WHAT A BOY
889 Words
Lucy's pov
The cafe was buzzing with noise by the time I got there, but that was to be expected. It opened at 7 a.m. on the dot, providing breakfast for the early birds, businesspeople, and students who were attempting to get something to eat before they left for their day. At 12 p.m., the menu opened up to full meals—anything from plain pasta to seafood plates that looked more complicated than the paycheck I got every two weeks.
Of course, none of it had mattered when you were the one operating the counter, running around like your life depended upon it. The kitchen staff was underpaid, the waitresses were overworked, and the manager—well, he was the worst of them.
I wiped down a table, my mind still idling on the car ride I'd just taken.
"Go to work, Marcus."
I'd said it so matter-of-factly, shoving him away like I always did, but as soon as he pulled away, my heart squeezed like a water-soaked towel. When would I ever confess? That I loved him since we were kids, since he constructed me my first sandcastle, since he handed me that silly blue hat.
But suppose I told him and destroyed everything?
I chewed on my nails absent-mindedly as I stacked away the chairs, my nervousness rising up again. It was easier to pretend it wasn't there, to just go through the motions.
"Cheng!"
I was yanked back into reality by one of my coworkers, Angela, rushing past with a tray of stacked-up plates. "You're working the floor today, aren't you? The kitchen's in chaos already, and I'm not dealing with Todd's meltdown again."
I sighed. "Yeah, yeah, got it."
"Good, because table four is already questioning why they don't have their coffee yet."
This was typical for me. Getting yelled at from every direction, being the person that everyone relied on to do it all without whining. I didn't really have a choice. I had to have the job. Rent was due soon, and my check hardly covered anything.
The day passed in usual chaos—orders piled on the counter, plates shattering, my manager yelling at the backroom staff about money. I never had a moment's rest, didn't get time. It was almost three hours into the shift before he showed.
Middle-aged man, dirty suit, slick hair, smug grin that crawled on my stomach. Sitting at the counter, slowly stirring his coffee with a spoon, looking at me like he had nothing better to do.
I could sense his gaze before he even said a word.
"Hi, sweetie," he said as he passed by.
I ignored him. Not the first time a client has tried something like that.
"Come on," he slurred. "Don't play dumb like you didn't hear me. A pretty girl like you shouldn't be so rude."
I spun, stiffening my smile into courtesy. "Can I get you something else?"
He grinned. "What about your number?"
I stayed cool. "I don't feel right providing that."
His grin twitched, but he leaned in, unashamed. "Oh, come on. You don't want to be rude, do you?"
I took a step back. "I have other tables to serve—"
"What's the big deal? Just a number, sweetheart."
My muscles tensed. "Sir, I'm sorry, but—"
He grasped my wrist with quickness. My breath was caught.
"You think you're too good for me, huh?" His fingers tightened just a little. "A little Vietnamese waitress thinking she's above a real man."
Vicious anger flared in me. "I'm Chinese," I spat.
He guffawed. "Same difference."
I jerked my hand back, my heart pounding. "Please don't touch me."
"Or what?" He smiled. "You'll call your manager?"
"Yes," I declared.
"Then go ahead," he challenged. "I'd love to see how much they care about you."
I faltered, my stomach roiling. I knew my boss. He cared about profit, not people. But I still spun on my heel and strode straight for his office.
It took a moment before he grumbled a response. "What is it now, Cheng?"
I clenched my fists. "A customer just grabbed me."
He barely looked up from the receipts in his hands. "And?"
I blinked. "And?"
He sighed, setting the papers down. "Was he buying something?"
"What—?"
"If he’s a paying customer, just deal with it," he said lazily. "Smile, be nice. Don’t lose me business."
My stomach dropped. "You’re not serious."
"Do you think customers like to be yelled at?" He glared at me. "I thought I was going to have to regret bringing you on. Always looking for something to complain about."
"Something to complain about?" My voice shook. "I was attacked—"
He waved a discouraging hand. "Then quit if you don't like working here."
My mouth dropped open, then shut again, my ribs compressing. I needed the job too much to quit.
So I swallowed the wad in my throat, turned around, and went back outside.
The clerk behind the counter still had that smirk on his face. "So? What'd your boss tell you?"
I picked up his vacated cup with shaking fingers. "Nothing."
"Figured," he snickered, putting a crumpled bill on the counter. "Keep the change, sweetheart."
I wanted to fling it in his face. But I bit back, stored my pride, and walked away.
- Writer
