Wish We Never Started

16

At work the next day, Sadie calls off.

Katie, the wait staff manager, has her lips pressed into a thin line every time I see her. Something is wrong, you can see it with one glance in her direction. 

When my shift is finally finished, I feel utterly exhausted. My feet hurt and they are starting blister in more than one place.

The vans I've worn for three years straight have more than one hole now and lack any kind of support. Arnold offered me an old pair of crocs in his locker before our shift but I quickly declined.

"Gabriel!" Bob jumps out from the employee room, waving his hand in the air to catch my attention, "could you stay until close?"

I freeze, checking the time. Four hours until close.

"Listen, we are short a few people today. It would be a great help if you could," he says from across the kitchen, some of the line cooks turning their heads in my direction.

I was supposed to see Amelia for the first time in a few days tonight.

"Yes," I tell Bob, "but let me text someone first."

"Of course," Bob says with an understanding tone, stepping aside to let me through to the employee room.

I wince when I start walking, hoping my limp doesn't appear as bad as it feels. When I make it to my phone, I shoot a text to Amelia.

Working late. I'll be done at 10.

Just as I hit send, someone touches my shoulder from behind, causing me to jump and turn in their direction.

"Holy shit," I breathe, looking at Arnold standing behind me with his hand still on my shoulder.

"For you," is all he says.

It takes me a long moment to realize what he's talking about because his eyes never waver from mine.

In his free hand are the pair of crocs he mentioned earlier. I let out a long, stubborn sigh and take them from him.

"Thank you," I say, beginning to kick my shoes off, the relief almost immediate.

Arnold pats my shoulder and turns around to leave. I notice he's slightly hunched over, a bald spot on the back of his head.

There's some blood on the heel of my sock, one of the places the shoes were bothering me. I slip the crocs on and try to forget about it as I go back out for my final hours of work.

During the last half an hour, it's dead and I'm caught up on dishes. Katie calls me out to the front to help with shut down, which is basically just spraying tables and sweeping floors.

"Did Sadie call off today?" I cautiously ask before starting any work.

"Yes," she flatly confirms without looking up from wiping chairs.

"Why?" I ask.

Maybe I am being a little too nosy, but genuinely, I am curious. The line of communication between us has not been great recently, and I'm afraid everything got screwed up even more on New Year's Eve.

"I don't tell other people why someone else called off," Katie answers curtly, scrubbing a little harder.

"It seems like it's personal," I poke while searching for a broom to start the floor.

Katie slams the spray bottle onto the table, dropping the dish rag along with it. This catches my attention, and when I look up, she has her hands on her hips and her eyebrows angrier than ever.