Sugar and Spice

Marathon: Jay

“I think my hand is stuck like this,” Mallory said, lifting her left hand. Her fingers were curled into a claw. “I think I’ve sustained structural damage to my skeletal system.”

I laughed, leaning back against the stainless steel counter. The black button-down was sticking to my back, and my shoulder was sore, but seeing her standing there — not as the untouchable Hostess Robot, but as the girl with messy hair and a tired smile — was worth the ache.

She looked down at her hand, the amusement fading into something quieter, something more vulnerable. “I keep thinking about next week. When it’s real. When the tray isn’t just water, and it becomes someone’s sixty dollar steak dinner.”

“You’ve got the ground crew, remember?” I reached out, my thumb brushing the sore muscle of her forearm. I wanted to tell her I’d overheard the conversation in the office… that I’d seen her folder. I wanted to tell her I knew about the red pen. But I didn’t. I let my hand linger for a moment, “I won’t let you drop a single plate, Mal.”

She didn’t pull away, and for a heartbeat, the air between us felt thicker than the Florida humidity outside. Then she blinked and cleared her throat. “Go home, Jay,” she said softly. “Soak your arm. We’ve got the wine exam tomorrow.”

“I’ve already memorized the vintages,” I lied, even though I hadn’t even opened that section of the handbook.

“Of course you have,” she grinned.

The rest of the week felt like running a marathon. Wednesday was the wine exam, where I spent four hours trying to figure out why anyone would want to drink something that tasted like tobacco and old leather (a Cabernet, apparently). Thursday was the POS training, which Mallory handled like she was hacking into the main frame of a rival government.

By Friday, the “big day” had arrived: Mock Service.

Geri, Callie, and a few of the off-duty kitchen staff sat in the dining room, pretending to be the worst customers in history. Riley was at expo, calling out orders to see if we’d crumble under the pressure.

I watched Mallory handle a table of “angry” line cooks. One of them sent back a steak three times, while another “accidentally” knocked over a glass of ice water. She didn’t flinch. She was poise personified, her notepad was a shield, and her smile a weapon of mass politeness.

When it was my turn, I got Geri and Callie. “I’d like the lasagna,” Callie said, leaning back with a smirk. “But can you make sure the noodles are gluten free, the cheese is vegan, and the sauce doesn’t have any tomatoes?”

“Coming right up,” I said, without missing a beat. “I’ll just have the chef bring you a plate of air. Would you like that sparkling or still?”

Geri actually cracked a smile, scribbling something on her evaluation clipboard.

When the shift ended, we gathered back in the family room, waiting for the verdict. Riley stood at the head of the table, his arms crossed over his chest. “You all passed,” he said, and a collective sigh of relief filled the room. “The training wheels are off now. Next week, you’re on the floor.”

When we left, the sun was setting, turning the color of peach sorbet. Mallory stopped by her blue Subaru, clutching her server handbook to her chest like a holy relic. “I have to go show my father my certification,” she said, her voice tight again. The weight of the world was settling back on her shoulders.

“You’ve got this,” I told her.

She looked at me, her green eyes searching mine. I didn’t see the plan or the budget in her gaze. I just saw her. “See you Monday, Jay.”

I watched her drive away before heading to the bushes. To the sanctuary. I had a lot to tell Cole. He was already there, leaning against the brick wall with a cigarette tucked behind his ear, and a joint perched between his lips. He didn’t say anything at first, just watched me drop onto a crate, the adrenaline finally starting to seep out of my pores.

“You look like you just survived a war,” he finally spoke, handing me a lighter.

“Mock service,” I exhaled, staring at the dirt. “Callie tried to order vegan tomato-less lasagna. But I’m officially a server, Cole.”

He whistled low, “The transformation is complete. From the King of Chaos to the Prince of Pasta. How’d Mallory survive the simulation?”

“She crushed it,” I answered, unable to stop the pride from creeping into my voice. “She was perfect, but she’s terrified man. I watched her walk to her car, and she looked like she was heading for an execution, not a weekend off.”

“That’s the bridge, Jay,” Cole said quietly. “Every day that she’s here, she’s a day closer to crossing it. But she’s gotta pay the toll at home first.”

I leaned back against the rough brick. “Well, Monday I’m going to make sure she walks out of here with enough cash to make that red pen irrelevant.”

Cole looked at me for a long time, the embers of his joint glowing in the twilight. “You’re really in deep, aren’t you?”

“I just don’t like seeing someone have to be that perfect just to exist.