The Captain's Dirty Little Secret

Chapter 142: Chapter 142 - Still Short

Roxie closed her eyes for half a second, then pulled her phone out.

Zac: Roxie?

Roxie typed fast.

Roxie: I’m going to work.

Zac replied before she even reached the curb.

Zac: How?

Roxie looked at Ethan.

He held the helmet out farther.

”Grill is slammed,” he said. ”You planning to crawl there?”

”I had it handled.”

”I know.”

That should have annoyed her more.

It still annoyed her. Just less than if he had made a speech.

Her phone buzzed again.

Zac: Are you walking?

Roxie locked the screen.

Ethan’s eyebrows lifted. ”Boyfriend?”

Roxie took the helmet from him. ”Classmate.”

”Damn. Classmates text like that now? Isn’t that a bit obsessive?”

”Shut up.”

He grinned, but he looked away first, which was smart of him.

Roxie pulled the helmet on and fastened it with clumsy fingers. Her hands still felt weak from stunts. The strap slipped once before she got it clipped.

She climbed on behind him, careful with her bag, careful with her knees, careful with how much of herself touched him. The motorcycle shifted under her weight.

Ethan glanced back. ”Hold on.”

”I am.”

”You’re holding my jacket like it gives STD. Hold on properly.”

”I swear, Davis.”

”I like living. That’s all.”

Roxie stared at the back of his helmet for a second, then wrapped one arm around his waist. It was awkward. It was necessary. It still made her think of Zac, which made everything worse.

She couldn’t help checking if someone was watching. No one was.

Ethan pulled away from the curb.

The school fell behind them with its bright windows, state posters, football banners, and people who got to go home after practice like practice was the hard part.

Roxie’s phone buzzed against her hip inside her bag.

She ignored it.

The ride to the Corner Grill was short, but the cold made it feel longer. Her legs ached every time the motorcycle turned. Her stomach cramped once, sharp enough that she tightened her arm without meaning to.

By the time they reached the Grill, the parking lot was almost full. Light spilled from the windows onto the pavement. Through the glass, Roxie could see booths packed with students, parents, jackets, scarves, milkshakes, fries, and laughter.

Someone had taped a small flyer near the front door.

GO RAVENS.

STATE SEMIFINAL FRIDAY.

Beside it was a Winter Formal flyer with silver snowflakes around the edges.

Roxie got off the motorcycle and handed Ethan the helmet.

”You’re welcome,” he said.

”I did not say thank you.”

He smiled. ”Clock in before Marla sees you.”

That worked.

Roxie shoved her phone deeper into her bag and hurried around the side entrance. The kitchen heat hit her as soon as she stepped inside, thick with oil, steam, and the sharp smell of onions on the grill.

”Jones,” Marla called from near the pass. ”You’re late.”

”Walking is hard.”

”Don’t lie, we sent Ethan for you.”

Roxie kept walking. ”Yeah yeah. I’ll add you to my prayers.”

Marla rolled her eyes. ”Make it fast. We’re buried.”

Roxie ducked into the back, changed into her work shirt, and tied her hair tighter until her scalp pulled. Her shirt was still damp under the arms. Her legs wanted to sit. Her stomach wanted food. Her whole body wanted to be left alone.

She clocked in.

Then she went straight to the dish pit.

The sink was already loaded.

Plates stacked high. Cups clouded with soda. Forks stuck together with cheese. Greasy pans waited at the side like a threat. A gray tub of silverware sat low and heavy on the floor, and the sprayer hissed when Roxie turned the water on.

Hot water hit her hands.

She flinched.

Then she got to work.

Scrape. Rinse. Stack. Load. Spray. Repeat.

The front of the restaurant buzzed through the wall. A server dropped another tub beside her.

”Sorry, Rox,” Lila said. ”Table seven was gross.”

”Table seven is always gross.”

”True.”

Lila ran off.

Roxie bent to lift the tub and felt her thighs shake. She froze for half a second, then forced her hands under the handles.

The tub lifted a few inches.

Then another hand grabbed the other side.

Ethan.

He lifted most of the weight without making it obvious.

Roxie glared at him. ”I had that.”

”I know.”

He set the tub on the counter and started scraping plates before sliding them toward her.

Roxie watched him.

He did not look proud of himself. He did not ask if she was okay. He did not tilt his head and use that soft voice people used when they wanted to turn concern into a performance.

He just scraped a plate, tossed the leftovers, and handed it over.

”That one has gum under it,” he said.

Roxie looked. ”People are disgusting.”

”Correct.”

She sprayed the plate hard enough to make water splash back on her shirt.

Ethan wiped his cheek with his sleeve. ”That felt personal.”

”It was.”

He grinned. He stayed for three tubs, then disappeared when Marla called him to the grill.

Roxie kept washing.

Her phone sat in her back pocket now because she had moved it before clocking in. Every few minutes, she felt the urge to check it. She lasted twenty before her hands were dry enough to pull it out.

Three messages from Zac.

Zac: Are you there?

Zac: Roxie.

Zac: Just answer me.

Her chest tightened.

She typed with her thumb.

Roxie: I’m at work.

His answer came fast.

Zac: You alive?

Roxie looked at her red hands.

Roxie: My hands are soup.

Zac: You ate?

Roxie stared at the message and sighed.

Roxie: Yes.

Zac: Lie again.

Her mouth almost moved.

A smile at the dish pit felt stupid, so she killed it before it got comfortable.

Roxie: You’re obsessed with food.

Zac: I’m obsessed with you lying about food.

Roxie: Sounds like a you problem.

Zac: Let me bring you something after practice.

Roxie’s fingers stopped.

The kitchen noise pressed around her. The fryer beeped. Marla called for two burgers. Someone laughed near the front. A tray hit the counter too hard.

Food.

He could bring it. He would bring it. He would probably sit in his car somewhere dark and hand it to her like it was simple. Like hunger could be solved with a bag from a drive through and that look in his eyes.

That was exactly why she could not let him.

She locked the phone, shoved it back into her pocket, and grabbed another pan.

The night moved in grease and noise.

The Grill stayed packed. Students came in after practice and after club meetings. Parents picked up takeout. A table of football players took over the middle section and talked so loudly Roxie could hear them through the kitchen wall.

”State semifinal is Friday, right?”

”Prescott’s going to destroy them.”

”My dad said if they win, the whole town’s going to Richmond.”

”Are you going to Winter Formal?”

”I still need a dress.”

”Finals review is killing me.”

”I’m wearing black Friday. Everyone is.”

Roxie shoved another plate under the sprayer.

Everyone outside the kitchen sounded like they had full lives waiting for them.

State. Formal. Spirit Week. Finals. Christmas break.

Roxie had hot water burning her knuckles and a stack of plates that kept growing no matter how fast she moved.

Roxie scrubbed harder at a pan.

Prescott always plays.

Like Zac was a machine someone could send back onto a field because the poster looked better with his name on it.

She rinsed the pan and set it aside.

Her phone stayed quiet for a while.

That should have helped.

It did not.

During a short break, Roxie slipped into the back hallway near the employee lockers and checked Claire’s thread.

Nothing.

No call.

No message.

Nothing.

Roxie told herself that was better.

It was better when Claire was gone.

It was better when the house stayed quiet.

It was better when Roxie did not have to hear her mother’s voice dragging through the rooms or flinch every time she opened the door, afraid Steve might come in.

”Stupid,” she whispered to herself.

She shoved the phone away before the silence could make her feel anything.

Ethan passed the hallway with a trash bag over one shoulder. He slowed when he saw her.

”You good?”

Roxie pushed off the wall. ”Working.”

”That is a yes?”

”That is an answer.”

He looked at her face for a second too long.

She lifted her brows.

He kept moving. ”Marla’s coming around.”

Roxie returned to the sink fast.

A few seconds later, Marla appeared near the dish pit, eyes sweeping over the stacks.

”You alive back here?”

Roxie grabbed a plate. ”Everyone keeps asking that tonight.”

”That means you look dead.”

”Helpful.”

Marla looked at the cleared counter, then the loaded machine. ”Keep moving. We close in an hour.”

An hour.

Roxie’s legs almost laughed at her.

Marla left.

Ethan came back two minutes later with fries in a small paper boat.

Roxie stared at it.

He set it on the shelf beside the clean towels. ”Wrong order.”

”Wrong orders go to servers.”

”Server already ate.”

”That is disgusting.”

”Then throw it away.”

He started to leave.

Roxie looked at the fries.

They were still hot.

Her stomach clenched so hard it hurt.

Ethan kept walking like he had already forgotten about them.

Roxie hated him for doing it right.

She grabbed one fry and shoved it into her mouth before she could think too much. Salt hit her tongue. Heat burned the roof of her mouth. Her stomach cramped again, then settled enough to make her realize how empty it had been.

She ate three more while the washer ran.

Then she heard Marla near the pass and pushed the fries behind the towel stack.

Ethan did not look at her when he came back.

Roxie went back to work.

The house came into her head while she scrubbed a baking sheet.

It did that sometimes, forced its way in when her hands were busy and her brain had no defense left.

The house was hers.

However, it came with electric bills, water bills, groceries, repairs, locks, and every problem Claire had ignored because ignoring things was Claire’s longest relationship.

She scrubbed harder until the sponge bent under her fingers.

Near closing, the kitchen finally slowed.

The front still had a few tables, mostly students dragging out fries and sodas because nobody wanted to go home yet. Their laughter came in waves. Someone played a video too loudly. Someone shouted about Friday’s blackout game.

Roxie reached for a wet pan on the side rack.

Her fingers slipped.

The pan dropped.

Ethan caught it before it hit the floor.

The sound still made her heart jump.

He looked at her hands.

”You’re shaking.”

Roxie pulled the pan from him. ”It’s called working.”

”It’s called being tired.”

She shoved the pan onto the rack. ”Stop looking at me like that.”

”Like what?”

”Like I’m something to fix.”

For once, Ethan had no immediate answer.

Roxie wished that made her feel better.

It did not.

She turned back to the sink. ”I have it.”

”I know,” he said.

His voice was lower this time.

Then he stepped away.

That made it worse.

People arguing with her were easier. People pushing were easier. People backing off because they actually heard her left too much room for guilt.

Roxie finished the last rack with stiff fingers.

After closing, the restaurant changed into a different kind of tired. Chairs scraped against floors. Marla counted the register. Lila wiped tables. Ethan took trash out back. The last group of students stayed near the entrance, still laughing with their coats half on.

”Winter Formal is going to be insane.”

”I heard the football team might get some special entrance if they win.”

”That is so extra.”

”It is Briarwick. Of course it is extra.”

Roxie stood near the employee lockers with her bag open.

She pulled out the small cash she had left.

Tips, the servers shared, from earlier.

A few bills from last shift.

Coins from the bottom pocket.

She counted once.

Then again.

Her fingers were still red from the sink.

She counted again, slower this time, as if the numbers might change magically.

They did not.

The shift helped.

It still left her short.

Roxie stared at the money in her hand while the front of the restaurant filled with laughter about State, Winter Formal, and Christmas break.

The bills in her palm looked small.

Too small for a house.

Too small for a life.

Even after the shift, she was still short.