White Walls [DIVERGENT]

12. Tears

"Cause I played it cool when I was scared of letting go, I know I need you. But I never showed. But I wanna stay with you until we're grey and old. Just say you won't go."

Tobias:

Why are there so many people?

I squint underneath the fluorescent lights as I try to count the number of people in the restaurant. After working here for almost a year, I've honestly never even seen any number close to how many guests there are right now. Tables are flooded and the food is being served across the rooms so quickly that I have to duck just to make it through.

Considering that it's only been a day since Tris and I, for lack of better term, made out, there's been a lot on my mind. The temptation to just let my mind wander off and think things over—there's been no time.

As I dash into the kitchen to fetch my next plate, Zeke bumps into me, knocking nearly an entire saucer filled with tomato sauce on my apron. Holy shit.

"Oh God, dude. I'm so sorry!" He exclaims as I grunt, snatching the nearest towel and wiping off the majority of the sauce. Now there's a giant stain on my newly washed apron. Sighing, I remember the list of orders I have to deliver out and shake my head.

"It's fine," I mumble as I glance down at the tile. Shattered pieces of ceramic lay on the floor, red sauce laying lifeless everwhere. "Let's just get this cleaned up."

I'd rather be in here, cleaning up a new mess every two minutes over running back and forth in than in the dining room, plastering a smile on my face as I hand people their food.

Forget that.

I'd rather be with Tris, driving anywhere we wished, watching her smile and holding my hand. Honestly, I want to be back in my house with her. Go exactly to that moment where our lips connected and there were only thin layers of clothing separating us.

The way my hand fit perfectly into the curve of her waist, or how her lips held deep moisture despite how thin they were. How she laid underneath me like a firecracker and I was the flame omitted off her body.

As I keep wiping off the tomato sauce from the floor, I glance up at Zeke before my name is echoed throughout the kitchen. Mila holds a tray filled with the finest sets of wine, stomping towards me and somehow managing to not drop a single bottle.

I wince, swearing incoherently as I drop my towel. Standing up, I wipe my hands on the part of my apron that isn't smothered in tomato, watching as Mila furrows her eyebrows.

Although her expression reads ultimate fury, the only thing I could focus on was how undeniably short she was--no more than 5'1.

"Tobias," Mila mumbles quietly, standing in front of my with pursed lips and dark eyes, "how many times have you messed up today? Get your shit together because table eight is waiting, as is table three, one and twelve. I don't know what's wrong with you, but stop it."

I shake my head, running a hand through my hair. I can't focus, I haven't been able to focus for the past few weeks. Especially for the past twenty-four hours, all things considered. But, despite the coldness of her voice, I know that Mila is worried about me. Having known her for the time that I have, it's become quite obvious to decipher when she's joking or is serious.