Sugar and Spice

I stood at the host stand, green eyes focused on the tablet, mentally bracing myself for the morning chaos. It was 10:55 — in five minutes, Geri, my manager, would unlock the doors, and my day would officially begin. To my left, Cole appeared, leaning over the counter in his busser apron to watch me. Callie and Tiffany were already hanging out against the wall, waiting for their first tables of the day. “You’re supposed to be training today,” I commented, fingers flying over the tablet as I arranged the sections. He barely noticed. “Yeah…” he dragged the word out, sliding his glasses up his nose. “We’ll see, this guy was supposed to be here at 10:30.” As if on cue, the back doorbell rang, delaying Geri. When she did appear, she was flanked by the new hire, Jay Dawson. His sandy blonde hair was piled carelessly on top of his head and barely secured in a very loose, very messy bun. He reeked of weed, a detail no one else seemed to notice except me. Tiffany and Callie immediately began whispering behind their hands though. “Cole,” Geri started. “This is Jay, you’ll be training him the next couple of days.” Cole straightened, exchanging glances with me before leading his new trainee away. Jay lingered for a moment at the host stand, eyeing me, “You look like you’re calculating the trajectory of a missile, not a seating chart. Relax, sweetheart.” “Sorry, some of us like to make sure the floor plan makes sense and the rotation is accurate,” I snapped, giving him a forced smile. “And I’m not your sweetheart.” The girls snickered, leaning in closer together to whisper. Jay was already off to a rocky start, and the day was barely beginning. The doors opened and the customers began trickling in. By 11:30, three more servers had come onto the floor, and we had twenty menus open. By noon, I had a total of seven servers and sixty open menus. Unfortunately, tables weren’t getting cleared, and guests were being sat outside of open sections. “Cole!” I whisper-hissed as he pushed his bus cart through the lobby. “What’s going on?” “New guy,” he muttered. “He keeps getting distracted by Tiff and Callie.” I rolled my eyes. Of course. “They got him constantly running little errands for them. A refill for this table, bread for that one.” “Of course, all they have to do is bat their eyes.” Cole shrugged, “You know how they are.” I felt a headache blooming behind my eyes as I looked at the lobby. A family of three with a screaming baby had just walked in. My tablet was a sea of red. Servers were getting irritated. It was too early for this. “Mallory, is table four-twenty-two ready yet?” Callie asked as she breezed through the lobby with an empty tray. She didn’t wait for an answer. It wasn’t. She knew it wasn’t. It had been empty for ten minutes, but the status hadn’t changed because it hadn’t been bussed. “It would be if your new assistant did his job,” I muttered under my breath. I grabbed a stack of menus, my knuckles white as I forced a smile in the family’s direction. “If you’d follow me, please.” As we rounded the corner, past the side station, I caught sight of the problem. Jay was leaning against the counter, a damp towel slung over his shoulder like it was a fashion accessory. He was laughing at something Tiffany was saying, his head tilted back, looking entirely too relaxed for a man currently drowning in dirty dishes. I stopped at the table, settled the menus, and retrieved a high chair for the family. “Callie will be right with you,” I smiled. Then I marched over to the side station. “Jay!” I kept my voice low, but sharp enough to cut through the noise of the restaurant. He blinked, his gaze shifting slowly over me. A lazy, lopsided grin spread across his face. “Hey, it’s the missile scientist. Need a refill, sweetheart? Oh, I’m sorry, Mallory.” Tiffany snickered, but I ignored her. “I need you to clear four-twenty-two, five-thirty-one, and the family room. Now. Cole is doing twice the work because you’re playing errand boy for the girls.” Jay straightened up, his height suddenly making the small space feel cramped. Up close, the smell of weed and cheap cologne was even stronger. He didn’t look intimidated; he looked amused. “Relax,” his voice took on a low, gravelly draw that set my nerves on edge. “Tiff needed help with a tray. It’s called teamwork. You should try it sometime, it might help you unclench.” Before I could find the words to tell him exactly where to shove his ‘teamwork,’ Geri rounded the corner. “Jay! Why are those tables still dirty?” she barked. Jay didn’t even flinch, he just gave her a charming, dimpled smile, and winked at me as he moved past. “On it boss.” I stood there, fuming as he sauntered off toward the alley where the second bus cart was, whistling a tune that sounded suspiciously like a stoner anthem. “He’s a handful,” Geri sighed, rubbing her temples. “But he’s got charisma. The customers will love him when he starts serving.” “He’s going to serve?” I asked. She nodded, “The next server class is in March, before spring break. He’s going to be in it.” The day was no longer just off to a rocky start. It had become a landslide. “He’s going to serve?” I repeated, the words feeling like lead in my mouth. Geri nodded, already looking past me at a table that was waving for their check. “He’s got the personality for it. People spend more when they’re laughing, Mallory. Just… try to get along with him.” She patted my shoulder and vanished into the fray. Get along with him. I wanted to laugh. Stella Cucina was my sanctuary. It was predictable. There was a rhythm to it. Jay Dawson was a wrecking ball swinging right into the center of it. “Shouldn’t you get back to the host stand?” Tiffany gave a fake smile as she slipped past me carrying a water pitcher. I headed back to the lobby, my non-slips tapping against the tile with an angry sound that matched the pulse in my temples. A group of twelve — part of a local high school sports team — piled in, smelling of sweat and victory. My eyes flew to the tablet. Because of Jay’s lagging, the table in the family room was still covered in half-eaten pasta and crumpled napkins. “Mallory, I’m double sat,” Riley said, appearing at my side. Unlike his brother Cole, Riley was a server, and usually one of the more level-headed ones we had. Even if he looked frazzled. “I can’t take that twelve. I’m still waiting on bread for five-oh-four.” “I know, Rye, I’m trying,” I whispered. My fingers flew over the screen to try and find a miracle. I leaned around the corner, checking the family room again. Jay was finally cleaning it, but he had zero sense of urgency. He stacked plates like they were part of a jenga tower. He moved with a slow, honey-like gait, as if time were a suggestion rather than a resource. He caught my eye and instead of picking up the pace, he held up a finger — one minute — and blew a bubble with his gum. My jaw tightened so hard I thought it would crack. By 2:00, the rush had tapered off into a slow crawl. Cole had caught up on the tables, no thanks to Jay, and I retreated to the host stand to update the floor. I felt a presence to my left. I didn’t have to look up to know who it was. The scent of stale smoke and cheap vanilla hit me first. “You still look like you’re doing taxes, Sunshine,” Jay said. He leaned across the counter, invading my personal space. Stray hair framed his face, despite his attempts at tucking it back. “I’m updating the floor, Jay,” I said flatly. “And because of your ‘teamwork’ our wait times went up by about ten minutes.” “You ever try just…looking at people?” he asked. “They were happy, they got their bread, they liked the show.” “This isn’t dinner theater,” I snapped, finally looking up. Up close, I noticed a small scar peeking out just above the rim of his glasses, and the way his eyes weren’t just stoned. They were observant. He was watching me with a terrifying amount of focus, as if he were trying to figure out exactly what made me tick. “Could’ve fooled me,” he murmured. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping a fraction lower, “You’re real pretty when you’re mad, Mallory. I bet you’re a lot more fun when you’re not thinking about rotations.” He didn’t wait for a response. He just straightened, and sauntered off toward the kitchen. I stood there frozen, heat climbing up my neck. Not a blush — pure fury. He was lazy, unprofessional, and currently the biggest obstacle in my life. I looked down at my tablet. My “perfect floor” was a mess of overrides and manual entries. Just like my day. I grabbed a can of Lysol from under the counter and cleaned the spot where he had been. It was just a small act of defiance to reclaim my space.