Chapter Thirty-One
Maritza
The clock on my nightstand reads 2:41 AM.
I’ve been tossing and turning since ten o’clock, when I took a Benadryl and a melatonin and thought I could force myself into a coma-like sleep.
All I wanted was to shut my mind off for two seconds, to stop the spinning and the madness and the questions that’ve been playing on a loop in my head since Isaiah walked into my café yesterday morning and pretended like he’d never seen me in his life.
Sitting up and finally accepting the fact that I’m not going to get a single minute of respite tonight, I click on my lamp and reach into the drawer of my bedside table, grabbing a pen and the notebook of letters I’d written Isaiah for a brief period of time when he was supposedly out on some mission—before the radio silence.
Flipping to an empty page in the middle, I write a letter that’ll never be sent, but at least if I get it all on paper and out of my head, I might be able to catch some sleep before the sun comes up.
Dear Isaiah,
Eight months ago, you were just a soldier about to be deployed and I was just a waitress, sneaking you a free pancake and hoping you wouldn’t notice that my gaze was lingering a little too long.
But you did notice.
We spent one life-changing week together before you left, and we said goodbye on day eight, exchanging addresses at the last minute.
I saved every letter you wrote me, your words quickly becoming my religion.
But you went radio silent on me months ago, and then you had the audacity to walk into my diner yesterday and act like you’d never seen me in your life.
To think … I almost loved you and your beautifully complicated soul.
Almost.
Whatever your reason is—I hope it’s a good one.
Maritza the Waitress
PS – I hate you, and this time … I mean it.
Pulling in a long, cool breath and letting it go, I close the notebook and tuck it away in the drawer before clicking my lamp off. Lying down and pulling the covers up, I stare at a dark ceiling before closing my eyes.
My mind is barely lighter than it was before, but my thoughts seem to have quieted a bit.
In the still, small minutes before I finally drift off, I remind myself that LA is full of people who use people, people who do unscrupulous things and who have no qualms about hurting others.
Isaiah Torres was never anything special—he was just another run-of-the-mill LA asshole.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Maritza
“Morning, Hollie.” I tie my apron around my waist and glance at the clock to confirm that I am, in fact, on time for work. Normally I can go a whole shift without seeing her because she’s usually hiding in the back, door closed and only emerging when there’s an issue.
But today it’s like she was waiting.
“I need to see you in my office.” My manager says a sentence I’ve never heard her say in all of my time here. She doesn’t smile.
“Everything okay?” I ask, following her to the back.
Hollie says nothing and I find myself holding my breath without even thinking about it. Every silent second is torture.
“Close the door, please, Maritza,” she says once we’re there. “Have a seat.”
Oh, god. I’m being fired.
Grabbing a sticky note off her computer monitor, she exhales. “I got a call from a customer last night.”
I glance down at my lap, realizing I’ve been digging my nails into my palms this entire time.
“He had a very unsatisfactory experience here yesterday,” she continues. “And he said you were his server.”
“Hollie, I’m so sorry and I can explain.” My gaze flicks into hers.
Her brows lift. “No need. He didn’t want to get into specifics.”
Leaning back against the chair, I peer to the side. None of this makes sense.
“Anyway, I wanted to tell you that each and every customer who walks through our door needs to have a five-star experience,” she says. “And as a server, you’re one of the many faces of this restaurant. It’s your job to represent Brentwood Pancake and Coffee in a way that’s going to keep them coming back.”
“I know. And normally I do that, but this—”
“Rachael does a fine job,” she says. “So does Harry. And Pam. And Chloe.”
I bite my tongue. The comparisons aren’t necessary and besides, I’m the one who trained all of them.
“If anything like this so much as happens again, Maritza, I’m going to have no choice but to let you go,” she says, thin lips forming a hard line. “Anyway, I don’t normally do this, but he was rather persistent and I wasn’t in a place to disappoint him since he’d just had a God-awful experience with us, but here.”
Hollie hands me the yellow sticky note where a phone number is scribbled in blue pen alongside the name “Torres.”