “Is he all right?”
“I can’t say, miss.”
“Well, who is he?” I ask. “I mean…this is a lot. It’s not exactly normal behavior, if you know what I mean?”
“I know what you mean,” he says. “But I can’t answer that question either, sorry.”
“Are you also supposed to be tipping me this much?”
His smile is more genuine this time. “Your time is valuable and I’m instructed to cover those costs.”
“Okay.” This is all well beyond my range of experience. Someone is yelling “waitress” on repeat, but I need a minute. Possibly two. “Are you a friend or an employee or what, exactly?”
“A driver, miss.”
“So this isn’t all some weird involved human trafficking setup, then?” Maybe I shouldn’t have said that, but I don’t know. It made sense for a second inside my head. And you can’t be too careful.
Smith’s eyes widen. “No, it’s not. You’re welcome to photograph both me and my vehicle and send them to a friend or family member, if you like. We could even go by a store and purchase a Taser and pepper spray if it would make you feel safer.”
“That’s very considerate of you.”
A nod.
Now Rob is yelling at me too. Something about getting my fat ass back to work. I hold up a hand, needing another moment to sort out my life. As I see it, the main points regarding arguments for and against going with Smith include: My job is shit. My apartment isn’t much better. In fact, nothing is keeping me in LA right now, when you get down to it. It’s not like my family rely on me for anything.
“Have they had the funeral yet? Was it hard on Beck? Was he close with his father?” I clamp my mouth shut, then finally manage to ask the only question that matters. “Do you think it would help, if I was there?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”