Sugar and Spice

Floating isn’t in the Budget: Jay

I pulled into the Stella Cucina parking lot at 10:15AM, my knuckles still white from gripping the steering wheel the whole way there. My head was a mess of percentages and echoes of my father’s voice from last night. “One day is an anomaly, Mallory. Consistency is a requirement.”

I shifted into park and took a deep breath, trying to force my brain into “Sequence of Service” mode. Then, I saw him.

Jay’s rusted Honda was parked against the side of the building, and my breath hitched in a way that had nothing to do with budgets. He was standing by his open trunk, peeling out of a black wetsuit. His skin was tan and glistening with salt water, catching the harsh morning light. His hair was a wild, wet tangle of blonde, and as he shook it out, droplets flew everywhere like a halo of chaos.

He looked like everything my parents had ever warned me about. He was the personification of a “variable.” Unpredictable, unanchored, and completely devoid of a five year plan. And yet, my heart gave a heavy, traitorous thud against my ribs.

I watched him reach for a towel, the muscles in his back shifting with a fluid grace that made the “tray carry” from training look like child’s play. He was beautiful in a way that felt dangerous to someone like me. I was a girl of straight lines and calculated risks. Jay was a riptide.

He looked up and caught me staring through my windshield. Instead of looking embarrassed, he just flashed that lopsided grin. He draped the towel over his shoulders and started walking towards my car, completely unbothered by the fact that he was shirtless in a restaurant parking lot.

I forced myself to open the door and step out, smoothing down my black slacks.

“You’re early,” he noted, leaning against my doorframe. He smelled like salt, wax, and the ocean — a scent that felt incredibly out of place next to the smell of garlic and floor cleaner drifting from the kitchen.

“I like to be prepared,” I managed, my voice steadier than I felt. I tried to keep my eyes on his face, but it was hard when he was radiating heat and the top of his wet suit had been pulled so low down on his hips. “Did you… go surfing this morning?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he nodded, his eyes seeming to search mine. The playfulness was there, but beneath it was that same gravity I’d felt in the linen closet last night. “The Gulf was quiet. No red pens out there. You should try it sometime. It’s the only place where the math actually feels good, and you can just float.”

“I don’t think floating is in my current budget,” I said, trying to regain my armor.

“I’ll put it on the house,” he joked, his expression softening. “How was it? Last night?”

I looked away, toward the back door that Eli was already propping open. “He checked the entries in my notepad. He thinks it’s a fluke. He said if I can ‘maintain velocity’ through the weekend he’ll sign the deposit. If not…”

“Hey,” Jay interrupted, stepping closer. I could feel the coolness of the damp towel on his shoulder. “Velocity is easy, you’ve already got the momentum. Today, you just keep the wheels spinning.”

I looked up at him, and for a second, the parking lot disappeared. I shouldn’t like the way he looked at me — like I was a mystery he was actually interested in solving, rather than a project to be managed. He was a drifter. He was a boy with a surfboard and a rusted car. My father would have him erased from my life in a heartbeat.

“You’re on the floor today, Jay,” I reminded him, my voice barely above a whisper. “You can’t be my shadow.”

“I know,” he shrugged, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers were cool and salty, and the touch sent a jolt through me that made my knees weak. “But I’m still there, Mal. If you start to drift, just look for the blonde guy with the bad attitude.”

“Your attitude isn’t that bad.”

“Don’t tell Geri, I have a reputation to uphold.” He winked, then turned back to his car to finish changing. I took one more deep breath of the salt air he had brought with him before heading inside.

The bridge was still standing, and for the first time, I was starting to wonder what was actually on the other side. And if there was room over there for a boy who knew how to float.

By noon, the restaurant was a pressure cooker. The spring break families had arrived in full force, and they brought their strollers, loud demands, and a complete lack of patience with them.

Jay’s section was right next to mine. Every time I turned to run a credit card or grab more silverware, I saw him. He moved through the crowd with a surprising efficiency, but he hadn’t lost that easy, relaxed rhythm. Even in the heat of the rush, he looked like he was still out on his board, picking the right lines.

“Three more salads for twenty-three and twenty-four,” Jay said, gliding past me to the soda machine. He didn’t stop, but his shoulder brushed mine, and he managed to drop a fresh lemon wedge in my iced tea as he went.

“I’m at capacity, Jay,” I whispered feeling the prickle of “the weeds” creeping up my neck. I had a party of six waiting for appetizers, a four top that had just sat down, and a table of teenagers who were currently trying to see how many refills of Shirley Temples they could get before I snapped.

“Table five-thirty-four wants their check too,” Jay added as he balanced three plates of hot pasta on one arm. Geri would have a heart attack if she seen him not using a tray. “I already dropped off bread for your six, go hit the POS, and I’ll clear the dessert plates.”

“Jay, you have your own tables,” I hissed, even as I pivoted towards the computer.

“I’m multitasking.”

The next hour was a blur. I was firing orders, upselling wine, and keeping my straight lines as rigid as possible. But I was noticing something. The rest of the staff was noticing us.

“Is Dawson on your payroll now?” Tiffany asked, leaning against the salad station. From here, she could see Jay pre-bussing one of my tables while his own guests were happily digging into their entrees. “He’s been in your section more than his own for the last twenty minutes.”

“We’re just helping each other out,” I said, my voice tight. “It’s a busy shift, Tiff.”

“Right, helping,” she smirked, popping her gum. “I’ve seen Jay ‘help’ people before, Mallory. Usually, it involves a lot more leaning and a lot less actual labor. He’s working harder for your tips than for his own.”

I didn’t respond. I just grabbed my salad and headed back out onto the floor, my heart hammering. She was right. Jay was over-extending.

I caught him near the bread warmer, “Jay, stop.” My voice was low and urgent. “Tiffany is watching, which means her and Callie are talking. You have to stay in your section.”

He leaned back, a steady blonde curl falling in front of his eyes. He looked tired, but that lopsided grin was still in place. “Let them talk, Mal. Your four top just ordered the calamari. If you greet them in the next thirty seconds, you’ll hit that goal you were talking about.”

“I don’t care about that goal right now-“

“I do.” The playfulness vanished from his voice, and he looked at me with an intensity that made the noise of the restaurant fade into the background. “The weekend is coming, Mallory. You’ve almost crossed the bridge. Don’t look at the water now.”

I looked at him. He was salt-stained, smelling like the ocean, and working a job he acted like he didn’t need. My father would call him a distraction. A low-tier employee with no ambition. But as Jay reached out and squeezed my hand under the shadow of the bread warmer, I realized he was the only thing keeping me from falling.

“Go,” he whispered.

I went. I greeted the table and sold the calamari, and I hit every single mark on the sequence of service. As the shift finally began to wind down, I realized that “maintaining velocity” wasn’t just about the math anymore. It was about him.