Last Olive Bistro ✓

Chapter 4: Unexpected

Angela rang my phone early in the morning to inform me of an unexpected day off. The sun had barely risen through the jungle of skyscrapers, but its thin beams shined through my sheers, casting a delightful yellow glow into the bedroom.

"I don't want to lose these hours," I said, trying to persuade her as I hovered by the window. I toyed with some of the jewelry pieces atop my dresser, which unfortunately had to block half the view outside.

"You're not needed tonight," she snapped back.

"See you tomorrow," I replied quickly and ended the call. I took a sigh of relief that I didn't have to deal with her for one day, but I was worried about the loss of money. My third of the rent was due in four days and I was barely going to make it.

I pushed the worries to the back of my mind and slipped back into my bed. Its soft, white silky textures enveloped my aching body and I drifted off to sleep again easily—this time without a noisy alarm.

~ ~ ~

"How'd your date go?" I asked Rory. We meandered the streets of Manhattan in search of lunch and a phone repair shop.

Rory held up his smartphone to show that it still worked regardless of the shattered screen. "It was great until he knocked my phone out of my hands and a larger gentleman in steel-toed boots trampled it," he explained with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

"Did you get a second date?" I asked.

He laughed and locked arms with me. "Chloe, I'll determine the second date, and so far—," he pointed to a repair shop, "I'm more likely to be swept up by a tornado in the middle of 42nd Street than go on a second date with him."

Rory was able to get his phone's screen replaced, and the first order of business was to delete the ex-date's number. He proudly erased the contact and shoved the phone securely in his front pocket.

We explored the city we grew up in, passing place after place in search of the right spot for lunch. We ate it all before—pizza, kebabs, curries, burgers, pastramis—we hunted based on instinct now rather than opting to try a 'new' locale.

Walking down 5th Avenue, we went by the same luxury brand stores we scoped out as teens. Rory and I dreamed of going in and buying something at least once in our lives, but we hadn't gotten there yet. It was still just window shopping and dreams for us.

This time, my mind saw it in a different light. The windows of Saks Fifth Avenue, Cartier, and Tom Ford showcased the latest in luxe fashion and jewelry, with body-hugging dresses that cost more than a month's rent, and shimmery diamonds that would blind a pilot from the ground on a sunny day.

We passed a storefront of suits, a designer name that I couldn't pronounce, with tailored gray and navy styles. They resembled the mystery man's, yet even the ones styled for marketing purposes didn't hug the mannequins like they did him.

I shook my head, thinking to myself how silly it was to even consider seeing him again. So what if he came in again? Who was I to catch his attention? Maybe he was from out of town, simply passing through. That seemed like the more logical expectation.

"Is this what he was wearing?" Rory inquired, pointing at a navy checked suit that likely had a price tag up in the several thousands.

"Close to it, except it was gray," I said.

"I bet it was flawlessly tailored too," he said, but it was more like he was thinking out loud and desiring one himself.

I admired the craftsmanship for a short moment longer before I picked up my pace, gaining distance between the memory and I, although it left Rory behind.

"Hey wait for me!" Rory called.

"How about pizza?" I asked, deliberately ignoring his pleas for me to slow down. In some instances, I figured literally running away from my thoughts could help to lose them.

He caught up when I stopped in front of a small pizza shop, out of breath and beginning to bead with sweat from the heat. "I think I deserve it now after my workout," he said.

We sat in the hole-in-the-wall shop, downing a few slices—the kind with the little crispy pepperonis on top. Suddenly, my phone chimed.

It was Angela.

"Oh God," I sighed out loud.

"Don't answer it," Rory said with a full mouth. "Don't do it."

"I have to," I replied, defeated. I swiped my finger across the screen to answer the call.

"We had a few call-offs, so I need you for 6 o'clock," she ordered. My chest tightened with annoyance over how I thought I was in the clear from her that night.

"Alright, see you then," I flatly replied, then swiped to end it, denying her a chance to bite again.

Rory's face hung low, but his dark eyes beamed angrily into mine. He hated seeing me like this, but it was the only steady income I had, and the tips were usually generous. I had to get all the hours I could.

"I apply for jobs all the time," I diverted. "When something better comes along, I'll grab it."

He nodded, though I knew he didn't buy it. That was the thing about Rory—he was the biggest empath I knew. When I was hurting, he felt it and he comforted me. But when I wasn't sure of myself, he felt the same disappointment. I wanted to try harder to make him proud of me.

~ ~ ~

The dinner rush was like a category five hurricane followed by a tsunami, but once everyone was seated and the restaurant was filled to capacity, I found a second to take a breather and escaped through the backdoor.

The night air was unusually cool for the beginning of August, and it felt refreshing to breath it in. I was startled by a cough just on the other side of the dumpster, but it turned out to be only Tony.

"Hey you," he greeted, taking one last drag on his cigarette before tossing the butt into a puddle.

"What's up?"

He breathed the smoke out and smiled at me. "Same old. I see you got called in."

I rolled my eyes. "Initially I was called off, but I guess it's better to have the money."

He patted my shoulder and said, "You're allowed to say no."

"I know," I said. "It's what it is."

There was a silence between us as we simply listened to the familiar, stimulating sounds of NYC—car horns blaring, voices yelling, firetruck and ambulance sirens by way of Doppler effect. It wasn't until Tony moved his hand off my shoulder that I realized it was still on me. I glanced over and we shared confiding smiles.

"We better get back inside. The troll is probably on the prowl," he said. He held the door open for me as we stepped back into the stifling hot kitchen. After washing my hands, I headed straight out to the dining room.

The dinner crowd was still a buzz with everyone eating and drinking merrily, but as the night advanced closer to closing time, the plates emptied and drinking glasses ran dry and they began to trickle out. Somehow, it was always the loud, drunk ones who stayed the longest. A party of seven howled the night away in the front of the dining room, attracting every passerby to their buffoonery.

"When Payton isn't at her stand, you need to be up there," Angela demanded, as she crept up on me hanging out by the bar. Her eyes bugged out of her head with frustration. Without a word, I hustled to the front and began wiping down menus.

The restaurant cut corners in many ways, other than just the inferior quality of the food. The menus were encased in thick plastic sleeves, which made them greasy and vile at the end of the night. However, it was one of the more time consuming projects that kept me out of the way of Angela's patrol.

From the corner of my eye, I saw dark navy suit pants approach the hostess stand. I glanced up to greet the late customer, then dropped one of the menus in a moment of surprise. The man's dark eyebrows raised and a smirk swept his lips.

"It's okay, I won't be needing a menu," he said with a light hearted chuckle. "Just one—a table if you have it, please."