"I left her a message to call me." We both stood up with our piles of napkins. Our gazes crashed again, and this time they held. Another chemical reaction on my side.
"Here, I'll go put these in the trash." She reached for the chunk of napkins I was holding and gasped. "Your knuckles. And that was your hurt hand. Let me get you some ice."
"It doesn't hurt," I said. It was a lie. In truth it felt like I'd struck a metal wall. My hand was still weak after being bound in tape and then used all day lifting wood and bricks. I was surprised I still managed to lay big red flat with one punch.
"Nonsense," she said. "I've got ice. C'mon back." She pointed out a stool. "Sit."
I sat on the stool, and she disappeared into a walk-in freezer. She returned with a scoop of ice and dropped it into a clean dishtowel. She walked over and placed the towel of ice gently over my hand. "Hold this. I'll finish closing up." She looked at me before she walked away, and I heard her pull in a soft breath.
"How have you been?" I asked. "How's Jack? Your mom?"
Her lip tilted up on the side. "Jack keeps asking when his friend Ronan is coming back." She said it briskly and then walked to the supply room.
I iced my hand for as long as I could stand it, then got up and dropped the ice into the industrial sink at the back of the kitchen. Rachel had carried fresh napkins out to the front of the diner. I sat on a stool at the counter and watched as she deftly filled napkin dispensers.
"Our cook, Hank, went home sick this afternoon, so I think we'll have to close tomorrow." She glanced up. "I guess you don't come here for lunch too much, but some of your workmates are going to be lost … and hungry."
"The ones who are left anyhow. We've been wiped out by the flu, too. You probably noticed that your lunch hour has been slower than usual."
She nodded. "Yes, my tips have been cut in half." She sighed sadly.
"It's tough, ain't it? This whole life thing."
She finished the last napkin holder and looked up. "Sometimes it's downright impossible."
"That guy? The one with the fancy watch?" I asked, then shook my head. "None of my business. Don't know why I keep doing that with you. I guess I just feel like—shit, I don't know."
"Evan bought me a house."
I wanted to drop off the stool and fall through a hole in the ground. "Wow, nice of him." I had to force the words out.
"I didn't take it."
I lifted my eyes again. "Why not?"
"He wanted me to be his mistress. You see, his marriage—well—it's complicated. He works for her father," she added wryly at the end.
I helped her carry the napkin holders to the tables. She straightened and looked around. "I'm ready to get the hell out of here today."
"I'll walk you to your car, if you don't mind."
"After the last few hours, I don't mind at all." She untied her apron. "I just need to get my things."
We walked out in a shell of awkward silence. I couldn't remember ever feeling shy or unsure of myself, but that was what I was feeling as I walked Rachel to her car.
She opened the car door and paused to smile at me.
"I should have tried harder," I said. "I should have tried harder to hold onto you, Rachel."
Rachel smiled weakly and got into the car. I closed the door. She gazed up at me once before pulling away from the curb.
"Should have tried fucking harder."
thirty-one
. . .
Rachel