Inside, the restaurant is a madhouse. Every table is occupied, and a large group mills around the host’s desk, waiting for a table. Even the bar is packed with more people standing around, holding their drinks and jockeying for a seat.
“Do you have a reservation?” the host asks without looking up.
“No.”
“Then I’m afraid the wait is well over an—” The host looks up, and his mouth drops open as I raise an eyebrow. “Oh! Mr. Orso! My apologies. Uh…let me see what we can find for you.”
“Thank you,” I reply with a smile.
“This place is really busy,” Cherry says as she looks around. “How long is the wait?”
“Not long, I’m sure.” I stare at the curve of her neck as she glances around the foyer full of people and the lack of open tables.
“Right this way, Mr. Orso.” The host gestures with one arm and cradles menus with the other.
“Oh! That was quick.” Cherry looks over at the waiting guests as they look back at us with narrowed eyes as we’re led away.
The host stops at a small table for two, still covered in dirty glasses and dessert dishes. I glare at him, and he stammers out an apology.
“We’re short-staffed tonight,” he says. “I’m so sorry! I’ll get rid of this right away!”
“It’s not a problem, really,” Cherry says. She gives him a kind smile as he rushes to clear the table.
Once the table is clean, we sit down and order drinks.
“Do you come here a lot?” Cherry asks.
“Somewhat,” I say. “Cascade Falls is a little short on fine dining experiences, but this place has good food and drinks. I like the atmosphere, and it’s usually not this busy.”
“It’s a nice night,” Cherry says. “Nice weather at the end of winter tends to bring people out.”
“I suppose that’s true. Do you drink wine?”
“I do.”
With Cherry’s approval, I order a nice bottle of red that isn’t too expensive, feeling like I need to make up for the stupid car. Pops bought the damn thing, and I was never even allowed to drive it before.
Before.
I shake my head to clear it.
“I have no idea what to order,” Cherry says. “It all looks so good.”
I make a couple of suggestions, and Cherry eventually makes up her mind. Of course, the server is nowhere in sight now. I see a few waitstaff rushing back and forth between tables and the kitchen but not the one who took our drink order and then disappeared.
“They really are busy!” Cherry glances up with a rather nervous chuckle.
I don’t like to wait—never have—and it’s probably starting to show. I’m accustomed to being served immediately, and I absolutely refuse to wait in line anywhere. I take a deep breath and fake a smile, wishing I had a drink so I could make some dumb-ass toast to relieve the tension.
A completely different server stops by and asks to take our drink order. I explain through gritted teeth that we’ve already ordered a bottle of wine, and she rushes off to find it without asking if we are ready to order anything else.
She comes back fairly quickly with the bottle in hand but no glasses. She stammers an apology, brings the glasses right away, but then rushes off again saying she’d be back for our food order in a minute.
“Can I get you an appetizer?” A new guy walks up, clearly the manager. “Oh! Mr. Orso! What a pleasure to see you again!”
“It’s all yours,” I grumble. “Do you think we could order now?”
The manager takes our order, and the original server comes back with another bottle of wine, stares for a minute at the bottle on the table, and then runs off without a word.
This is not going well, and I have no idea what to do to fix it. I’m tempted to threaten the server, but that’s not the sort of thing I can do in front of Cherry. As someone who has worked in a restaurant, she’s probably very familiar with the other side of this scenario and already told me how she felt about people who are rude to waitstaff. My body tenses as I hold in the anger, trying desperately not to show what’s going on inside of me and fearing that it’s not working.
“Nate, are you all right?” Cherry asks.
Just then, a busboy walks by with a tray of dirty dishes, slips, and everything goes flying. Glass shatters, and what appears to be rice pudding lands on my shoes. Cherry cries out as she’s splattered with cola.
“What the fuck?” I stand, unable to control the fury inside of me for a moment as I turn on the busboy.
“Sorry! Sorry!” He crouches and starts picking up broken glass. One of the waitstaff stops to help, handing Cherry a handful of napkins to dry herself off.
“Kick him in the head!” Pops says, leaning against the wooden divider between tables.
My body tenses, and I can see myself do it. I can picture my foot slamming into the side of the young man’s head, splitting his temple open. I clench my hands and glance at Cherry. She’s dabbing her dress with a napkin, but it’s clearly not working well.
I can’t do this—not in front of her.
I stand there, silently seething. As the mess is cleaned up, I continue to remain where I am, afraid of what I will do if I move. The busboy stands carefully, tray full of broken dishes
