My head pops up to find him standing before me. “I’m sorry.” I move to rise from the booth, and he raises his hand to stop me, his eyes dropping to my feet. “I’ve left money on the table to cover the bill.” His eyes wander up my body back to my face.
“T-Thank you. Have a great night.” His reply is to nod and walk out the door. Grabbing a tray, I make my way back to his table. Loading up his leftover dishes, I lift his plate and find two crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. I look over my shoulder to see if he’s standing there watching me, but he’s not. It’s just me in the VIP room. His bill could not have been more than fifty dollars. My hands shake as I tuck the money into my apron. I’m embarrassed and grateful all at once. As quickly as I can, I clean off his table and drop the dishes off to the kitchen. Pulling up his bill, I shake my head when I see it was under fifty dollars. Pulling one of the hundreds out of my pocket, I cash out his check and pocket the remaining change. Quickly, yet efficiently, I rush through my closing procedure on the register, lock the money in the safe, and finally, I can head home.
“You ready to head out?” Ronnie asks, appearing beside me.
“Yes, you?” He holds his arm out for me, and I don’t hesitate to slip mine through his.
He makes sure that he walks me to my car every night. No matter how many times I tell him I’m fine. He insists. On the nights we’re not on the same shift, he always calls to make sure one of the other guys walks me out. He worries when he doesn’t need to. “How was it tonight?” he asks.
“Good. It was busy, but that’s good for tips.”
“Was that last guy bothering you?” he asks, his fatherly concern stirring my already haggard emotions from the night.
“Not at all. He, uh, he noticed my shoes were hurting my feet. He simply saved me a trip,” I confess.
“Layla, if you need help,” he offers, just as he has so many times before. My heart swells with love for him and the support he’s always given me.
“Thank you, Ronnie, but I’m holding my own.”
“You’ll tell me if you need anything? Linda and I will do anything we can.”
“I know you would. I can’t tell you how much that means to me, but I’m doing okay. Things are tight, but I live on my own, that’s to be expected.”
“You deserve better,” he says, his jaw clenching. Ronnie and his wife, Linda, invited me to dinner my first Thanksgiving here in Florida. When they found out I was spending the day alone, they refused to take no for an answer. Since then, they’ve become like family to me. They are the only people here who know of my sordid past. Of the family I was born into, and the reason I’m here in Florida all on my own.
“Hey now…” I lean into him as we approach my beat-up Honda Civic. “What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, right?”
He chuckles. “My wife is rubbing off on you.”
“Full of wisdom.” I laugh. Linda is the most positive person I know. No matter how hard things get, she has a glass-half-full optimism. I try to pull from her strength. Lord knows my own mother is no kind of role model.
“That she is,” he says as I step out of his hold. “You drive safe.” He stands back while I climb in and shut the door. With a wave through the windshield, I start my car and lock the doors. Only then does he head to his own vehicle. Once he’s settled, and his headlights come on, I pull out, with Ronnie pulling out behind me.
It’s nice to know that I have someone out there who cares enough to worry. It’s a new concept for me, and it’s taken me a while to accept that they’re doing it because they do care. When you grow up in a home without love, you don’t really recognize it. I was lucky enough to land a job in the kitchen, washing dishes seven years ago. I was eighteen years old and on my own. I fled Indiana the day they handed me my high school diploma, and I’ve never looked back. Not that I needed to. There is no one following me, wondering where I am.
Chapter 2
Layla
“Layla, you have a party of one in VIP,” Maria says as I pass her on my way to the kitchen.
“I’m not on VIP tonight,” I remind her. We switch off weekends due to the tips, and I had VIP last Friday, and then there’s my solo customer I’ve had every night this week.
She shrugs. “He requested you.”
Blue Eyes.
I’m sure it’s him. I’ve worked here for seven years, and he’s the first to request me specifically.
“Of course he requested me,” I say under my breath, grabbing a menu, silverware, and a glass of water.
“He’s hot. Let me tell you, if you’re not interested, I am. That man is fine,” she says, waving her hands in front of her face as if they would cool her down.
My heart rate spikes, and nerves start to set in. It’s been this way every night I’ve worked for the last week. He comes in late, sits in VIP, and asks for me. I don’t know who he is or what he’s after, but I’m thankful for him and his generous tips, even though I can’t keep accepting them. It’s too much. Standing tall, well, as tall as my five-foot-six frame can stand, I head to the VIP section. As soon as I enter the room, I see him. As before, he’s staring down at his phone. He’s sitting at the same table in the back of the room. Tonight, however, there are two other tables that are occupied.
“Welcome to the Emerald Entrée, my name is Layla. I’ll be your server this evening,” I say, trying to remain professional, placing his menu, silverware, and glass of water on the table.
“Layla.” He looks up, and once again, I’m captivated by those blue eyes.
“Hi.” I wave, making the moment even more awkward. Reaching into my apron, I grab my pad and paper. “Would you like an appetizer?” I ask, getting right down to business.
When he doesn’t reply, I look up to find him staring at my same pair of worn-out shoes. The same pair of shoes he’s looked at every time he’s been here, in this exact seat. “We have pretzel bites on special tonight,” I continue to ramble on.
“I’ll have…” He looks up, and my breath hitches in my throat. I manage to write down his order as he lists the exact same meal—the one I have memorized. His blue eyes are intense, and it makes me wonder what he’s thinking about. Well, other than the fact that I still have the same shoes on my feet. I’d love to know what he’s thinking. Then again, the way he was just staring at my feet with a scowl on his face, maybe not.
“And to drink?” I ask him.
“Water.”
“Of course, I’ll get this put in and have your salad right out.” I turn and walk away, mindful that his eyes are on me. I can feel his stare. Typing his order into the computer, I go gather his salad and another fresh glass of water. “Here you go,” I say, setting it in front of him.
“Tell me, Layla, have you worked here long?” he asks. He’s been making small talk all week. What is there to do in the area? How far to the nearest mall? Questions that surprise me coming from him, but ones we get from tourists all the time. Well, until this one.
I look around and realize the other diners have left, and it’s just the two of us. “I have. I just had my seven-year anniversary.”