The sun was just setting in Manhattan as I pushed my way out of my small yet suitable apartment. I have lived here for two years, with not much change in my surroundings. And for these two years, I've kept the same job, at this high-end restaurant in the middle of Manhattan.
I step onto the bus, showing the driver my pass, and the bus lurches forward as I take my seat. My ride will take about fifteen minutes, as usual. I lean my head against the window and think about how I got to where I am now, as bus windows always make me think about life.
I am eighteen, and I have lived in Manhattan since I was sixteen. I moved out of the house early, away from my mom and her boyfriend, whom I despise.
My mom got herself into a bit of trouble, along the lines of money. She is an alcoholic and was a drug addict, which is where the money went, wasted on the pills she didn't need. Nearly killed herself by overdose, which finally allowed some sense in her, and she quit, with the help of Phil, her boyfriend.
Rose, my mother, didn't even have a chance to stop me, and now doesn't even know where I'm at, thank God. I don't even want to begin to think about the punishment I'd get from her and Phil if they found me after I fled.
I had been saving up money since I started high school, getting a little here and there, stealing some from my mother now and again when she was too high or drunk to notice.
Finally, I got the guts to leave after I had enough money, so that's exactly what I did. I caught the nearest plane out of the state of California.
I still miss it there, but not who I was with. I didn't really have any friends there, besides Ellie Gold, but she passed away last year. I've been through a rough ride, and my life is scarred for sure, but I am strong, and I always have been. I have pushed it behind me, and don't dare to dwell in the past, though I still have nightmares about... him. I never want to even hear his name, or even have to think of him ever again. It brings me too much pain. As long as I look past it, and to the future, I'm fine, usually.
The bus bell chimes for my stop as I pick my head off the window, quickly wiping off the fog my breath created on the cold window. I look out the window as I stand, drinking in the familiar sight of my work place. I hustle off the bus and head into work, checking in and going in the back to my locker to get my stuff.
I am the person who checks people in with reservations on the evening and night shift, and guide them to their tables, sending them a waitress, then they come back to me so I can take care of the money for the bill. It's pretty simple, but it does pay the bills.
A group of five boys walk in, my first set of the night, keeping their heads down and muttering things to each other. They glance up at me, then bend their heads and whisper to each other some more. All of them are wearing dark hoodies and sunglasses, which looks sketchy, but I put on a smile as one walks up to me.
"Reservation for Jordan," he mutters in a deep British accent that sounds oddly familiar, but I can't place it. If I heard it on television somewhere or something like that it wouldn't surprise me, as many people that come here are famous. It might explain the hoodies.
I don't care though; I've seen my share of celebrities, and most of them are just snobs. I look down my list, scanning for the name, and look up as I find it.
"Right here, reservation for five. Right this way," I say politely, guiding them to their reserved table. "Your waitress will be here shortly," I turn to walk away, when another British accent, though not the same as before, pipes up behind me.
"You're very nice. Thanks, love," he says, and I turn around and force a smile, even though it bugs me he called me love.
I don't care if it's normal for him, I find it uncomfortable as I don't even know him.
