The Guardian (9 page)

“You k
now I don’t dance,” I remind him.

“Everyone dances,” he replies, taking my hand in his and dragging me to the floor. He lifts his arm and twirls me around. My surprised laughter disappears in the music. The band is a crowd pleaser, following the Electric S
lide with the YMCA, and then shifting over to Jimmy Buffet.

We dance through any number of songs, only vaguely aware of the time passing. Hot, breathless, and drunk on happiness, I move with Carter, letting him lead. We dance and twirl, until, swirling me
away from him, Carter accidentally loses his grip on my right fingers. I slip away, spinning,
then
find myself colliding into another tuxedo. He puts his hand out to steady me.

I burst into a fit of nervous giggles, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “I
am so sorry. . . .”

I glance at the gentleman I’ve crashed into, and instantly recognize the familiar features gazing back at me. I freeze, a thousand memories racing through my mind. My heart thuds manically against my ribcage.

“Can I cut in?” Seth asks,
smiling hopefully beneath his lashes.

I step back, startled.
“W—what?”
I stammer. My eyes dart to and away, mystified by his sudden, random appearance. “What are you . . . ?”

His smile fades, eyes growing serious.
“Just one dance.
That’s all I’m asking.”

I don’t see Carter until he’s right next to me, wrapping his arm possessively around my waist. “I don’t think we’ve met before. Who are you?” he
asks,
voice flat. His shoulders square in defense.

Seth shoves his hands deep inside his pants pockets and gla
res at him, eyes blazing. “No one of consequence,” he replies casually. The room grows warmer, smaller. I swipe the sweat beading on my forehead with the back of my palm and force my lungs to fill.

Carter, scowling, moves to steer me away.

“You know,” I s
ay quickly, plastering as convincing a smile as possible across my face. “It’s okay. I mean, it’s just one song. And maybe it’s a good time for Selena. You can get her dance over with.”

He eyes me warily, throws Seth an irritated frown, but he doesn’t prot
est. I watch as he walks away, sulking, defeated.

When I turn back toward Seth, everything moves slower, couples closer. One look at him in his black
tuxedo,
and my heart flutters to life again. I swallow hard, forcing away the nervous edge in the pit of
my stomach.

He reaches for my waist and takes my hand in his, pulling me close. My skin tingles,
breath
catching in my throat.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Dancing.
What are you doing here?”

“I was invited,” I remind him. “
Which is more than I can sa
y for you, actually.
”

He laughs softly. “Open invitation. I go where you go, remember?”

I bite into my lower lip, struggling to control the mix of emotions coursing through me, this blinding, exhilarating confusion I feel with him so close. 

How could I forget?

“You look like you’re enjoying yourself tonight,” he says, smiling stiffly.

“I am, actually.”

“Does this mean you and Carter are back together?”

“I don’t see why that would concern you,” I reply, voice clipped.

“Everything you do conce
rns me.”

I open my mouth to speak, but the words remain trapped in the back of my throat, eyes caught in his hypnotic gaze.

“He wants you, you know,” Seth goes on. “He’s madly in love with you. He can barely contain himself.”

I steal a quick glance at Carter and Selena, dancing nearby.

“He’s not in love with me,” I declare, matter of fact.

“Why wouldn’t he? Every checkbook in this room is wondering about you tonight. I mean, look at you. You’re stunning. Your eyes are lit up. A
nd when you smile. . . .” He trails off. His body tenses, protective, guarded. Our eyes connect. There’s a tired sparkle in them—a sadness. I can see my reflection, what he sees when he looks at me. 

I swallow hard, shake my head, disbelieving.

“It’s tru
e.”

He stretches out his arm, allowing me to twirl, then pulls me back. I lean into him, head spinning,
thoughts
in tangles. My eyes travel to his lips, heart racing. They’re so close. I want to touch them, to feel them with my fingers, to brush them with
my own.

I shake the thought away, clearing my throat. “Where have you been?” I finally ask.

“Watching,” he replies.

“Hiding from me,” I clarify.

“No . . . just watching.
From a safe distance.”

My eyes narrow and it dawns on me: “I’m not in any kind of
danger am I? I mean, is a truck going to smash through a window? Is one of the chandeliers going to fall?
Crazy gunman?
Are you here to rescue me?”

“No,” he replies, eyes lighting as a hint of a smile plays at his lips. “You’re safe.
For now, anyway.”

“Oka
y. So why don’t you come around more often?”

He exhales, leans closer, jaw resting against my cheek.
“Because I’m not supposed to.”

His breath blows warm against my ear, tickling my spine with tingles. I close my eyes.
“Then why now?”

For a moment he’s st
ill, considering.
“Because.
This just might be a perfect, fairy-tale moment.”

I pull away from him, eyeing him carefully.
“Fairy-tale moment?”

“Sure.
Beautiful maiden.
Mysterious guy.
They dance, enchanted.
Happily.
Ever.
After.”

A burst of heat rushes th
rough my body. “I don’t think I deserve this kind of fairy-tale.”

“Everyone deserves a fairy-tale,” he whispers.

“Even angels?”

“Especially angels,” he replies.

I stare into Seth’s deep brown eyes, grip his hand tighter. Everything about him—his cheekbones
, his nose, his
jawline
, the way his hair falls over his forehead, almost touching his eyes. . . .

I swallow hard. The lights from the chandeliers grow brighter. The entire world seems to blur. “I think
I
. . .”
Need to sit down?
“I feel like . . .”
I can’
t breathe?

I take a shallow breath. “I might be falling in love with you.” I laugh weakly, feeling the heat of embarrassment as it rises to my cheeks. “Is that possible?” I ask.

Conflict rages in his eyes, lips pressed in a firm line, as if he’s fighting
, holding back. “Anything is possible,” he manages.

As the song draws to an end, I feel a frisson of excitement.
An inexplicable pull.
A natural urge to lean in and kiss him.
I want to taste him.
To touch him.
He moves closer and my eyelids drift, shutting
. He caresses my cheek before cupping my chin in his hand, fingers warm and smooth. He whispers softly against my ear: “I am
always
here for you.”

When I open my eyes . . . he’s gone.

I twirl around, searching for him
among the swarm of tuxedos, everything about me light and tingling, my heart racing,
the
room swirling.

“That was awkward,” Carter says, sidling next to me after having abandoned Selena.
“So.
Who was the guy?” he asks, searching for him with me. “I’ve neve
r seen him before.”

I tear my eyes away from the crowd, knowing he’s no longer part of it, and turn to face Carter. “I didn’t get his name,” I lie.

T
EN

We win the photographs. Carter’s bid, which was entirely too high, in my opinion, secures the
m for me.

On Sunday, Ernie’s is packed. I spend thirteen hours traveling to and from the kitchen to the dining room and back again, bouncing from table to table offering plates of blocked arteries and cups of legal addictive stimulants, trying to make up
for the previous night. My calves ache, and I can feel a blister from my night of dancing scraping against the inside of one of my canvas shoes.

It’s strange, actually. A little more than month ago I was spinning around on a barstool in the empty restaura
nt, watching Stu juggle those cheap, plastic salt and pepper shakers. With the season picking up, there’s more than enough work for everyone.

“Table three is done,” I tell the dish washer, a nephew of Ernie’s, as I lean through the kitchen window to grab
another order.

As usual, Stu is the only cook on duty. I watch for a moment as he flips burgers and scrambles eggs at the same time, and wonder (not for the first time) how he manages to keep the food separated and the orders straight when he can barely re
member to keep his shoes tied. In the next instant he reaches for a container and dumps a few piles of pancake batter onto the grill. They sizzle on contact, and smoke and steam mount to the ceiling, the swirling currents suspended in air until they disapp
ear.

I load my tray with plates for table twelve, a group of college students—two guys and two girls—who, by all accounts, have either started their Sunday night party early, or haven’t quite recovered from Saturday.

Swinging around, I find myself face to
face with Ernie, the manager and owner of this dining dump.

“You greet the customers, no?” he asks, lips hidden behind his monstrous black mustache.

“We’re packed, Ernie. I’m doing my best to keep them fed as it is,” I explain, trying to maneuver past hi
m.

He blocks me. “You must greet. I read in book where the people . . .”

“People who are greeted when they enter a restaurant are more likely to return to it,” I finish, rolling my eyes. “I know, Ernie, but we’re swamped. I’m greeting them when I take thei
r drink orders.”

“Any dining establishment can do this,” he points out, wagging his finger at me like I’m some sort of toddler incapable of following directions. “At Ernie’s we go the, how do you say?
Extra mile.”

“You just say ‘extra mile,’” I inform him,
annoyed.

Ernie looks exactly how I’d picture an Ernie: short, fat, bald. He acts the way I’d expect an Ernie to act: all jittery and neurotic. Instead of greeting people at the door, he should lay off the coffee and bacon.

“Order up!” Stu calls. We turn
and watch as two additional
plates
crash against the window ledge.
“Hey, Ernie!
When are you
gonna
hire me some help back here?” he asks.

“How many times have I fire you?”

“Right now you’re averaging two threats a week,” I remind him. “But you never go
through with it because there’s no replacement. It’s easier to keep him than train someone new.” I jerk my chin toward the kitchen.

Ernie turns back to me, scowling. “And why you not greet people?”

“Your patrons aren’t going to remember if they were greete
d when I serve them cold food.” I lift my tray, offering it as proof.

He sighs, waves his hand, signaling my dismissal. “Go. Serve the food. I tell
Flavia
to greet.”

On my way to twelve, a table full of middle-aged men flags me down. They are the Watchers
: the people who come to town to see what the weekend drags in, thinking they might get lucky. If you look closely, it’s not hard to spot the tan line on their left hand ring fingers. They typically refer to these excursions as “business trips” or “golf we
ekends,” and they always get away with it, because their wives are too busy changing diapers and chauffeuring kids to soccer practice to check their credit card statements.

They are the pathetic of the
pathetics
.

“Hey, sweetheart.
Can I get another drink?”

“I’ll send your waitress,” I call over my shoulder, weaving through the maze of tables and chairs.

“I’m sorry about the hold-up,” I say. “We’re swamped tonight, and missing some of our help.”
Mom could be here
, I muse.
Then we’d have plenty of money to ma
ke rent.
But Mom disappeared right after the dinner rush. Apparently she had
plans
.