Count Down

Chapter 2

chapter two

CHARLIE

I slip my white tennis shoes onto my socked feet and smooth the light pink dress and white apron over my hips.

It’s getting a little snug around there. I really could stand to lose a few pounds.

I palm my brush from the dresser and slip the rubbers strands through my curly brown hair while appraising my appearance in the mirror.

My reflection smiles and I smile back.

Dad always said that I looked like my Mom who was a classic beauty.

Of course, I’m his only child so I’m not sure if he’s just been saying that to quell any potential self-esteem issues.

Whatever his reasoning, I believed him.

I gaze with pride at my mocha skin, smooth forehead, arched brown eyebrows and plump pink lips.

I’m pretty hot and though I know I’m far from flawless, I’m comfortable in my own skin and very aware of my appeal.

I don’t go around bragging about my looks, but it has kept me from falling into the phase of teenage angst that my friends have been through.

It helps to think of my Mom and her quiet strength even to her death bed.

She’d battled breast cancer for many years until one day, she asked us to let her go and we did.

She died a few hours later. It’s been me and my dad since my twelfth birthday.

I admit he’s influenced every aspect of my life. Had my mother been alive, I’d probably be a lot more polished and no doubt immersed in a more traditionally female occupation.

But then again, maybe not.

I stride out of my bedroom and grab my car keys from the table near the door.

The house is quiet except for the low hum of India Craig on the afternoon repeat of the Saturday morning show.

Dad is watching television on the couch. He enjoys listening to India’s “soothing crooning” as he so beautiful dubs her raspy voice.

My dad is weird.

But so am I.

“Hey, dad,” I bend over and kiss his cheek.

He appraises my getup. “You going down to help Karen at the café?”

“Yeah. She’s asked me to pull an evening shift so I left the shop in Manny and Sid’s capable hands.” “Okay, honey. Tell Karen I said hi.”

“I will!” I call as I slip out of the house.

Dad and I live in a quiet older neighborhood in a medium sized home. I’ve lived in the two story cement building my entire life.

Dad works in retail. He sells car parts, tools and oils to stores all across Belize. I grew up in dusty mechanic shops that smelled of gas and dirt.

I stepped through the doors of garages as often and with the same religious reverence as church people who darkened the doors of a sanctuary.

Those mechanic shops became second homes and it wasn’t long before I began picking up on the slang, became familiar with the tools, and finally tinkered around beneath the hood of broken down vehicles.

I found my purpose in the innards of malfunctioning cars.

I crank open the door of my classic 1979 Pontiac Firebird Formula 420 WS5. She’s my pride and joy.

Last year, I scraped up enough money from the shop to give her the body job that she deserves.

Now, her exterior gleams like the wing of a blackbird. I’m inestimably proud of her and of the work I put in to get her up to shape.

“Come on, Sheba,” I whisper to the dashboard as I turn the ignition because yes… I talk to my car. “Let’s get a move on.” She rumbles to life with a beautiful purr and I shift into first gear, pressing on the gas to move forward.

The drive to Karen’s café is short and quiet. I park around the back of the lot and slap open the screen door leading to the kitchen.

Manuel, the thick dark-skinned cook, smiles at me. He’s been a sort of grandfather to me since Karen took over. I grab his shoulder and give him a kiss on the cheek.

“Charlie!” He pats my face with a flour-fluffed hand. “Thank God you’re here. Karen’s been running around like a chicken without ih head.”

Karen flies into the kitchen at that very moment and moans in relief when she sees me.

My friend is averaged sized, neither short nor tall. Her fair, creamy skin and long dark hair pulled up into a severe ponytail reveal her

Spanish heritage.

Wide eyes peer at me like I’m levitating.

“It’s that bad?” I ask. “Worse.”

She stuffs a plate resting on the slab dividing the kitchen from the front counter at me and shoves me out the door.

“Bye, Manuel!” I wiggle my free fingers at the chubby man and sail toward the main hall to take care of Karen’s customers.

Karen’s family owns the café. As the oldest child, Karen had the responsibility of taking over the bistro when her mother and father retired from the business.

I don’t think my friend really wanted to become the manager of the café, but as the eldest she felt it was her duty.

For the past few years, Karen’s slaved over the counter, bussed tables, and managed the day-to-day activities without complaint.

I am proud of my best friend. She’s put her dreams on hold to put her family first and the shop is flourishing.

Though she feels trapped, she’s made her cage as comfortable as possible.

“Your fry jacks are coming right up,” I promise the little boy at Table 4 who is bouncing up and down in his seat.

Karen’s café serves light foods all day, but it can get really busy in the afternoons and evenings after work.

I’ve been under the kind of pressure that can break people.

I’ve waited on three seven-party tables demanding service at once.

I’ve cleaned surfaces that required face masks.

I’ve spilled every manner of juices, sodas, and coffees on my shirt front.

If nothing else, I can play a mean Diner Dash now that I’ve experienced a few years of waitressing.

My best friend’s business draws a vast array of clientele ranging from single men and women to families.

I normally get along well with everyone, but there are a few men who just can’t seem to keep their mouths shut.

I’ve heard every pick-up line in the book. But by far, the worst part of my random and sporadic shifts at Karen is him.

The door chimes ominously and he walks in.

He’s wearing a black T-shirt and blue jeans. Completely casual. Regular. And yet, my body is fine tuned to pick up his whereabouts as though warning me of an approaching hurricane.

This guy thinks he’s God’s gift to women.

He’s nothing I can’t handle and no one I haven’t met before in the myriads of men that assume they become Casanovas when pointing out my assets.

This guy’s never been as crude as that, but his effervescent confidence is, I think, the main thing that annoys me.

Of course, he sits in my section. I have a hunch that he does so on purpose.

Karen passes me, her hands filled with dirty plates.

“Your best friend is here.” “Yay.”

I help out at the café often because Karen is my best friend and I can’t say no to her for anything.

He’s been in here once every couple of months. Each time, he engages me in conversation, charms his way into gaining personal information and leaves a big tip.

I always give the money to Karen because accepting it feels sleazy. This guy gets 0 points for subtlety. I don’t want to owe him in any way.

“Hi, what can I get you today?” I say as I step up to his table.

He arches a dark eyebrow. Okay, Flirty Diner Guy is cute in a really burly, I-work-out-and-I-want-you-to-notice kind of way.

Not that I’m looking too hard.

I react to his practiced head tilt, but only for a moment and only because I’m a human being with feelings that obviously have low standards.

“You already know the answer to that,” he replies.

I roll my eyes and shift my balance to my left foot, c*****g my fisted arm on my hip.

“Did you come here today just to mess with me?”

“Nah,” he says, leaning back and placing one jean clad foot on top of the other. “My family’s trying to “clean out their chakras”. I ate a Caesar salad for lunch.”

He blanches and I laugh––a very surprising and genuine laugh.

Quickly, I cover my mouth and stifle my chuckles, but it’s too late. I’ve offered encouragement and I can’t undo it.

“So,” he asks. “What do you recommend?”

My jaw nearly falls to the ground. I appraise him suspiciously. No witty come back? No flirtatious quips? Flirty Diner Guy is losing his touch.

“What?”

“Nothing.” I shake my head to clear it.

Could it be? Did a part of me long for the angry banter between us?

I am going crazy.

“Uh, I recommend the fried jacks with beans and cheese.”

“What kind of meat do you have with it?” I rattle the list from the top of my head.

“I’ll have the bacon. Lots and lots of bacon.”

I nod my head and waltz back to the kitchen. I ring in his order and collect the fry jacks for the table with the adorable little boy. “Here you go,” I slide the plates in front of the family and they thank me with smiles. “I’ll be back in a minute to refill your water glass.” “Thank you,” the children chime.

I like the kids who have manners. They’re the easiest to serve.

“You’re welcome,” I smile at the chubby-cheeked kid. He waves at me with sticky hands.

The bell rings. I tread behind the counter to grasp the Flirty Man’s order, heft it on my shoulder and deposit the platter before him.

“Thank you, sugar,” he says.

And there it is.

I fist my hands. “I told you, sir. I’m not your sugar.”

“You won’t give me your name so that’s what I call you,” he says, leaning back and appraising me with dark brown eyes.

This is a game he likes to play. If it’s not ‘sugar’, he calls me ‘sweet cakes’, ‘honey bunches’, and ‘lemon pie’.

Karen’s become a part of the problem too, refusing to say my name when he comes in to keep the game alive.

Well, I’m tired of it!

I narrow my eyes and lean forward over his food.

“Guess what,” I whisper.

“What?” His dark eyes smolder and I am temporarily taken aback by my own quickening heartbeat.

“I spit in your food.”

Without flinching, he leans forward until our noses are almost touching. I inhale the scent of something subtle and spicy before glancing at his lips.

“No wonder I love the food here.”

Feeling like the loser in this little wordplay, I step back and bump right into Karen.

Her stormy face tells me that she caught my exchange with Flirty Diner Guy and she’s not happy.

My best friend grabs my elbow and smiles at the brunette.

“She’s just joking sir. We never spit in meals here at the café. My friend is usually more ladylike and knows better than to say something so rude.”

Flirty Diner Guy folds his hands in front of his stomach, the toned muscles in his arms contracting with the movement. He wears an expression of utter devastation. “Yes, I’m deeply offended.” I gasp.

“Please apologize to the man,” Karen insists.

I purse my lips and fold my arms. Karen squeezes my hand and I wince.

“I apologize,” I say through gritted teeth.

Flirty Diner Guy glances at Karen. “I think I can be convinced not to make a big deal about this.” Karen audibly sighs.

“If the offender shares my food with me. You know,” he waves his hands, “to ensure that she really didn’t spit in the beans.” I shake my head.

The offender? Big whup!

“No.”

“Yes,” Karen says. “That sounds very reasonable.”

“But I have tables to buss,” I whisper as she steers me toward the chair across from him and slaps an empty plate down before me.

“I’ll take care of them.”

“I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.”

“It’s no problem.” Karen returns and gives me a warning look before scurrying away.

The traitor.

Flirty Diner Guy leans back in his seat, looking quite satisfied.

“My,” he uses his fork to divide the food equally between us. “You have a dirty mouth, don’t you?”

I glare at him. “You have a flirty mouth.”

“Flirty? I prefer the term ‘appreciative’.”

“A rose by any other name.”

“Shakespeare,” he nods. “Pretty and smart.”

I stuff a fry jack into my mouth to keep from replying. The crispy outer shell is hot and crunchy. Mm.

“So, can I get a name now?”

“Nope,” I lick my lips. I’m hungry and Manuel makes killer refried beans. I might as well enjoy this little break.

“That’s okay. I like a little mystery,” Diner Guy twirls his fork in his hands.

I find the move distracting.

“I’m Trey. I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced.”

“Yeah. Hi.”

I’m now digging into my food with gusto.

“How’s your dad doing?” I freeze.

He remembers.

Many months ago, I’d been pulling a late shift at Karen’s when Flirty Diner Guy showed up.

In the middle of his phrases, I’d exploded and sort of let it slip that my dad was in the hospital for a busted knee.

I have no idea what that had had to do with the scolding I’d been laying on him, but I’d put it out there.

“He’s doing okay.”

Flirty Diner Guy, I mean Trey, smiles and uses his fried jack to scoop up the beans.

“I remember when I broke my ankle,” he twirls his fork between his fingers.

I notice that he does that a lot.

“It hurt… bad. I couldn’t walk for weeks.”

I stare at him, wondering if he’s only being a decent human being in order to get me to lower my defenses.

“Well, my dad’s fine now,” I say.

“I’m really glad to hear that, sugar.”

Ah, there it is. The cocky egomaniac that I know and dislike.

Flirty Trey, I can handle. Genuine, caring Diner Guy might start messing with my head a little.

And I have too many things to worry about than a crush right now.

Way too many.