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They were out of silverware. It was the height of the night — eight-fifteen, with countless four-tops and two-tops, families and dates looking to take in some of Manhattan’s finest cuisine, pouring in from the streets, their eyes bright and their moods easily shifted from intrigue and excitement toward annoyance at the wait-time. Chelsea scrambled through the just-washed silverware, stabbed it into linen napkins, and rolled up as though her life depended on it. Within the kitchen, on the other side of the open window between where the servers picked up their plates and the kitchen staff created their masterpieces, Marty howled at Chelsea. “Hurry up out there. We have hungry guests, and they’re getting angry.”
“You think I don’t know that? I just got stiffed. Ten percent tip? Don’t they know what the economy is like?” Chelsea barreled back.
She shot back into the nightmare of the dining area, where she prepped a table evenly, just as one of the hostesses guided a family of four toward that very table. Chelsea brightened her face into a false smile.
“Good evening, everyone,” she said as she presented drink menus to the father, the mother, and their two twenty-something daughters — neither of whom seemed particularly pleased to be there.
“Evening,” the father spouted. “I’d like a Negroni, as soon as you can make it.”
“Dad, you don’t have to get wasted the minute we go out together,” one of the girls pointed out.
“Alyssa!” the woman cried.
“What are you doing? You’re not my mother,” the girl named Alyssa returned.
“Alyssa. Maggie. I asked to have a pleasant evening out tonight,” their father said, his words firm. “You’ve known Maxine your entire lives. The least you can do is show her a modicum of respect.”
Maggie and Alyssa exchanged disgruntled glances. Chelsea felt a story brewing beneath the surface of this one, but she didn’t have enough time to dig in deep.
“Negroni. And what can I get the rest of you?”
The man arched a thick eyebrow and then asked that horrendous question — something Chelsea resented eternally, no matter if she worked at Tiny Tim’s or at the diner back home. “Aren’t you going to write down our order? I hate when waitresses don’t write down the order. They inevitably get it wrong.”
“Dad. This woman is clearly a professional,” Maggie blurted.
Annoyed, Chelsea grabbed her notepad and faked writing out “Negroni” in blue pen. The woman, apparently named Maxine, ordered a glass of Prosecco, while the two daughters both ordered Pinot Grigio. Chelsea told them the evening’s menu, something that was ever-changing. Immediately after, Alyssa pointed out that Chelsea didn’t seem to have a difficult time remembering that “rather extensive” menu. Her father looked past her as though she didn’t exist.
“Happy family,” Chelsea muttered to herself as she fled the table like it was the scene of a crime.
Chelsea had seven tables at this moment — seven tables of very hungry and very loud New Yorkers. Her previous lovely notions regarding New Yorkers had fled, at least for the night, and lent her this sinister feeling about all people, no matter what. They were all hungry and greedy and volatile, and they looked at her as though she was the devil incarnate.
Just after she had ordered up the non-family of four’s menu items, one of the kitchen staff members hollered through the window to tell her that she had a phone call in the office.
“What? That’s impossible.” Chelsea balked at him.
“Nope. You have a call. And they said it’s urgent.”
“Nothing is as urgent as what I have going on out here,” Chelsea told him. “I’m putting out almost literal fires out here.”
This wasn’t true, of course, but it certainly felt like it. Her anxiety skyrocketed.
“Should we tell the guy who says it’s an emergency that you don’t care about him?” another of the kitchen staff members piped up.
“I don’t see why you would do that.” Chelsea’s nostrils flared with annoyance. She scrubbed her hands on her apron and then rushed in through the swiveling kitchen door. Once in the steam of the kitchen, she rushed toward the back door of the office, then grabbed the phone and placed it on her ear. It had been ages since she’d used an actual landline.
“This is Chelsea speaking.”
For a long moment, there was silence. Of course. The kitchen staff had decided to play a cruel joke on her. They had seen how slammed she’d been; they wanted to yank her out of her groove and make her even later with her next course. The time she spent within these four office walls literally ate her tips away.
“Listen, if there’s actually somebody there, you’re wasting my time. I have about a zillion things to do, and the fact that you’ve just called me out of the blue during my shift is absolutely inconsiderate and borderline evil, to be honest with you.”
She spat the words with vitriol.
And a moment later, a very familiar voice answered.
“Chelsea, I’m sorry. I’m really so sorry.”
It was her father. She hadn’t spoken to him at all since she’d left the city. She’d only heard from him once — when she had texted him to ask if he was all right. Now, here he was.
“Dad.”
Tears sprung to her eyes. Back in her teenage years, having her father call had felt like Christmas Day. She’d found all sorts of things to tell him to keep him on the phone longer. She would even make up stories just to make herself sound more interesting, more intelligent.
“I know you’re busy. I know that place can fill up like nobody’s business,” Tyler continued.
Chelsea’s throat tightened. In the doorway, Marty stood. He mouthed at her, “What the hell are you doing?” But she turned her back to him and lifted a finger to tell him she just needed a minute.
“I need to talk to you,” Tyler said finally. “In person.”
Chelsea had no idea what to say. She was paralyzed.
“I’ll come to the city on your next day off,” he continued. “Just tell me where to meet you, and I’ll be there.”
Chelsea felt like she was in a nightmare. Every muscle in her body screamed for her to say no, that she couldn’t hack it. She couldn’t manage to be his daughter if he planned to yank her around like this.
“I’m off tomorrow,” Chelsea said finally. Immediately, she cursed herself. How could she just give him all of herself like this? How could she be so weak?
“I’ll be there bright and early. With bagels and coffee,” her father said.
“Okay. Meet me at my place; I guess,” Chelsea told him. “You know where it is.”
“I do.” He sighed. “See you.”
Chelsea pressed past Marty without making eye contact. He demanded to know just what she thought she was doing, talking on the phone when her tables awaited their food, their drinks, their bills, and their change. She threw her hands through the air and yearned to quit but held back the words. She couldn’t just run from this like she had before with her father and Xavier.
Again, Chelsea appeared over the table of the man and his daughters, along with the woman they seemed not to care for, named Maxine. The daughters had hardly touched their meals. They blinked at Maxine as though she was a horrible specimen to be studied in a lab. Chelsea noticed now that one of the girls wore a wedding ring; she wondered where the husband was.
There was such awkwardness at the table. Tense air stretched over the four of them. When Chelsea asked, “How is everything so far?” they hardly blinked at her.
But after a moment, the father turned his eyes toward her and asked, “We’re absolutely fine, thank you. And you? You’re not from the city, are you? Where are you from?”
Chelsea got this sometimes: customers who pretended to be interested in her backstory, if only because they were bored or annoyed with their company.
“Oh, I’m from Martha’s Vineyard,” Chelsea returned.
Normally, this news was received warmly. Often, people said, “Oh, we’ve vacationed there,” or, “Oh, our friends were married there.”
But this time, the mood at the table erupted like lightning. The daughters’ smiles were enormous; Maxine’s face fell toward the ground, and the father, well, all the color drained from his cheeks.
“I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong?” Chelsea now had the feeling that she’d stirred the pot even more.
“Our mother lives there,” Alyssa piped up, clearly excited. “And Maggie just got married there a few weeks ago.”
“Oh! That’s exciting,” Chelsea replied, flashing them all a huge smile.
“Yeah. It was a beautiful wedding,” their father said in an icy tone.
“It was supposed to be,” Maggie returned.
“Come on. I told you how much I spent on that wedding of yours,” her father said, bristling.
Maggie threw her hands skyward. Chelsea’s eyes connected with Alyssa’s as she asked, “Where does your mother live?”
“Oh, she works for Katama Lodge and Wellness Spa,” she said. “Our grandmother and step-aunts work there, too. We spent a lot of time there over the summer. It’s such a beautiful place!”
“Wow. Were you there for the hurricane?”
“No, thank goodness,” Alyssa returned. “I would have totally freaked.”
“I was on my honeymoon,” Maggie told her.
“One of three,” her father affirmed.
“Dad!” Maggie blurted.
Chelsea’s smile widened. “Well, just let me know if you four need anything else. Another negroni, perhaps?”
“Absolutely. And keep them coming,” the father returned.
Chelsea sauntered back to the computer, where she pressed in their new drink orders, humming to herself. One of the bartenders asked her, “What are you so happy about?” And Chelsea wasn’t fully sure she knew the answer.
“I guess it’s just good to know that other people have messed up families,” she said as she pressed the “SEND” button on the computer.
“Yeah? Does that surprise you?” the bartender asked.
“Naw,” Chelsea replied. “Just gives me strength that I can handle my own stuff.”
“You go get ‘em, Chels,” the bartender said. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about, but I believe in you, girl. But right now, I’m going to need you to go greet that new table. They look like chickens with their heads cut off. Where’s the hostess?”
Chelsea sped through the dining room, smiling warmly at the new guests. “Welcome to Tiny Tim’s,” she said, feeling like a top-grade waitress, the kind who deserved upwards of a thirty-percent tip. “Let me show you to your table.”