For You(4)
Author: Mimi Strong

I’d say, “You know me,” and follow her out to the back.

We’d sit on milk crates in the alley, practicing our French inhale and blowing smoke rings.

I would have never guessed Charlotte was stealing from me, possibly because she was so generous with the cigarettes. Even six months later, it was hard to believe the cash hadn’t just wandered out of my purse on a regular basis, and the few valuables at my apartment hadn’t just been misplaced.

After my suede boots disappeared, I should have confronted her, but it was so much easier to pretend I didn’t know. Sometimes when she looked at me, I thought I could see the guilt in her eyes, and I made a note to myself what guilt looked like.

One day, she didn’t show up for her shift, and I found out through the other girls she’d been hospitalized for alcohol poisoning. Then I didn’t know anymore if that look I’d seen in her eyes was actually guilt, or desperation.

She never came back to work, and one day I saw my suede boots in a thrift shop, and I bought them back for ten dollars.

Sawyer’s deep voice rumbled through my thoughts intrusively. “Whatcha thinkin’ about?”

“My suede boots. I think I’ll wear them to work tomorrow.” We were still three blocks from my apartment, so I picked up the pace.

“But what else? You’ve got to be thinking about more than suede boots.”

“I’m also thinking about how people pretend to be your friends, but they’re actually lowlife dirtbags, and everybody steals from everybody, and that’s just how it is.”

“Ouch.”

We walked for a minute, nothing but the sound of some dogs barking in the distance and our feet on the sidewalk.

He said, “Why doesn’t your husband pick you up from work?”

“That’s a good point. Maybe you should ask him. Or maybe you should mind your own f**king business.”

He took an audible breath and stuck his hands in his pockets. “I sure hope you don’t live far from here, because I don’t know how much more abuse I can take.”

“Then go. I don’t need you.”

He stopped still in his tracks, and I kept walking. I knew he wanted me to look back, or apologize, and maybe I should have, but I didn’t.

My life was barely holding together as it was, and some guy coming along and getting into my business was the last thing I wanted.

Even if he was cute.

I wore the suede boots to work on Saturday, and Bruce stared down at them as he pushed a bulky envelope toward me on his desk.

“Am I in trouble?”

We were in the tiny office at the back of the pub, and he was eating minestrone soup straight from the can. He paused, one gelatinous spoonful near his lips.

“Guilty conscience?” he said.

“No,” I snapped.

“Are you okay, though? You don’t have to be here today. Sawyer came back last night and said you got home and seemed okay, but what happened was my fault.”

“No, it wasn’t your fault. I should have been more aware, but I was thinking about that hundred bucks. So stupid.”

“You’re not stupid. And I’m serious about you taking some time off. And I’ve been thinking about safety for you servers, in general. I’ve got someone coming by first thing Monday to put a big mirror across from that corner, so there won’t be a blind spot there anymore.”

“Those guys said they weren’t from around here, so I don’t think they’ll be back.”

Bruce grinned. “No, I think Sawyer taught them a lesson.”

With his smile, the mood lifted, and I felt confident I could put the previous night behind me.

“Is Sawyer a friend of yours?” I asked.

“No, he’s too cool to be friends with an old guy like me.” He nudged the envelope at me again, making me take it. “Here, this is for you.”

“Coupons?”

He laughed. “You have such a weird, dark sense of humor. Seriously, we should do an open mike night here and you can do your act.”

“How do you do that? How do you always take everything like it’s a joke?”

“I’m always drunk.”

“No, you’re not.” I picked up his coffee and sniffed it to be sure.

He turned back to his computer screen, shoveling the rest of the cold soup down quickly.

I opened the envelope to find a wad of cash, more than a hundred dollars. I’d left in a rush the night before, but this was way more than any possible tips I’d left behind.

“You’re paying me under the table?”

“No, you’ll get your paycheck from the bookkeeper when she’s here. That’s a gift for you.”

My vision blurred as I fought back hot tears. “This must be a couple hundred dollars.”

“Is it? Time for you to get that tooth fixed up. I know it’s bugging you, but maybe after you get it yanked out or filled in or drilled out, maybe then you’ll be more inclined to smile.”

“Thank you, Uncle Bruce. I swear I’ll pay you back as soon as I can.”

“It’s a gift, not a loan. But I insist you get that tooth fixed. No more pointless suffering. You always put Bell’s needs ahead of yours, but you need to take care of yourself.”

I folded the money and tucked half in one front pocket and half in the other. I always split my money in half like that because I hated the idea of reaching for my money and finding an empty pocket.

“Thank you.”

He scraped around in his cold can of soup. “Fix the tooth.”

“Of course.” I backed out of the office, my head spinning.

Because it was Saturday, we had two other servers helping, not that we needed three people serving when the nice weather had most people doing yard work at home. Barely a dozen patrons were scattered around the bar, and half of them turned to stare at me. I traced the outline of the cash in my pockets to make sure it was still there.

A familiar dark-haired guy with tattoos walked in, blinking around as his eyes adjusted from the bright sunshine to our windowless space. He gave me a shy wave and lumbered over to his favorite table. He was tall enough he had to nudge the table away from the wall to make room for his elbow.

I headed straight for him, meaning to thank him for the night before.

He spoke first, saying, “Those are great suede boots. I can see why you were thinking about them on the walk home last night.”

The unexpected compliment broke over me like a wave, and I searched my mind for something nice to say in return.

“I like your arms,” I said.

He raised one thick, dark brown eyebrow and gave me an amused look with those bottom-of-the-sea green eyes.

“Not your arms,” I stammered. “Your tattoos. I meant to ask you the other day, but did you draw them yourself?”