of acquaintance that is sporadic at best. We ran into one another at parties every once in a while, maybe caught a glimpse and exchanged a friendly wave or a smile across the room if we found ourselves in the same restaurant. But it had never really gelled into anything until the previous year, when I’d started waiting tables.
Porterhouse was a small steakhouse with an intimate atmosphere, an exclusive menu, and a discriminating wine list – all of which made it an up-and-coming gem in the eyes of the region’s most persnickety foodies.
The locale didn’t exactly hurt, either. With its red brick façade, leaded windows flanked by vintage lamps, and an antique door, the restaurant had an architectural charm that meshed seamlessly with its surroundings in downtown Pensacola, occupying a corner of Cervantes Street that was within walking distance of the city’s cultural hub and most treasured scenery.
I’d put in an application on a whim, needing a respite from the monotony of the corporate scene I’d somehow become mired in. I wanted a job I could leave without worry of what was waiting for me the next day, something to take my mind off the life I was living that was so far from the one I thought I would have.
Maggie Blake was the restaurant’s owner, manager, and head waitress – and her smile was more than a welcome sight on my first day of work. I had an ally, someone to show me the ropes, a familiar face among all the strangers whose names I would have to learn along with the menu. Since then, we’d forged a friendship that had gotten me through some pretty low times, days when the burning pain of loneliness felt as fresh as if it had all happened yesterday.
Even without the fifteen-year age difference, Maggie and I were, by all admissions, complete opposites. She was petite and voluptuous with bright, bottle-blonde hair cut in a disheveled pixie that placed her features front and center. Big, round blue eyes were fringed by long eyelashes and offset with expertly tweezed eyebrows that seemed, at times, to be even more expressive than her tongue. She had a pert little nose and bee-stung lips, two attributes of which I was insanely jealous. Genetics had blessed her with a cup size that regularly made men swoon, though at the end of a long shift, she seemed to consider it more of a curse.
These were not the least of the ways in which Maggie and I differed from one another. She was fearless, candid, and brash. If Maggie saw something she wanted, she went for it without fear of failure.
I, conversely, was over-analytical, diplomatic, and level-headed.
Most of the time.
I was also constantly second-guessing myself and extremely self-conscious. Right now, I would have given anything to have half of her self-possession and fearlessness.
Would Maggie dump a drink in Matt’s lap or slap that oh-so-innocent smile off his face?
Probably.
I, however, was far too aware of the repercussions, so the drink would stay in the glass – and my hands would stay a safe distance away from Matt’s face.
I tapped my info into the time clock and headed to the bar to gather the drinks from the bartender. I made my way back to the table, willing myself to forget how well I knew one of the men sitting there – how he took his coffee, what kind of toothpaste he used, where all of his scars were.
I had to forget, if I was ever going to survive.
Obviously, it was possible to do – he seemed to have done it so well himself.
“We were beginning to think maybe you had to grow the corn and distill the Scotch yourself,” said Matt’s dinner companion as I started to place his drink on the table. The man was nothing if not a bottomless font of insults.
I felt my anger boil as my grip tightened around the highball glass.
And suddenly, the Scotch was no longer safely contained in its glass. It was dripping down his face, into the lap of his overpriced Italian suit trousers.
The man stared at me in shock, suddenly silent as his brain processed what I had just done.
Before my own mind had a moment to reconsider, I picked up the remaining glass from my tray and dumped its contents into Matt’s own awe-slackened face.
I felt strangely liberated.
“That, sir,” I said, directing my first words to Matt’s dinner companion, “was to teach you to treat people with a little more respect, even when they’re just a waitress.” My voice was low with extremely controlled rage.
I felt more like shrieking, but I knew I’d already gotten enough attention simply by dumping out the drinks. My eyes flashed hotly in Matt’s direction.
“And you,” I spat. “Matt.” The name came out like a dirty word. “You. What the hell do you think you’re doing here, acting like you don’t know me? Are you really that callous that you couldn’t just leave me alone? You had to come here and see just how messed up I was, have a little laugh at my expense?” I fumed. “Sorry to disappoint you, Matt. I’m doing great. You did me a favor, you know that? At least I found out what a selfish coward you are before it was too late.” I paused, trying to get my breathing under control. “I only hope to God no woman is stupid enough to ever get involved with you.”
I straightened my spine and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear as I regained my composure. Hair that was now back to its natural color, a light shade of brown that I had once considered unremarkable. Once Matt had left, returning to nature seemed almost a show of defiance, destruction of the red hair he had loved so much. It seemed to be a symbolic gesture, even though he wouldn’t be there to see it.
Or so I had thought.
“Enjoy your dinner, gentlemen. Your new server will be with you shortly.”
I turned sharply on my heel, so swift that I was a little afraid I might stumble and ruin my exit.
My last glimpse of Matt and the other man at his table was satisfying, if I’m being honest. They were both silenced by shock, and my tirade had been swift and deadly, leaving them without much opportunity to respond before I was gone again. I dashed out of the restaurant to my car and slumped into the driver’s seat, exhausted and victorious.
Maybe all of this would finally, truly be behind me.
“Where are we going, Matt?” I asked, laughing as he drove excitedly down the busy street.
“You’ll see,” he said simply, grinning wildly as he darted his truck in between the gathering afternoon traffic.
“Why won’t you just tell me and put me out of my misery?”
“And spoil the surprise? Uh uh.” He slowed suddenly as we approached a turning lane and flicked his turning signal to life.
“This is a car wash,” I said, stating the obvious as we pulled into the parking lot of an automatic car wash. “Didn’t you just wash the truck yesterday?” I looked at him inquisitively. I knew the man was a bit anal about keeping the exterior of his beloved little blue truck gleaming, but this was a whole new level I’d never seen before. It hadn’t rained, and from what I’d seen, there was hardly a speck of dirt anywhere.
“Yes, but that was different.” He snuck a quick peek at my
