Sugar and Spice

Don’t Look Back: Jay

Across the dining room, stream practically rose out of Mallory’s ears. She looked like she wanted to evaporate. Honestly, I felt bad. Only a little, though.

By the time the lunch rush died down, and the bridge club had shuffled out — each of them tipping Riley way more than usual and patting my shoulder like I was their favorite grandson — the restaurant had settled into that weird, post-shift hum. I caught sight of the back of Mallory’s head at the host stand. She was standing perfectly still, her spine so straight I wondered if she had a literal steel rod back there.

“You okay? You look like you’re buffering,” I said, leaning against the counter beside her.

She didn’t even turn, she just kept staring at her tablet. “I’m fine, Jay. Go finish your side work.”

“Cole’s already got it handled. I’m ahead of schedule,” I lied. I was definitely not ahead of schedule, I just wanted to see her eyes flash again. It was the most interesting thing in this whole building. “You know, Mrs. Gable thinks you’re ‘delightfully firm.’ Her words, not mine.”

Mallory finally looked at me. For the first time, she didn’t look angry. She looked tired.

“Go home, then, Jay. Your shift’s over. Just… go.”

I opened my mouth to say something — a joke or a half-assed apology — but the way she was clutching that tablet made me stop. I just nodded and headed to the back.

When I came back up to the host stand after clocking out, it was once again empty. I figured Mallory was either seating a table or sanitizing the bathroom. I pulled open the drawer that was used as a communal storage locker, and found my keys sitting on top of a thick, plastic-sleeved folder. It was neatly labeled M. Baxter - Private.

I shouldn’t have looked. I’m a lot of things, but not usually a creep. Still, the word ‘Kingsport’ peeked out from a glossy brochure.

I opened the folder. It wasn’t just the brochure. There were printouts of apartment listings with the prices circled in red pen. There was a scarily organized budget sheet showing exactly how many shifts at Stella Cucina were needed to pay for a semester at Kingsport University. Then I saw it: a sticky note on a map of Kingsport that read “Don’t look back.”

“s**t,” I whispered. This wasn’t just a college plan, it was an escape mission.

Suddenly, the “Missile Scientist” clicked. Every seating error, every late server, every second of “lost efficiency” wasn’t just a corporate metric to her. It was a minute longer she had to stay in Emerald Bay, and I was the guy throwing rocks at her life boat.

I heard footsteps, and quickly closed the folder back. I snagged my keys and shut the drawer. I didn’t want her to see me looking at her life. I didn’t want her to see that I understood why she hated me so much.

I pushed through the front doors as she returned to the lobby, the Florida heat already sticking to my skin. I started walking to my car, my empty hand finding its way into my pocket where I had a joint hidden. I spotted Cole in the bushes by the Sonic half-wall and detoured. He had shared with me yesterday, I’d share with him today.

I stepped through the row of bushes, my beat-up sneakers hitting the dirt with a soft thud. Cole didn’t even flinch, he just stared up at the sky like he was unraveling the secrets of the universe.

“Almost late for the sanctuary,” I muttered, holding up the joint like it was a trophy.

Now he did look over, sliding his glasses up his nose in the process. He saw what was in my hand, and a small, weary smile touched his face. “Yeah. I need that.”

I sparked it up, took a hit, and handed it over. We sat in the dirt; the bushes and the distance from the building provided enough cover from Geri’s office. The silence of the parking lot was a jarring contrast to the noise of the restaurant.

“I saw the folder,” I said, after a minute.

Cole paused, the joint halfway to his lips, “The Kingsport one?”

“Yeah. It was in the host drawer next to my keys.” I leaned my head back, looking up at the clear blue sky. “She’s got a map, Cole. A map with a ‘Don’t look back’ note on it. That’s heavy.”

Cole exhaled a long, slow cloud of smoke. “I told you man, she’s not just working a job. She’s building a bridge. Every time a table doesn’t turn, or a shift goes over on labor, she feels the wood rotting under her feet. To her, this place is a cage. To you, it’s just a place to get a paycheck, and mess with people.”

“I feel like a d**k,” I admitted, the words tasting like ash. “Watching her today… she looks like she’s carrying the weight of the whole building on those skinny shoulders. And I’m over here balancing spoons on my nose.”

“You are a d**k,” Cole said simply, though there was no heat on it. “But you’re also the first person to make her show an emotion besides ‘Robot Hostess’ in about six months. Even if that emotion is pure, unadulterated rage.”

“She wants to go to Kingsport University,” I muttered, thinking about those apartment listings. “That place isn’t cheap. Kingsport isn’t exactly a beach vacation like it is here. It’s all concrete and traffic.”

“It’s not Emerald Bay,” he said simply, “and that’s enough for her.”

We sat there for a few minutes, passing the joint back and forth until it was just a roach. I thought about the way she looked at that tablet, like it was a compass pointing her north.

“She thinks I’m the Chaos Factor,” I said, standing up and brushing the dirt off my jeans.

“You are,” Cole confirmed, looking up at me. “But hey, maybe a little chaos is what she needs to actually get out of here. Or maybe you’ll just be the reason she ends up in a psych ward.”

“I’m going to help her,” I said, the words surprising me as much as they did him.

Cole’s brow arched. “Help her? By doing your job? Or by annoying her into an early retirement?”

“By being the best damn busser Stella Cucina has ever seen,” I declared. Grinning, I added, “And maybe by annoying her just enough that she doesn’t forget to breathe while she builds that bridge.”

Cole chuckled, shaking his head as he stood. “Good luck, Jay. You’re gonna need it. She’s got a two year head start on that bridge, and you’re just the guy with a messy bun and a pocketful of weed.”

“Watch me!” I called out as he headed towards his dad’s blue Chevy.