Not Like Last Time

Chapter 11

 Sleeping in the spare room didn't help. It was the same. The only thing that was different was that I wasn't reminded of Cassie everywhere I looked. In my room, I remembered every spot she'd sat, where she'd set her things. Where we would sit and talk. Everything I'd had in that room, she'd had to. No matter how brief, I remembered every time she touched an object.

It's funny how we remember things after someone dies. Like they're only truly engraved in our heads after we don't have something real to hold on to.

I don't want anything left. I just want to forget. I just want to forget that it was my fault. I thought about calling in sick for my shift, but I shrugged it off. I figured if I distracted myself enough, I wouldn't feel so horrible.

So I tugged on a long-sleeved shirt and overalls and biked to Jake's restaurant, keeping my eyes straight ahead and not allowing a second glance at anyone. I didn't worry about seeing anyone while I was biking because it was early, but I'd rather be safe than sorry.

I locked my bike up and went inside. It was quiet, and an older woman cleaned the tables and set menus precariously on the table.

"Hi. Um, I'm the new employee. Is there–"

"Perfect. Fresh meat." The woman interrupted, and seeing the look on my face she laughed. "I'm kidding, kiddo. You can wipe down the tables on the other side and go back to the kitchen. Jake'll show you how to make the breakfast burritos when you're done."

I returned the woman's smile uncomfortably and grabbed a cloth from where she pointed. I started wiping down table after table until they were clean. Every crumb.

I went behind the counter and into the kitchen, which was already broiling with steam. Jake was in the midst of it, carefully frying vegetables, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Clearing my throat I took a few steps forward.

He snapped his head up, as if he were about to yell, but then he relaxed. "Oh. Hey. I'm assuming JJ told you I'd show you how to make my famous burritos?"

I nodded.

"Perfect. Come here." He gestured for me to stand beside him. I did, sweating already. He started walking me through the process. How he carefully toasted the shells so it was browned but not unfoldable, how he diced and fried each vegetable so it was flavorful. Every little step. "Got it?" He asked, finally glancing up at me.

"Yeah. I don't think I could get them as amazing as yours, though." I joked, deciding to try for a less awkward atmosphere.

"Me too," Jake agreed, giving me a smile.

I started working on the burritos and setting them onto the plate until Jake called me out into the restaurant. tossing me an apron. "Now that the doors have opened, you're a waiter. Just take the food to the table numbers and take their orders, etcetera." He said quickly running back into the kitchen, no doubt to tend to his precious burritos.

So for the first half of my shift I served people. Some were nice, some were not, and some were somewhere in between. The worst interaction was when I'd accidentally misheard her order. So I asked her to repeat it.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" She'd exclaimed. "Are you deaf? I said, can I please have a burrito and a latte?"

I just nodded, fumbling over apologies. Around lunchtime, after I'd been rushing through the whole restaurant, in and out of the kitchen and sweating, Jake put a hand on my shoulder as I cleaned up a bit of coffee someone had spilled before they'd left.

"Hey. Why don't you take a lunch break, okay? You've worked your ass off so far."

"Are you sure? I don't want to make anybody else have to pick up slack." It had been the same people all day, except for when a new cook would come in. There were only two waiters, counting me. And the restaurant wasn't huge, but it definitely wasn't tiny either.

"Come on, you think we can't handle ourselves? Besides, you'll get heatstroke in that outfit." He teased, taking the cloth from me. I rolled my eyes, trying to brush off the joke that was really only a joke to him.

"Alright, alright. I'm going." I held my hands up in mock surrender and made my way to the lounge, which was just a glorified storage room with a well-loved sofa and a chair, complete with a mini fridge.

I set a timer for 15 minutes and laid back on the couch, taking a water from the fridge. I stared off into space, tapping my finger against the bottle. I yawned, my legs aching at the thought of peddling back home. I pushed the pain away and focused on the paycheck.

I could move out.

I could get my own place.

I could buy my own things.

But I would have to budget.

But I would have to worry about everything.

I would have to do everything myself.

And I am unprepared.