Read Online Getting Over Garrett Delaney by Abby McDonald - Free Book Online
Authors: Abby McDonald
Ads: Link
me.
“Lifesaver!” I beam. “Now, um, if I can only remember how to do that again. Another hundred times …”
Josh laughs. “Hold that thought.” He ducks back into the kitchen and reappears a moment later with a pack of Post-it notes. “These should help you keep track,” he says, scribbling
1, 2, 3
with a black marker and slapping the notes on each of the knobs and dials in turn.
“Thanks,” I tell him, grateful. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.”
He grins. “That’s why you’re a serving wench, and I have a whole kingdom of my own!” He gestures grandly at the tiny kitchen. “Behold, my domain.”
I laugh. “Wow, impressive. You’ve got running water and everything.”
“Well, most days.”
“Sadie!” Dominique doesn’t even turn as she yells.
“I better get back to serving. And wenching,” I tell him. “But thanks!”
I deliver the drinks — probably lukewarm now — to Dominique. “That’s just wonderful,” she drawls. “Maybe next time you can wait until we all drop dead from old age.”
“Sorry, I —”
“Look, just go clear the tables out front.” Dominique lets out a weary sigh, as if my incompetence is just too exhausting.
“Tout de suite.”
I stare blankly. “I took Spanish.”
“Now!” she translates.
I grab the cloth and duck out from behind the counter. I take my time cleaning each table — not so much out of my faultless work ethic as in the hope of eavesdropping on some juicy plotlines for that novel I’m going to write one day. But, as usual, Sherman fails me.
“You know, I told him to paint the fence. It’s bringing the whole tone of the street down.”
“And they’re having a sale on paint right now at Mike’s Hardware.”
“Exactly! Some people have no sense of community.”
See? If I wanted to write about the minutiae of existence, I’d be in heaven right now. Or maybe that’s the point: I could write about a waitress in a small-town coffee shop, doomed to spend her days listening to conversations about DIY home repair while her love is far away… .
A flash of red outside the window catches my eye, and I look up to see a trail of grade-school kids in summer-camp T-shirts, winding down the street in an unruly snake formation. Kayla walks alongside, outfitted in her very own red shirt and weighed down with water bottles and sunscreen. She beams, perky as ever, adjusting one kid’s falling baseball cap, then nudging another back in line. The very picture of summer enthusiasm. I should have guessed that she’d wind up working with kids — or the elderly, or cute fluffy animals.
She sees me watching, and raises her arm in a wave. I manage a vague gesture, balancing dirty dishes.
By the time I’m done clearing, my stomach is rumbling at an alarming volume. I was so busy picking out my first-day outfit that I skipped breakfast; I haven’t had time to eat all day.
I approach Dominique apprehensively. “I was thinking maybe I could take my break …”
“Whenever we hit a lull,” Dominique finishes for me, her expression stony. “Does this look like a lull to you?”
“If
lull
is French for ‘Sure. It’s slow — go take your break,’ ” LuAnn interrupts, breezing past us from the back entrance. She dumps her purse on the counter, spilling makeup and quarters from the fringed, beaded, bedazzling bag. “Go ahead. I can cover for ten.”
“Thanks,” I say, already pulling off my apron. “I won’t be long. I just need to grab some lunch.”
“Lunch?” LuAnn blinks. “Honey, it’s, like, three p.m.” She turns to Dominique. “What have you been doing to her?”
Dominique gives a lazy shrug. “She’s here to work.”
“You are a cold, heartless woman,” LuAnn tells her sternly. Dominique just shrugs again and turns back to the fashion magazine she has stashed behind the coffee grounds.
I watch them bicker, curious. When I was on the other side of the counter, just a lowly customer, I figured that
“Lifesaver!” I beam. “Now, um, if I can only remember how to do that again. Another hundred times …”
Josh laughs. “Hold that thought.” He ducks back into the kitchen and reappears a moment later with a pack of Post-it notes. “These should help you keep track,” he says, scribbling
1, 2, 3
with a black marker and slapping the notes on each of the knobs and dials in turn.
“Thanks,” I tell him, grateful. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.”
He grins. “That’s why you’re a serving wench, and I have a whole kingdom of my own!” He gestures grandly at the tiny kitchen. “Behold, my domain.”
I laugh. “Wow, impressive. You’ve got running water and everything.”
“Well, most days.”
“Sadie!” Dominique doesn’t even turn as she yells.
“I better get back to serving. And wenching,” I tell him. “But thanks!”
I deliver the drinks — probably lukewarm now — to Dominique. “That’s just wonderful,” she drawls. “Maybe next time you can wait until we all drop dead from old age.”
“Sorry, I —”
“Look, just go clear the tables out front.” Dominique lets out a weary sigh, as if my incompetence is just too exhausting.
“Tout de suite.”
I stare blankly. “I took Spanish.”
“Now!” she translates.
I grab the cloth and duck out from behind the counter. I take my time cleaning each table — not so much out of my faultless work ethic as in the hope of eavesdropping on some juicy plotlines for that novel I’m going to write one day. But, as usual, Sherman fails me.
“You know, I told him to paint the fence. It’s bringing the whole tone of the street down.”
“And they’re having a sale on paint right now at Mike’s Hardware.”
“Exactly! Some people have no sense of community.”
See? If I wanted to write about the minutiae of existence, I’d be in heaven right now. Or maybe that’s the point: I could write about a waitress in a small-town coffee shop, doomed to spend her days listening to conversations about DIY home repair while her love is far away… .
A flash of red outside the window catches my eye, and I look up to see a trail of grade-school kids in summer-camp T-shirts, winding down the street in an unruly snake formation. Kayla walks alongside, outfitted in her very own red shirt and weighed down with water bottles and sunscreen. She beams, perky as ever, adjusting one kid’s falling baseball cap, then nudging another back in line. The very picture of summer enthusiasm. I should have guessed that she’d wind up working with kids — or the elderly, or cute fluffy animals.
She sees me watching, and raises her arm in a wave. I manage a vague gesture, balancing dirty dishes.
By the time I’m done clearing, my stomach is rumbling at an alarming volume. I was so busy picking out my first-day outfit that I skipped breakfast; I haven’t had time to eat all day.
I approach Dominique apprehensively. “I was thinking maybe I could take my break …”
“Whenever we hit a lull,” Dominique finishes for me, her expression stony. “Does this look like a lull to you?”
“If
lull
is French for ‘Sure. It’s slow — go take your break,’ ” LuAnn interrupts, breezing past us from the back entrance. She dumps her purse on the counter, spilling makeup and quarters from the fringed, beaded, bedazzling bag. “Go ahead. I can cover for ten.”
“Thanks,” I say, already pulling off my apron. “I won’t be long. I just need to grab some lunch.”
“Lunch?” LuAnn blinks. “Honey, it’s, like, three p.m.” She turns to Dominique. “What have you been doing to her?”
Dominique gives a lazy shrug. “She’s here to work.”
“You are a cold, heartless woman,” LuAnn tells her sternly. Dominique just shrugs again and turns back to the fashion magazine she has stashed behind the coffee grounds.
I watch them bicker, curious. When I was on the other side of the counter, just a lowly customer, I figured that
Similar Books
