Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
I watch her lift a portion of her scrambled egg whites with her fork, clearly distraught about the fact that they’ve been cooked in bacon grease.
“Sorry ’bout that,” I say, leaning in and dropping my voice. “I did try to tell Cook you wanted your eggs cooked ‘healthy’, but between you and me, I’m not sure he’s ever heard that word before.”
I tack on a teasing smile that she doesn’t return, and then I glance at her companion.
He’s wearing pretentious glasses and a flat expression. Seems he’s not too pleased with his breakfast either. I eye his eggs and bacon and hash browns. It all looks pretty good to me. I mean, I wouldn’t eat it, but that’s only because I’m surrounded by breakfast food every day for hours on end. A girl can only smell bacon so many days in a row without losing her appetite for the stuff.
“Well, holler if you need anything,” I say, spinning on my heels, distraught over the fact that I likely just lost myself another tip for the morning.
It’s nearly eleven o’clock and I’ve been at Dale’s since half past five. Thinking about the meager cash I’ve earned makes my stomach twist with anxiety. I would stay and help Christine with the lunch rush—maybe nab a couple more dollars—but then I’d be late for my housekeeping job.
I replace the coffee pot and try for the last time to politely suggest that the old-timers at the counter pay their bills and be on their way, but no one bites.
I’m untying my short apron when Christine pushes through the kitchen door and hustles over.
“Birdie, if I were you, I’d clear out quick,” she says, her voice low. “I saw Patrick out back smoking. He’ll probably storm in here any second pissy about somethin’ or other.”
A shiver of fear runs down my spine and I waste no time in gathering my things. Christine and I are a well-oiled machine. She knows I’d never leave her in the weeds straight off. All my tables are well taken care of, so she can get to work right away rolling silverware and making more iced tea for the lunch rush. She’s the one who will end up getting most of my tips when these people finally mosey on out of here, but I don’t mind all that much. She’s got four little mouths depending on her; she needs the money as much as I do.
“See you tomorrow?” she asks with a tired smile.
“Tomorrow.” I nod.
Just then, Cook dings the bell for another order up, pushing a Styrofoam to-go box my way.
I smile and hold it up in thanks, appreciative that he takes the time to feed me before I leave my shifts. Today, it’s likely some of that chicken salad I saw him prepping a little while ago. My hungry stomach gives a grumble as I scurry out the front door, avoiding the employee parking lot in an effort to bypass Patrick. I’m not supposed to, but I always park on the side of the diner rather than out back. I’m smart enough not to put myself alone out there and tempt fate. Patrick’s fairly harmless most of the time, but there’s no need to dangle myself in front of him for no reason.
As I head to my nan’s old maroon sedan, I finish untying my apron and yank it off from around my hips. Before I get to my next job, I’ll pull off the road and swap out my 1950s-style diner dress for a nondescript black t-shirt and workout shorts. I wish I had time to shower—I smell like I just crawled out of a vat of grease—but there’s no time. I’m cutting it close as it is, especially once I crank my key in the ignition and the gas light flickers on above the steering wheel. Why?! Why does this always seem to happen at the worst possible moment?! Didn’t I just get gas like…okay, sure, now that I think about it, it’s been a while, and yes, last time I only filled it up halfway because I didn’t have enough cash on me for a full tank.
Annoyingness aside, I’m lucky the town’s one gas station is just across the street from Dale’s. I cut across the two-lane highway then swoop around to park by the first available pump. Once I’ve paid my ten dollars inside and get the gas going, I realize Dr. Tully is on the other side of my pump with a trailer hitched to the back of his truck. Inside of it, there’s a huge gray horse looking back at me with soulful brown eyes. I nod in greeting to Dr. Tully then glance back at the horse.
“I’m taking her to the clinic,” he explains.
“She’ll be okay?”
“Hope so.”
I nod, feeling sorry for the poor thing.