Til Death Do Us Part

47

“It’s so busy I think I might pass out. We just got a table of six guys up to the second floor for dinner, and we’re running out of side dishes.” Greta comes sweeping into the kitchen where I’m heating chicken wings in a flash fry for an order and leans over me to stick a paper tab on the order line over my head. The new group seems to have enormous appetites and is going for a four-course in one sitting.

“All six want the scallop starter…” that’s easy for me to handle alone.” she is red-faced and sweaty and makes to start pulling out the necessary ingredients to get on it. Even with both of us cooking and serving, we still struggle to keep waiting time down. We should start thinking of a kitchen part-timer if this summer keeps progressing like this.

“I don’t think we can take many more people in if this keeps up. How many boats have docked today?” I’m feeling the pressure after boats started swarming into the harbor at five pm, and we got a heavy stream of new faces coming in the door on top of the midday rush from scheduled boats. We’re not equipped to keep up with the sheer volume of people.

“Too many. One of them was a mini-break cruise boat. Like …. where they even came from is beyond me. They serve food aboard, yet we got at least thirty of their passengers in here for lunch. I’m not complaining because it’s cash…. but can they not spread it out a little.”

“It’s new scenery and a change from eating on their boats. I would come to try out a new island too if I owned a yacht.” I point out, catching her weird slight eyebrow raise because she always assumes that my once lavish and decadent self probably owned everything from yachts to airplanes. I never. I never had time for anything like vacations.

“Well, the new guys are hot but wreak of money, so I have a feeling they’re going to be picky and demanding. I don’t think a single item of their clothing costs less than a grand.”

“Do you want me to serve their table? You know I can handle the upper-class in my sleep.” I volunteer, having dealt with the spoiled and wealthy many times before. My accent and demeanor usually impact keeping them in their place while Greta gets too sassy and doesn’t handle catty rich people.

“Yeah. Although, if they offer phone numbers, the tall dumb looking one is totally my style. He’s in a white Louis Vuitton tee and a total dreamboat.” She grins at me, and I shake my head, laughing at her shamelessness. Greta isn’t sexless by choice, just sheer lack of men on this island that’s she’s attracted to. She has expensive taste and an aversion to letting her guard down and trusting the male species.

“Always a silver lining, huh.”

“Hey, you haven’t seen him. They look around our age too. I’m deprived living here. I’m not against having a sexy sugar daddy.” This is an ongoing joke, but I know Greta isn’t swayed by money at all. She’s too independent and self-reliant to let a man pay for anything.

“You’re shameless.” I giggle at her before scooping out the two servings of wings onto the plates I have ready with salad and sides. Scooping my basket of fries from the fryer and plate up as precisely and artistically as possible. “Who comes to an award-winning seafood shack by the sea and orders chicken?” I smirk as I pull the two plates up and move to take them out to my waiting table.

“Locals.” She laughs after me, and I burst into a proper laugh too because she’s right. Two servings for some of our boat boys treating themselves to dinner and making my way out into the restaurant.

I hand them over in quick timing, a pro at navigating out the maze of tables, and wander back to our center aisle, where we keep our chilled water and such for setting up tables. Readying a tray of complimentary breadsticks and rolls to take upstairs to top up waiting tables with no food yet. I should check and see if anyone needs anything while I’m at it. We’re at a thirty-minute wait on main courses as it is.

We have music playing, and the chatter is loud, so the place feels hectically full, and it boosts my mental mood and morale as I head across the busy floor, dodging tables, and climb the stairs to the lounge. I get a bird’s eye view from here as I ascend and happily hum to myself at seeing all the merry chatting faces, enjoying our wares, and bringing our place to life.

I have learned from experience to always have one eye on all tiny people when they come in. They can’t help themselves from running around, especially after the dessert’s been served. I have to dodge some running kids and manage with expertise to lift the tray up and away as I twirl by them and carry on as though I didn’t miss a near disaster.

“Waitress…. can we have more orange juice over here?” A female voice calls out from behind me on this level, and I turn my head. I was aiming for the far left table at the furthest corner, so I’m still moving that way while looking backward and smiling brightly. Pasting on the perfect hospitality face.

“Sure, just give me five. I’ll be right on that.” I’m still too engrossed looking their way and don’t see the tall man who’s gotten up and heading mine, with his eyes glued to his phone while going for the bathroom, and we catch one another shoulder, to chest in passing. A mild ‘ooft’ and I’m knocked for six by his solid mass of muscle.

I’m spun just enough with the collision that my tray tips off one side of my hands, and as I try to right it, everything slides that way, and I lose the balance. I immediately dive after it to catch what I can and end up on my knees, scrambling to scoop everything into one place before feet trample it. Dropping it all on the floor. Thankfully it’s dried goods and minimal mess.

“s**t, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t paying attention. Let me help you.” A low husky voice comes level with my ear as smooth tan hands, and a muscular set of legs in jeans kneels in front of me and overtakes my line of vision. Hurrying to help, I’m frozen stiff, my heart hammering through my chest, and my body refuses to cooperate. It’s like I just got zapped with some kind of taser that freezes time and space, and I forget to breathe.

His voice was so spot-on for the memory that I refuse to allow myself to wander back to that it shocks me into stillness for a second. I'm dazed, and I have to shake myself for spacing out like this mentally.

“It’s okay… I can do it.” I stammer, trying to pull my head out of my ass and move to keep picking things up, avoiding the poor guy’s face because I know I just weirded out on him for sounding so much like Jyeon. It feels shitty to have his voice ingrained in my head still this way, and I’m so lost in my thoughts I fail to see he’s not moving anymore. Breadsticks in one hand, and yet he’s holding them in mid-air without handing them to me.