a flick of her wrist. “He’s not using me, Jose. It’s mutual. We’re using each other .”
Well, what do I know? The furthest Riggs and I have gone is second base, in the backseat of his car. (Listen to me, still using the base system, like I’m twelve.) But truthfully, I’m glad we’re taking it slow.
Slow is good.
Slow keeps a person’s head on straight, which is exactly what I need to do where Riggs is concerned: hold on to my head.
“Wow,” Liv says. “This place looks amazing.”
It’s her first time in Fiorello’s. She’s lounging on one of the fluffiest chairs, feet propped up on an ottoman, and I have brought her my specialty: the Joseaccino, which is basically a cappuccino with every conceivable topping, including cookie crumbs.
“It does look good, doesn’t it?” I say, glancing around, feeling pride in everything Bob has accomplished. The glass tables are so clean you can see yourself, and the air smells sweet and buttery. Piano music wafts out of the speakers on the ceiling—the opposite of that Top-40 crap they play at the Pizza Palace, or any of the other places people our age hang out.
“So,” Liv says, placing her mug on a coaster and lowering her voice. “Where is he?”
“How should I know?” I say.
It’s not like Big Nick comes in every day. More like every three. He does have a routine, though, when he arrives. He walks right up to the counter and says hello, always with a smile and a wink, like the two of us share a secret. Which is pretty ironic, when you think about it. Sometimes a question will bubble up my throat and into my mouth: So, how’s your son Paul? But I make myself swallow it, say, “What can I get you tonight?”
Then he’ll ask which pastries are good, and I’ll tell him. He always orders the same amount: three if they’re big; six if they’re mini. Plus a hot cocoa. And he always sits at the same table—the little round one in the back, next to the trio of ferns—and he works on the New York Times crossword puzzle. He wears glasses when he does this. They’re slightly dorky, black and horn-rimmed, and they slide down his nose. He keeps them in the breast pocket of his shirt, the same place he keeps his pen.
Don’t ask me why I’ve noticed these things.
“Well,” Liv says. “I might as well do some homework while I’m waiting.”
“You do that,” I say.
She pulls out her laptop.
I go back behind the counter, not because there are customers, but because I need to be doing something. Something mindless, like . . . filling the sugar shakers. Yes. This is what I will do. I will collect all the sugar shakers, and I will fill them.
Done.
I ask Bob for another task, and he hands me a bucket of cookie dough. Could I ball the dough and put it on trays to bake at 350? Yes, I could. I could also make the chai tea and scrub down the coffeemaker and replace the hot-drink lids at the milk station. Anyone watching me would say, Wow, what a little worker bee . Does she ever stop?
And the answer would be yes. I stop every time the front door tinkles. I stop, and I look, and then, once I see who it is, I breathe.
Lady in red hat. Phew.
Man in Patriots jersey. Phew.
Couple in matching earmuffs. Phew.
I take orders, smile, make drinks. Think: He’s not coming in tonight, pressure’s off, good. Liv can’t pull one of her crazy moves. I know what she’s capable of. I once listened to her argue with my English teacher for fifteen minutes about the B-minus he gave me on a paper about Tom Sawyer . I have also spent an entire afternoon with her in a store called Womanly Pleasures, where she made the saleslady describe for me, in graphic detail, the virtues of various vibrators.
This is what I’m up against.
I grab a sponge, because Liv is such a slob she can’t drink without spilling. I will sponge down her table. Also, tell her she’s welcome to leave now.
“Finish your homework?” I say.
“Oh. Yeah.” Liv looks up from her laptop,
Well, what do I know? The furthest Riggs and I have gone is second base, in the backseat of his car. (Listen to me, still using the base system, like I’m twelve.) But truthfully, I’m glad we’re taking it slow.
Slow is good.
Slow keeps a person’s head on straight, which is exactly what I need to do where Riggs is concerned: hold on to my head.
“Wow,” Liv says. “This place looks amazing.”
It’s her first time in Fiorello’s. She’s lounging on one of the fluffiest chairs, feet propped up on an ottoman, and I have brought her my specialty: the Joseaccino, which is basically a cappuccino with every conceivable topping, including cookie crumbs.
“It does look good, doesn’t it?” I say, glancing around, feeling pride in everything Bob has accomplished. The glass tables are so clean you can see yourself, and the air smells sweet and buttery. Piano music wafts out of the speakers on the ceiling—the opposite of that Top-40 crap they play at the Pizza Palace, or any of the other places people our age hang out.
“So,” Liv says, placing her mug on a coaster and lowering her voice. “Where is he?”
“How should I know?” I say.
It’s not like Big Nick comes in every day. More like every three. He does have a routine, though, when he arrives. He walks right up to the counter and says hello, always with a smile and a wink, like the two of us share a secret. Which is pretty ironic, when you think about it. Sometimes a question will bubble up my throat and into my mouth: So, how’s your son Paul? But I make myself swallow it, say, “What can I get you tonight?”
Then he’ll ask which pastries are good, and I’ll tell him. He always orders the same amount: three if they’re big; six if they’re mini. Plus a hot cocoa. And he always sits at the same table—the little round one in the back, next to the trio of ferns—and he works on the New York Times crossword puzzle. He wears glasses when he does this. They’re slightly dorky, black and horn-rimmed, and they slide down his nose. He keeps them in the breast pocket of his shirt, the same place he keeps his pen.
Don’t ask me why I’ve noticed these things.
“Well,” Liv says. “I might as well do some homework while I’m waiting.”
“You do that,” I say.
She pulls out her laptop.
I go back behind the counter, not because there are customers, but because I need to be doing something. Something mindless, like . . . filling the sugar shakers. Yes. This is what I will do. I will collect all the sugar shakers, and I will fill them.
Done.
I ask Bob for another task, and he hands me a bucket of cookie dough. Could I ball the dough and put it on trays to bake at 350? Yes, I could. I could also make the chai tea and scrub down the coffeemaker and replace the hot-drink lids at the milk station. Anyone watching me would say, Wow, what a little worker bee . Does she ever stop?
And the answer would be yes. I stop every time the front door tinkles. I stop, and I look, and then, once I see who it is, I breathe.
Lady in red hat. Phew.
Man in Patriots jersey. Phew.
Couple in matching earmuffs. Phew.
I take orders, smile, make drinks. Think: He’s not coming in tonight, pressure’s off, good. Liv can’t pull one of her crazy moves. I know what she’s capable of. I once listened to her argue with my English teacher for fifteen minutes about the B-minus he gave me on a paper about Tom Sawyer . I have also spent an entire afternoon with her in a store called Womanly Pleasures, where she made the saleslady describe for me, in graphic detail, the virtues of various vibrators.
This is what I’m up against.
I grab a sponge, because Liv is such a slob she can’t drink without spilling. I will sponge down her table. Also, tell her she’s welcome to leave now.
“Finish your homework?” I say.
“Oh. Yeah.” Liv looks up from her laptop,
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