NOW
(Amelia)
“Hey, you have to come smell this.”
I had tried counting the stars three different times and lost count after just two. The stars meant nothing to me, but the distraction meant everything. I was lost without Josh. I was lost without the letter to Delilah. I couldn’t stop playing it in my mind, thinking about the fact that he was the one who wrote the letter. He wrote that letter to someone named Delilah, who was the person he truly loved. And yet the letter was written in such a way that said Delilah was gone, but I didn’t know what that meant.
Gone as in distance.
Gone as in time.
Gone as in forever.
Fingers snapped next to my ear. “You hear me?”
“What?” I asked Mags.
“You have to check this out,” she said. “It’s so gross.”
I stood up and followed her into the restaurant.
I had no desire to smell anything gross. But most of the staff was gathered near the walk-in fridge.
“Nope, nope, nope,” Chrissy said as she bolted from the fridge covering her mouth.
“What is it?” I asked.
“You just have to see and smell it,” Mags said. “Mitch is going to fire someone over it.”
“There was a smell in there,” Daniel said as he wiped his hands on his dirty apron.
He was one of the cooks and thought he was working in Paris at a top restaurant. He wasn’t all that good of a cook. The only reason Mitch kept him was because he did all the stuff nobody else wanted to do.
“What kind of smell?” I asked.
“Like the date he paid for last weekend,” someone called out.
Everyone laughed.
“What’s going on back here?” Mitch’s deep managerial voice boomed.
It was like being in high school again, watching everyone scatter as though we were under the bleachers, smoking, and the principal came to bust up the fun.
“Hey, Mitch,” Daniel said. “We’ve got some seafood that went sideways in here. Found it in the back corner. No idea how long it’s been in here.”
“Who the hell was in charge of the fridge last week?” Mitch asked, looking for a head to chop off.
Lucky for me I was a waitress.
I inched back and had all intentions of going back to work.
But then Daniel being Daniel, he darted into the fridge and grabbed a handful of whatever had gone bad. He showed it to Mitch and the smell turned its way toward me.
The second it touched my nose, my stomach launched like a rocket.
I put my right hand to my stomach as my eyes spied the oozing and gooey liquid of what used to be something edible.
I vowed right then and there to never eat seafood ever again.
But that meant nothing for what was about to happen.
“I’ll gladly clean this out,” Daniel said to Mitch. “But my ass isn’t taking the-”
I turned and spotted a trash can.
A hand went to each side of it and I buried my face into the trash can as I threw up.
And it wasn’t just some cute girl throw up either.
It was… bad.
I screamed like I was dying.
The sound of my stomach emptying slapped against the sides and bottom of the trash can and sounded so loud, I went from sick to embarrassed.
“Holy shit,” Daniel called out.
I lifted my head. “Get that out of here!”
I pointed to the nasty, rotted seafood.
“My goodness, Amelia,” Mitch said. He put a hand toward me and stopped. “Are you… that was…”
I touched my bottom lip.
Everyone was staring at me.
“Did you not smell that?” I yelled.
“Everyone get back to work,” Mitch ordered. “Daniel, clean that fridge out. Check everything. Twice. Three times. I’ll handle the outcome later.” Then he set his sights on me. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” I said. “That smell…”
“I can’t keep you here, Amelia.”
“What?”
“You can’t stay. I know the smell… but if it’s anything else…”
“You’ve got to be kidding me, Mitch,” I said. “I’m perfectly fine. I’ll chug water. Soda. Beer. I’ll eat a burger. I’ll eat…”
My stomach growled deep and twisted.
I had a single hiccup that made me freeze, wondering if it was just a hiccup.
Mitch put his hand out. “You need to go home. Just to be safe.”
“Mitch…”
“This isn’t a conversation any longer. I told you to do something. Someone will cover your tables.”
I stared at him in disbelief, but that lasted all of about five seconds.
Mitch turned his attention to the kitchen staff.
I had plenty more in me to argue.
But instead I threw up again.
I wasn’t going to tell Grace that I got sick at work.
She was terrified of illness.
I played out what to tell her the entire drive home.
It was the only way to stay calm from being pissed off at Mitch. And it was a welcome change to the racing thoughts about Josh.
He left his own apartment, leaving me stranded there.
And I waited for hours.
Three hours to be exact.
I didn’t touch the letter.
I just paced, waiting for him to come back. Wondering what the right words were to say to him. I needed him to know that I wasn’t trying to get a story out of him to write or sell or whatever. Nobody gave a crap what I wrote about anyway. I was a nobody. But with Josh I felt like somebody. I felt safe. I felt loved. It was the way he looked at me and touched me, bringing back the only good memories I had of being a teenager and reminding me of what we would be capable of if we stayed together now.
After three hours, I left.
That was almost a month ago.
A month.
A month without hearing Josh’s voice. Or seeing him. Our conversations were quick texts that had no meaning behind them. It was just me knowing he was alive. I didn’t fear him doing something intentional to himself, but I feared him losing his edge over the letter and whoever Delilah was.
I spent so much time alone in my room with notebooks and my laptop, going through old memories of my life like a dusty box of pictures. Writing down ideas and typing up what became nothing more than quick stories, which had no real life. And each time I wasted hours on it all, it was a gentle reminder that my life at the restaurant was far from over. I’d then toss and turn in the middle of the night wondering if I should bother writing anymore. Just put it all away and leave it be. Or figure out a new career in life. Maybe do what Grace did. Coach people through life.
Because I was so good at coaching myself.
Of course, I couldn’t just get home.
Miss Laura was outside her apartment, cleaning her door.
She would actually wipe her front door down at least once a week.
“Amelia!” she cried out when she saw me.
She wiped her forehead.
“Hard work?” I asked.
“You can’t imagine it. Need to keep my place spotless. Hey, what are you doing back so soon? Your shifts are never this short.”
“Caught a lucky break,” I said.