a whole new life.
He’d offered me safety. Security. A marriage that was nothing like my parents’.
But what had I sacrificed in the process?
10
Robert’s comment about my mother cut me deeply. It was a wound that I wasn’t sure would heal.
We were heading toward disaster. As the next couple weeks passed, I felt it my soul. Knew it even as a part of me desperately hoped we had conceived a child.
How had we gotten to this point? My relationship with Robert started off wonderfully. As I sat in the steam room the next morning, hoping the heat would melt my hurt, my mind drifted back down memory lane….
I rushed into the restaurant’s kitchen, about to pull my hair out. Seeing my fellow waitress, I sighed loudly. “Jane, I’m about to lose my mind. I just got another table. Can you take it for me?”
Jane, who was piling plates of food onto a large tray,met my eyes briefly before she answered. “God, I wish I could, but I’m so friggin’ behind it’s not funny. Sorry, hon.”
Then, lowering her body to ease the giant tray onto her shoulder, she lost her balance. The tray tilted and plates slid onto the floor with a loud crash. Mortified, she burst into tears.
I couldn’t help her. I had to rush past her and collect the two plates of pasta that one of my tables was waiting on. I balanced them on my arm and hurried back to the busy restaurant.
I delivered the meals to the waiting couple, then turned and headed to the new table with the four older men.
Though I was flustered, I offered them a smile, hoping not to show how stressed out I was. All their eyes perked up when they saw me—a reaction I was used to because of my looks—but I pretended not to notice. Good looks certainly helped get better tips, but I didn’t believe they made me special. Maybe because men had fallen over my mother because of her looks, and I wanted a life nothing like hers.
“How’re you all doing this evening?” I asked as I fished my notepad from my apron pocket.
There was a chorus of “goods” and “fines.” And I noticed the lingering stare from one of the men at the table.
While I ignored him, I was surprisingly not offended the way I often was when other men ogled me.
He’s older, I told myself. Hardly a threat.
“I’m sorry for keeping you waiting,” I said. “I’m superbusy, and—”
“No problem.” This from the man who had given me the longer look. His attractive face wore a soft smile. He had a full head of salt-and-pepper hair, and I figured he was in his late fifties. Something about him reminded me of Harry Belafonte at that age. The shape of the face, the smile. The twinkle in his eyes.
“I could run through the list of drink specials,” I began, “but you don’t strike me as the margarita or frothy drink type.” They all chuckled. “What can I get for you? Beer? Whiskey?”
“A bottle of Glenlivet,” one of the men said. “We’re celebrating.”
I was ready to celebrate myself—a bottle of Glenlivet Scotch would add a huge amount to the bill, meaning a much larger tip for me. These men were well dressed. I was certain they knew how to tip well.
And they did. They left me a one-hundred-dollar bill.
With that bill came a note from the older gentleman who had clearly been interested. “I would love for you to call me,” the note read. And he left his phone number.
I didn’t call. But a week later, Robert showed up at the restaurant again, requesting my section. And he made it clear that he wanted to get to know me.
I guess because he was safe, I decided to give him a chance. He was gentle and persistent. Charming and romantic. Sending flowers and chocolates and notes to brighten my day. When he came to the restaurant andsat in my section, we enjoyed an easy rapport. It was clear to me that his attraction wasn’t based on his desire to get me into bed.
And I fell for him. I thought we would have a story-book ending.
Eight years later, the story had somehow changed along
He’d offered me safety. Security. A marriage that was nothing like my parents’.
But what had I sacrificed in the process?
10
Robert’s comment about my mother cut me deeply. It was a wound that I wasn’t sure would heal.
We were heading toward disaster. As the next couple weeks passed, I felt it my soul. Knew it even as a part of me desperately hoped we had conceived a child.
How had we gotten to this point? My relationship with Robert started off wonderfully. As I sat in the steam room the next morning, hoping the heat would melt my hurt, my mind drifted back down memory lane….
I rushed into the restaurant’s kitchen, about to pull my hair out. Seeing my fellow waitress, I sighed loudly. “Jane, I’m about to lose my mind. I just got another table. Can you take it for me?”
Jane, who was piling plates of food onto a large tray,met my eyes briefly before she answered. “God, I wish I could, but I’m so friggin’ behind it’s not funny. Sorry, hon.”
Then, lowering her body to ease the giant tray onto her shoulder, she lost her balance. The tray tilted and plates slid onto the floor with a loud crash. Mortified, she burst into tears.
I couldn’t help her. I had to rush past her and collect the two plates of pasta that one of my tables was waiting on. I balanced them on my arm and hurried back to the busy restaurant.
I delivered the meals to the waiting couple, then turned and headed to the new table with the four older men.
Though I was flustered, I offered them a smile, hoping not to show how stressed out I was. All their eyes perked up when they saw me—a reaction I was used to because of my looks—but I pretended not to notice. Good looks certainly helped get better tips, but I didn’t believe they made me special. Maybe because men had fallen over my mother because of her looks, and I wanted a life nothing like hers.
“How’re you all doing this evening?” I asked as I fished my notepad from my apron pocket.
There was a chorus of “goods” and “fines.” And I noticed the lingering stare from one of the men at the table.
While I ignored him, I was surprisingly not offended the way I often was when other men ogled me.
He’s older, I told myself. Hardly a threat.
“I’m sorry for keeping you waiting,” I said. “I’m superbusy, and—”
“No problem.” This from the man who had given me the longer look. His attractive face wore a soft smile. He had a full head of salt-and-pepper hair, and I figured he was in his late fifties. Something about him reminded me of Harry Belafonte at that age. The shape of the face, the smile. The twinkle in his eyes.
“I could run through the list of drink specials,” I began, “but you don’t strike me as the margarita or frothy drink type.” They all chuckled. “What can I get for you? Beer? Whiskey?”
“A bottle of Glenlivet,” one of the men said. “We’re celebrating.”
I was ready to celebrate myself—a bottle of Glenlivet Scotch would add a huge amount to the bill, meaning a much larger tip for me. These men were well dressed. I was certain they knew how to tip well.
And they did. They left me a one-hundred-dollar bill.
With that bill came a note from the older gentleman who had clearly been interested. “I would love for you to call me,” the note read. And he left his phone number.
I didn’t call. But a week later, Robert showed up at the restaurant again, requesting my section. And he made it clear that he wanted to get to know me.
I guess because he was safe, I decided to give him a chance. He was gentle and persistent. Charming and romantic. Sending flowers and chocolates and notes to brighten my day. When he came to the restaurant andsat in my section, we enjoyed an easy rapport. It was clear to me that his attraction wasn’t based on his desire to get me into bed.
And I fell for him. I thought we would have a story-book ending.
Eight years later, the story had somehow changed along
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