Worth Every Cent (Worth It 2)

“Did you say 1942?” I asked.

“Why? Do I look older than that?”

“I wouldn’t have pegged you for a year over fifty,” I said.

“Such a compliment from a beautiful young woman. I’m seventy six years old, if you can believe it.”

“No, I can’t. So this practice what you preach regimen must be working.”

“Michy!” Cecily called out. “Need your help!”

“Michy?” Luke asked.

“Michelle. But some people around here have shortened it up to Michy.”

“Then by the look on your face, I think I’ll stick to Michelle,” he said with a grin.

The flood of patrons into the diner forced me to end my conversation with the comforting man in the corner booth. Cecily and I rushed to get people seated before Brad came out, tending to a family himself. I figured out that it was the city councilmen with his wife and children, so all of our excess attention was to be thrown into them.

“Make sure their drinks are correct.”

“The wife doesn’t like butter anywhere near her food.”

“Come on, guys. Move faster. They expect prompt service.”

The dinner rush always took me by surprise, no matter how many times I worked it. Always a real trial by fire type of situation. Cecily almost always ducked into a bathroom to gather herself, leaving me to tend the entire floor on my own. Sometimes Brad would step in, and other times he would walk straight into the women’s restroom and demand Cecily get back out on the floor with me.

But it seemed as if luck wasn’t with me tonight.

While carrying a massive tray of drinks for the family, I tripped over a chair leg and went crashing to the floor. Soda and tea and water spilled everywhere, drenching me and the floor underneath my body. Some splashed onto the kids and even onto the city councilmen’s wife. The anger in their eyes was unmistakable.

“Go home,” Brad said. “I’ll finish this up.”

“I just tripped. That’s all that—”

“You tripped and soaked the wife of the city councilmen. I have to clean up your mess so they don’t destroy the reputation of this place. Our service hinges on their happiness. Go home, Michelle.”

I bit back tears as I cashed out the few tips I got that day and started my journey to the motel I was staying in. Would my luck ever change? I wasn’t sure it would. One hiccup at the worst possible time at my new place of work, and my job suddenly hung in the balance. At least, that was how Brad made me feel. I didn’t want to be destined to hop from one shitty job to another. And I didn’t want to be destined for shitty relationships for the rest of my life, either.

But every time I turned around, it seemed as if life was reminding me that I wouldn’t amount to anything.

It snuffed out the hope I tried to keep lit in my soul.

My mile and a half journey back to the motel took me right by the local watering hole. Music poured from the door as people opened it and I found I recognized the song. I bobbed my head to the beat of the music pouring through the walls and mouthed the lyrics, and soon I found myself crossing the street.

Paying the cover fee.

Opening the door for myself.

The idea of blowing off a little steam seemed nice. I was soaked to the bone in soda and water, but I didn’t care at that point. I didn’t care about much of anything at that point. I walked up to the bar, where the bartender gave me an odd look. I held up my apron before pointing over to the diner, and she seemed to sympathize wholly with me.

“What’ll it be after a hard day at work?” she asked.

“A glass of your strongest wine,” I said.

I sat in the darkness of the bar and sipped on it. The band played song after song I recognized, but all I could focus on was the harshness of the alcohol in my drink. It tasted nowhere near as smooth as the wine from Grayson’s vineyard.

The wine from that night.