Cease Fire

Damian

Eight days have passed, and I still haven’t worked up the nerve to go into Harvest to see Angel. The way I came across was too much too soon, and she was obviously not a fan. Neither was I, to be honest, but the thought of her walking home alone at night worried me. Instinct took over before logic. I’m forever a small-town guy at heart, so the big city still makes me nervous.

Regardless, she has survived this long without having me around, acting like a barbarian.

Considering her schedule last week, I’m operating under the assumption Thursday is her regular day off. So here I am, Friday afternoon, walking through the doors of Harvest. I’m greeted by the same redhead who was here the first time. Today, the place is busy. There are several casually dressed families and couples, with the odd single person sprinkled around the sections. I’m the only person who doesn’t scream ‘tourist’. The redhead, Alex, grins at me, and I wonder if she’s as happy to see other customers or if she’s recalling the tip I left Angel, which she apparently got a portion of. Probably the latter. Everyone always wants money.

Before she can speak, I ask, “Can you seat me in Angel’s section if she’s here today?”

Her smile falters for a second, but she pastes it back on. “She is here, but I’m afraid her section is full. Rolanda will be happy to serve you.”

No, thank you. Rolanda served me last week, and I suffered the rest of the day. Plus, I came here to see Angel. I’m not sure how to get that point across without sounding like a possessed stalker. “There’s nothing in Angel’s section? Are you sure?”

Alex looks down at her seating plan, but I’m looking at Angel’s section with my own two eyes. I see a handful of empty tables surrounded by unoccupied wooden chairs with tan vinyl seats.

“The same table I sat at before is empty. Would you mind?”

Alex glares at me, but once again paints on her fake smile as she grabs a menu and gestures for me to follow her. She seats me where I was the first time I was here, and my anxiety ratchets up a notch when Angel comes through the door from the kitchen carrying a large tray of hopefully edible food.

She caters to two other tables before she walks toward mine. Unlike last time when I didn’t look up, this time, I watch her every movement.

“Flat water, no ice?” She asks with no preamble.

“Angel, can we—”

“I’m sorry Mr. Taylor. I’m not upset with you, but I am busy, so if we can keep things moving along, that would be helpful.”

She’s not upset with me? I guess that’s something. “Can we talk later?”

She taps her pen on her notepad, delaying her response. “If later is outside working hours, I’d be amenable to that, but for now, just your order.”

Amenable? Who says that? “Okay. Flat water with no ice would be great, thanks.”

“I’ll give you some time to look over the menu.”

“No, just order whatever you recommend. I trust you.”

She gives me a tight-lipped smile and walks off to the next table where I hear her ask if everything is to their liking. Our interaction went so much better than I imagined it going, even if we resolved nothing. Hearing her say she’s not upset with me eased some of my frayed nerves.

I can’t tear my eyes off of Angel as she moves from one table to the next, offering friendly smiles and stellar service. Maybe I’m biased because I’m fascinated by her, but she’s incredible. Her no-nonsense personality. Her gorgeous curls and smooth, sun-kissed skin. Her obvious work-ethic. Everything I know about her so far, which isn’t much, makes me want to know more.

When she returns ten minutes later, she places an appetizing dish of chicken, roasted vegetables and a rice pilaf in front of me.

I glance up to make eye contact. “This isn’t a salad.”

Her head jerks back an inch, and she lowers one of her perfectly curved eyebrows. “I didn’t realize you wanted a salad. My mistake.” She reaches down to retrieve the plate, but I place my hand on her wrist. She freezes under my touch, so I release my gentle hold.

“No, this is great. I just thought salads were the only edible option.”

“Lucky for you, Hannah is in the kitchen, and she doesn’t screw anything up. I thought I’d bring you something more substantial. Since you’re a growing boy and all.”

A roaring laugh escapes me before I can reel it in. “Growing boy? I left that stage a few years back.”

Those rosy cheeks I’ve come to daydream about for the past nine days reappear. “It seems so. I’ve got other tables to check on, so signal for my attention if you need anything.” She walks off, making her rounds again, and like a love-sick puppy, I watch each move she makes with rapt fascination.

I’m drawn to her like most men watch waitresses at Hooters. The uniforms the staff here are wearing are terrible, with plain black slacks, a white button-up shirt with a high collar and black buttons, and the most obnoxious bow tie I’ve ever seen. However, Angel wears it like she’s walking the runway in New York Fashion Week. Her ability to wear such a modest outfit and make it look attractive has me wondering how she’d look dressed up for a date. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it more than once, even though she declined my request.

My meal is delicious, so I clear my plate, wanting to send my compliments to the chef.

Angel returns when she sees my empty dish. “Can I get you anything else, Damian?”

Most of the day, I hear “Mr. Taylor” countless times, despite my preference to be addressed by my first name. None of my staff break from formality, though, so hearing Angel call me Damian is refreshing. It makes me feel like a person. Not a boss.

“That was delicious. Thank you. Just the cheque, please.”

“Already taken care of. Have a good weekend.”

Before she can walk too far away, my brain catches up with her words, so I call, “Angel, what do you mean, ‘taken care of’?”

She turns her neck and replies over her shoulder, “I owe you for having your car detailed. I figured you won’t take my money, so this was my solution.”

Words elude me for far too many seconds. “You don’t need to do that. Please, let me pay.”

Now she spins herself to face me, her facial expression giving off a businesslike vibe. “Am I wrong? If I were to give you money for you to have the dog slobber cleaned off your leather seats, would you take it?”

“No, never.”

“That’s what I figured. So, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a lot to catch up on. Bye, Damian.”

Without a backward glance, she saunters off to carry on with her work.

I’m baffled. When she mentioned paying to have my car detailed, I thought it was in jest. I didn’t think she was serious.

To remedy the situation, I return to my vacated table and leave three twenty-dollar bills as a tip, hoping that more than covers the cost of my meal. Given the average price on the menu, it should, but I don’t want her paying for my food. Or my car.

Before I leave, I send a smile her way, which she returns from her spot beside a couple’s table where she’s jotting down their orders. My lunch hour is running out, but I realize we didn’t make arrangements to speak afterward, so again, I walk back to my table and kick myself for not having a business card on hand. What kind of self-respecting businessman doesn’t have a card on him at all times? One who doesn’t want the job. Instead, I scrawl my name and number onto a loose receipt I had in my wallet. At least now she’ll have my number.

The ball is in her court.