“Everyone get back to work,” Mitch ordered. “Daniel, clean that fridge out. Check everything. Twice. Three times. I’ll handle the outcome later.” Then he set his sights on me. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” I said. “That smell…”
“I can’t keep you here, Amelia.”
“What?”
“You can’t stay. I know the smell… but if it’s anything else…”
“You’ve got to be kidding me, Mitch,” I said. “I’m perfectly fine. I’ll chug water. Soda. Beer. I’ll eat a burger. I’ll eat…”
My stomach growled deep and twisted.
I had a single hiccup that made me freeze, wondering if it was just a hiccup.
Mitch put his hand out. “You need to go home. Just to be safe.”
“Mitch…”
“This isn’t a conversation any longer. I told you to do something. Someone will cover your tables.”
I stared at him in disbelief, but that lasted all of about five seconds.
Mitch turned his attention to the kitchen staff.
I had plenty more in me to argue.
But instead I threw up again.
I wasn’t going to tell Grace that I got sick at work.
She was terrified of illness.
I played out what to tell her the entire drive home.
It was the only way to stay calm from being pissed off at Mitch. And it was a welcome change to the racing thoughts about Josh.
He left his own apartment, leaving me stranded there.
And I waited for hours.
Three hours to be exact.
I didn’t touch the letter.
I just paced, waiting for him to come back. Wondering what the right words were to say to him. I needed him to know that I wasn’t trying to get a story out of him to write or sell or whatever. Nobody gave a crap what I wrote about anyway. I was a nobody. But with Josh I felt like somebody. I felt safe. I felt loved. It was the way he looked at me and touched me, bringing back the only good memories I had of being a teenager and reminding me of what we would be capable of if we stayed together now.
After three hours, I left.
That was almost a month ago.
A month.
A month without hearing Josh’s voice. Or seeing him. Our conversations were quick texts that had no meaning behind them. It was just me knowing he was alive. I didn’t fear him doing something intentional to himself, but I feared him losing his edge over the letter and whoever Delilah was.
I spent so much time alone in my room with notebooks and my laptop, going through old memories of my life like a dusty box of pictures. Writing down ideas and typing up what became nothing more than quick stories, which had no real life. And each time I wasted hours on it all, it was a gentle reminder that my life at the restaurant was far from over. I’d then toss and turn in the middle of the night wondering if I should bother writing anymore. Just put it all away and leave it be. Or figure out a new career in life. Maybe do what Grace did. Coach people through life.
Because I was so good at coaching myself.
Of course, I couldn’t just get home.
Miss Laura was outside her apartment, cleaning her door.
She would actually wipe her front door down at least once a week.
“Amelia!” she cried out when she saw me.
She wiped her forehead.
“Hard work?” I asked.
“You can’t imagine it. Need to keep my place spotless. Hey, what are you doing back so soon? Your shifts are never this short.”
“Caught a lucky break,” I said.
“Bad business?” Miss Laura shook her dirty rag at me. “I always tell people, you never know about the restaurant business. It’s so strange. I think we all need to just cook at home. Go back to the way it used to be.”
“Well, if that happens, I’ll be out of a job,” I said with a weak smile.
“You’re a writer, Amelia. Not a waitress.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said.
“Oh, come on now,” she said. “Say, let me tell you a story…”
I groaned in my mind.
Then in my stomach.
It wasn’t a sick groan.
It was probably a hungry groan.
After throwing up at work, I was now hungry.
How perfect.
“I need to get inside,” I said.
“Oh, right. Another meeting?”
“Yeah, sure,” I said. “Your door looks nice.”
“Thank you for saying that,” Miss Laura said. “The trick is to mix-”
“Write it down for me,” I said as I made a move for my door.