Runners please!

My manager’s words are barely audible over the dozen servers in the kitchen running around like a flock of chickens with their heads cut off. I look out at the sea of black collared shirts separating me from the Diet Coke that table 19 needed like yesterday. A timer has been beeping since I walked into the kitchen and I just KNOW that bread is going to be burnt when the cooks finally get to it. My shoes stick to the floor in the same way my shirt clings to my skin - both of us yearning to be somewhere else. An “excuse me” comes from my dry mouth as I make my way towards the drink station - not in search of the water that my body is in desperate need of - but in search of the diet coke, because we’re on hour 8 of this 12 hour shift and table 19 needs a Diet Coke.

The sizzle of the soda fountain mocks me as a tray of food is shoved into my hands. I’m walking it out to a table whose number slips away as soon as I reach for it. It was 23 for sure.

Unless it was 13?

I burst through the kitchen doors and am smacked with a low hum of pleasant conversation and classical music. I take a deep breath as the coolness of the dining room replaces the heat of the suffocating, musty kitchen - and I am on. I am playing a role I am all too familiar with. I smile and perform to an audience of, less than patient, spectators. I am warm, friendly, and utterly confident in my ability to keep the wheels of this restaurant turning. I scurry past table 19, doing everything I possibly can not to make eye contact with the angry woman sitting at the table. Her diet coke will come as soon as this food is dropped off. Table 23 is in ear shot and I can confirm that it is certainly their food, thank goodness.

I am nearly there when the assembly of plates on my tray comes crashing down inches away from the child at table 23. My free hand does everything in its power to catch the mass of pasta and bread. To no avail, the plates came crashing down with a deafening bang and crack. The dining room goes silent as the reverberation of my catastrophe is felt in waves. The eyes of the patrons look over and watch the embarrassment spread from my face to the very tips of my ears. Noodles pile on my hands just as the tears pile in my eyes, begging to be let loose. I turn around and take in the sight of our newest server clutching the bowl she had grabbed from the tray. The bowl that was keeping the weight balanced.

She was just trying to help.

My eyes close and I plead with any higher power that this shift would come to a close. As my eyes unbolt and sift through the dining room, my eyes meet his. Liam.

My heart drops. His blue eyes drag me away from the mess around me. In an instant, I am there. In his bed, spending my summer months sleeping beside him. Allowing his fingertips to memorize the way my body moves and breathes. I am back. In his house. He’s kissing my forehead before heading to work and promising to come back soon. I feel his sheets, hear the old AC unit straining to keep the room cool, the way we strained to hold onto time we knew was limited. I’m right where he left me, driving away. Tears streaking down both our faces. The summer months slipping from our tight grasp. And he is now staring at me from across the restaurant during one of the most embarrassing shifts I’ve ever had.

Reality is like a gut punch and table 23 is snapping at my face, wanting to know what I plan to do about their food which is now all over the floor in front of them. Uncaring conversation makes its return to the tables around us, but I can feel the heat in my face intensify. I apologetically grab a busser to clean the mess I’ve made while I tell the kitchen to re-fire the food, because the only thing that matters right now is getting through this shift - keeping up the act. Not the fact that Liam is suddenly here.

My legs somehow bring me to the kitchen. The boulder on my chest makes breathing near impossible and the water blurring my vision threatens to make landfall. My hands find a counter as the room spins at an exhilarating speed. The timer shrieks, pans slam, and orders continue to call out. I am frozen. The chaos from earlier quiets, replaced by a growing static that doesn’t seem to belong to the room. All of the moving parts of the busy kitchen continue, but I am no longer moving with it. My world has been rocked.

There is a hand on my back. It is gentle, yet firm, as I am guided quickly away from the kitchen. We walk for a seemingly long time. We keep walking through the hallway until her fingers find the handle and then - cold. I am swallowed by the harsh iciness of the walk-in freezer and Izzy is holding both of my hands. The buzz in my head subsides and the pounding in my chest becomes a more manageable beat.

“I love you. But you have about 60 seconds to feel whatever this is before I drag your ass back out to the 10 tables you have waiting for service”.

She’s right. But I need just a second. Part of me thought that I would never see Liam again. That what we had was so isolated to that specific place and moment in time. That it was a summer fling I got too attached to. I had just started getting back to my life. My life without the possibility of him. Of us. Having him here, at my place of work, makes the two worlds that I had worked so hard to keep separate collide. I want to simultaneously bolt out of the restaurant and never let him go at the same time. “It’s Liam. He’s here. I don’t know why he’s here”

Izzy doesn’t say anything, but she understands. She wraps me in a tight, quick hug before falling into action. The tears finally fall down my pinkened cheeks as my breathing returns to its normal rhythm. Izzy hands me a cup of water, a cocktail napkin to work as a make-shift tissue, and gets to work on my hair. She pulls it out of its tight bun in an effort to hide more of my puffy face. By the time my 60 seconds is up, the only evidence of my panic is the red in my eyes. I take one last look at Izzy and the frozen chicken around us, preparing to confront my summer addiction. And goodness GRACIOUS - table 19 still needs a Diet Coke.

Shaky, but determined, I exit the freezer. I pass the bread and the yelling line cooks. I fully notice the scene this time. Because of the mayhem of the kitchen, I am able to return to work unnoticed. Izzy remains by my side until I have fully re-entered society. My sole task right now is filling this glass. All I have to do is run the Diet Coke,

take his order, and casually inquire if the entire summer we spent together was an illusion or a turning point in both our lives. EASY. 

I let my hand go numb on the cold glass, grounding myself in something I know is real. I allow myself to count the bubbles of carbonation that make their way to the top. The ice dances around the glass and I am dancing in his arms. The summer breeze brushes the hair into my eyes and his careful hands brush it away. He leans in to whisper something - anything.

“Run the diet coke now, Lisa”

Izzy pulls me out of my carbonated trance and I burst through the swinging kitchen doors. The smell of pasta and warm conversation wrap around me, and I am now playing the role I’ve played many times. I visit my tables with a friendly smile on my face, putting on a show more than anything else. Nothing completely blew up within the two minutes I was in the kitchen. Table 23 has their re-made entrees, customers are happier after getting their bread baskets refilled, and I remember that I am, in fact, good at this job. I close my eyes and give myself five seconds before heading over to Liam. One… two… three… four… four and a half……… five

I look throughout the dining room and there are no longer blue eyes meeting mine. Anywhere. Only clean tables with silverware neatly placed at the center. I look around, wildly, hoping to catch a glimpse of his blonde hair somewhere, anywhere in this godforsaken restaurant. I am only met with confused looks from the hostess and bussers.

“Who are you looking for?”

Their voices are drowned out by the phantom pain making its way through my chest. Nothing else exists and I am sprinting out the front doors towards the parking lot. His familiar red truck - nowhere to be found. He’s gone.

Was he ever really there?

Almost mimicking the way my heart felt, thunder rings off in the distance, threatening a storm. I am paralyzed as the wind whips my freshly fixed hair around. I collapse onto the curb as the sting of summer months past envelopes me. I could have sworn I saw him sitting at that table. My hand finds my forgotten phone buried in the depths of my apron. I hover over the call button, wanting to know where he had gone or if he was here. I was so ready to confront him just a few seconds ago, yet now I cannot hit the button. I didn’t want to know. I couldn’t decide which would hurt more, Liam leaving or not being here at all.

My non-slip shoes carry me, in my trance, back inside the restaurant. I throw my wet hair back up into the bun and make my way towards the tables. After all, my shift is still going. The only thing left on Table 19 is an untouched Diet Coke, still fizzing, and a note saying they will not be back. Just like him.