Page 14 of Don’t Be A Stranger

Five

Summer

Dad: Hey, lovie. Just wanted to see if you could call me after work. I miss your voice.

“What is in the mandarin orange salad, exactly?”

I like to think that as I get older, my patience for stupidity has grown astronomically. Because I, as a child, probably would have taken one of the plates resting on the neatly set table and hit this woman upside the head with it.

Maybe then she’d use her brain properly.

But since I need to keep my job for the sake of paying for things that my scholarship doesn’t, I bite my tongue and answer the question. Granted, I don’t necessarily need to be this petty but I make sure to stare directly at the menu in the woman’s hands and read off what it says.

“Mixed greens, dried cranberries, red onions, almonds, and…mandarin oranges.”

The woman with the neatly pinned back ponytail nods her head. “And the dressing?”

“Whichever one you’d like.”

I’m fully prepared for her to ask what our dressings are but surprisingly she can read and looks right below the list of salads on the menu.

I stand awkwardly, waiting for her to make up her damn mind. Or for her husband to stop dropping his napkin so his shoulder can brush past my thigh.

You need the job, Summer.

Suck it up and get your paycheck.

I hold my smile. “Would you like me to give the both of you another minute?”

“Yes.” She sighs. “I think that’d be best.”

My grip on my notepad tightens but I nod, letting them know I’ll be right back, and walk away from the table. Again.

I’ve given them “another minute” for the past thirty minutes. It’s my own fault, really. Why on earth would I think that the husband calling me over had anything to do with them being ready to order?

I weave through tables. Some empty, others full of golfers. But I know with the lunch hour slowly creeping in, this place is going to be packed within the next forty-five minutes.

I knew that Ellingbrook was considered one of the richer cities in New York—I just didn’t think that people here had so much time on their hands to constantly spend their days at a country club.

I mean, I get it.

Golfing. The food. The spa and massages. Even the pool.

God, that beautiful fifty-foot body of clear water. The cobblestone walls that lead up to a small waterfall.

I’ve been tempted more times than not to ask my manager just who I have to blow to take a dip. ’Cause that little ten percent discount on a membership doesn’t quite meet my budget. I don’t often just have an extra two-thousand dollars lying around every month. Don’t even get me started on the one-hundred-thousand-dollar initiation fee.

I’m just off by that exact amount.

Bethany nudges my shoulder with hers as she moves beside me to grab orders from under the pass. I look around, realizing that our expeditor, Jules, is nowhere to be found. She’s meant to be checking the food before it goes out but I’m sure smoking a cigarette is far more important.

“Your smile is slipping.” Bethany grins.

“And so is my patience.”

Bethany laughs as she takes her orders and sets them on her tray. She nudges me again and offers me a “good luck” before heading back to one of her tables, her black ponytail bouncing behind her.

Sometimes I can’t help but think of sitting at one of these tables. Sipping on a mimosa. Asking what’s in the mandarin orange salad. Not because I want anyone to wait on me but…actually no. That’s exactly why.