Page 78 of Love, Second Chances and Other Nonsense
“We could add grilled chicke—”
She waves a hand dismissively. “I don’t want a chef salad. I want protein. I’ll have the chicken salad sandwich and just tell Peter not to be heavy-handed with the mayonnaise.”
And we’re right back where we started. I nod, forcing a smile. “Chicken salad sandwich it is then. Mixed greens salad with red-wine vinaigrette. Fries on a sepera—.”
“Ranch.”
“Pardon?” I’m certain I can feel one eye twitching.
“I want ranch dressing on my salad, young man. Can’t abide vinaigrette.”
The bell above the door chimes, and I glance up automatically. Daniel Wright walks in, all easy confidence and casual grace. He’s wearing jeans and a blue sweater that makes his green eyes pop, even from across the room. I’ve seen him enough over the past month to recognize his routine: he’ll slide into a booth, order coffee and whatever the day’s special is, and somehow always manages to time his visits for when Caitlin’s working.
Mrs. Bryant is saying something about the amount of ice she wants in her water, but I’ve momentarily lost track of her demands because Caitlin has just emerged from the kitchen. Her hair is pulled up into a messy bun, with wisps escaping to frame her face. She’s wearing the standard Louise’s Table uniform of black pants with a blue button-up shirt and a black apron, and she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
Her face lights up when she sees Daniel, and something in my chest constricts painfully. She crosses to his table, and though I can’t hear what they’re saying over the lunch rush noise, I can see her laugh at something he says. It’s a genuine laugh, her head tilting back slightly, her eyes crinkling at the corners. I haven’t managed to make her laugh once in the month I’ve been here.
“Young man!” Mrs. Bryant’s voice cuts through my distraction. “Are you listening to me?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I lie, dragging my attention back to her. “You want more ice in your water. I’ll bring you a fresh glass immediately.”
“No, I said NO ice. It hurts my teeth.” She thumps her cane and squints at me suspiciously. “What are you looking at anyway?” She turns, following my gaze to where Caitlin and Daniel are still chatting. “Ah. The Hughes girl. Pretty little thing, isn’t she? Is that her boyfriend?”
The question hits like a punch to the gut. “I don’t know,” I admit, which is true. I’ve wondered the same thing ever since I started working here. Daniel shows up at least once a week, sometimes more. Caitlin always comes out of the kitchen to say hello and they always seem happy to see each other. Sometimes they talk in hushed tones that make me wild with curiosity and jealousy.
Caitlin doesn’t wear that guarded expression with Daniel that she wears with me. She doesn’t measure her words or keep a careful distance. With him, she’s the Caitlin I remember from before Iowa; open, vibrant, real.
“Well, you’re not going to win her over by ignoring your customers,” Mrs. Bryant says, startling me with her perception. “Now, let me hear my order back. And speak up! My ears aren’t as young as they used to be.”
I force myself to focus, pushing aside thoughts of Daniel and Caitlin. “CHICKEN SALAD ON LIGHTLY TOASTED CRISP BUT NOT TOO CRISP BREAD, MIXED GREENS SALAD WITH RANCH, FRIES ON A SEPARATE PLATE,” She nods, satisfied at last. “That’s right. And make sure Peter knows I’m watching the clock. My show starts at one. Shouldn’t take this long just to get a sandwich.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I turn away. “We’ll get this started for you right away.”
As I walk toward the kitchen, I steal one more glance at Caitlin and Daniel. She’s still smiling, still relaxed. Still so far beyond my reach, it makes my heart ache. But I didn’t come all this way to give up at the first sign of competition or the hundredth cold shoulder.
“Order up!” I call through the pass-through to Peter. “Chicken salad, white meat only, on lightly toasted crisp but not too crisp bread, fries on a separate plate, mixed greens salad with ranch.”
“Let me guess,” Peter says dryly. “Mrs. Bryant?”
“The one and only.” I grin at him, and for a brief moment, I swear I see approval in his eyes.
“You’re getting better at this,” he says, taking the ticket. “Took me years to get her orders right.”
The small compliment warms me as I turn back to the dining room. Mrs. Bryant catches my eye and taps her watch pointedly. Caitlin heads back to the kitchen, studiously avoiding looking in my direction as Daniel sips his coffee and reads something on his phone.
One month down. Maybe a lifetime to go. But I’m not going anywhere.
* * *
I breathe a sigh of relief as I step out into the cool night air. My shirt sticks to my back from eight hours of hustling between tables, and my feet throb in protest of another day spent entirely upright. But it’s a good kind of tired, the kind that comes from work that matters. Peter clapped me on the shoulder as I left — a small gesture, but from him, it feels like a medal of honor.
The parking lot is mostly empty now. Just my truck, Peter’s truck, and Caitlin’s blue Corolla. As I walk toward my truck, I spot her leaning against her car, staring off into the distance. Her shoulders are slumped, and her arms are wrapped around herself. She looks… defeated. It’s an expression I haven’t seen on her face since Iowa.
I debate with myself for a moment. She’s made it clear that she prefers me at arm’s length. Our interactions over the past month have been strictly professional. But seeing her like this, I can’t just walk away.
“Hey,” I say, approaching slowly, giving her plenty of time to see me coming. “Everything okay?”
She startles slightly, then straightens, composing her features. “Fine.” Then, after a pause: “Just thinking.”
