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He’s tall, a ridiculous chef’s hat making him even taller. Lean, with shoulders slanting inward so he seems to take up less space than he really does. Thick, dark eyebrows. There’s a single line between them that should make him look like a worrier, but there’s something inherently pleasant about his face. Maybe it’s the way his nose has the slightest off-center curve, like it was broken into a sideways smile.
Oh, and he’s not old. Maybe twenty, tops.
Oh, and he’s not unattractive.
“Hi!” He looks up from something boiling on the range. And there—when he smiles, his whole face lights up. It’s like his other expressions are placeholders.
I realize I’m beaming back. I tame my own mouth so I don’t look like a total idiot. “Hey. So. You’re the new cook?” Oof, yes, ask the guy cooking if he’s the new cook.
“Yeah! Isn’t this place amazing?”
“There … was no sarcasm in that statement. I’m confused.”
He laughs. “I couldn’t believe my luck when they hired me.”
Maybe I don’t know him well enough to understand when he’s joking. Surely he’s not sincere. He removes the pot from the stove, wipes his hands dry, and then holds one out to me. “I’m Ben.”
“Maria.”
His hand is big, but not in a meaty sort of way. I let go before he does, self-conscious. I don’t know what I look like right now. I didn’t bother checking myself in a mirror before coming over, because again: this is not what I expected to find.
There must be something wrong with him. Like, seriously wrong. It’s the only explanation for why he would consider himself lucky for getting this job.
The front door jingles as Santa insults another customer. Ben returns to whatever he’s making—for no one, apparently—and I walk out and scan the restaurant. It’s still empty except for the family, who seem to be having a great time. After checking to make sure their drinks are filled, I go back to Ben. I lean as casually as I can manage against the counter, but the kitchen is weird now. No comforting sameness. Ben has transformed it into an unknown quantity.
“So, who ordered the macaroni?” I ask.
“Table two needed it.”
“Right. But she didn’t order it.”
He shrugs, as though he, too, is unaware of how this all worked out. But there’s a sly pull at one corner of his lips. “They like it, though.” It’s not a question.
“They’re thrilled. Have you looked at the menu? We don’t offer baked macaroni. Probably because Dottie couldn’t think of a way to make it Christmassy.” Her signature dish is the Rudolph’s Delight Salad—iceberg lettuce, ranch dressing, and one token cherry tomato.
He shrugs again, and this time both corners of his lips follow the upward movement. “First day. I’ll figure things out.”
“Maybe it’s better if you don’t. That looked way yummier than anything we make.” Since it looks like Candy isn’t here, I reluctantly grab my uniform from its peg. It’s a red polyester dress that never sits right, with a red-and-white-striped apron. We also have to wear sequined reindeer-antler headbands.
Year. Round.
The door to the women’s bathroom always sticks, so I shove it open with my shoulder. It nearly slams into Candy, who’s leaning over the sink.
“Oh, sorry! I thought the bathroom was empty.” I turn to go, when I realize her shoulders are shaking. “Candy? You okay?”
Her reflection is drained of color by the fluorescent lights. She has dark circles under her eyes, but that’s nothing new. At least they aren’t bruises this week. Two years ago, when she first moved in with her boyfriend, Jerry, she was bubbly and bright. We used to hang out sometimes after work, if Jerry was still on a shift at the mine. She wanted to be a hair stylist, someday open up her own salon. She even had plans to go to business school so she could run it. But little by little, she stopped talking about school. Jerry didn’t like it. Then she stopped talking about doing hair. Then she pretty much stopped talking at all. I see her every single day, but I miss her.
She holds up a white stick, expression blank. “I’m pregnant.”
I close the door behind me. “Congratulations?”
“I had to sneak out from my shift to buy the test. I’m sorry. I couldn’t go any other time, because then he’d know.”
Jerry always picks her up. I see him sometimes, on the front sidewalk, counting her tips. And on payday he holds out his hand for her check without even asking.
She leans over the sink. Her spine curves, her head droops. “How am I ever go
* * *
I make Candy stay in the bathroom. It’s not like it’s busy. When the family leaves, I trudge toward their table, dreading the mess. Instead, I find everything neatly stacked, no spilled drinks, no overturned plates. And—gloriously, impossibly—a twenty-dollar tip.
I squeal so loudly that Ben sticks his head out of the window. “Everything okay?”
“Better than okay! Best tip I’ve ever gotten! Thank you, Benjamin!”
“You’re welcome. But Ben isn’t short for Benjamin.”
The door jingles, a
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
My mom glances around. She works in the back and rarely visits the actual dining area. She never can get over the diner’s shock-and-awe decorating tactics. A penguin nativity, complete with little baby penguin Jesus, snags her attention. “Our shift was halted. Machine failure. We thought you’d be home. We wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Candy’s … sick. So I’m covering.”
Rick’s hands are jammed in the pockets of his Wranglers. “Your homework done?”
“Yes.” My voice is flat.
He nods. It’s the same motion he makes every evening when he asks me the same question and gets the same answer. Usually it happens at home, though, when we all get in from our various shifts. Then I pass him the remote so he can watch old episodes of Bonanza. A few years ago, I went through a bout of insomnia, and without fail he’d be out on the couch. We’d sit there, silent hours passing, the boring black-and-white cowboy adventures filling in the space between us.
Okay, fine, there were a few good episodes. But still.
The order bell dings, and I frown. Ben has placed three to-go containers on the shelf. “No one ordered anything!” I shout. My mom looks disapproving, so I stomp over to the window. “Ben! No one is here. No one called in an order.”
He leans his head over. “Oh, right! Well, it’s embarrassing, but I messed up. Instead of throwing it out, I thought you could give it to your parents.” He says it’s embarrassing, but his expression is wrinkled with delight.
“Rick is not my dad.”
“Cool. Well. Ask if they want it.”
I glare. It’s harder than it should be, like his sweet, smiley face is contagious. “Quit making food before people order anything.”
“Right.” He grins even bigger and then straightens so I can’t see his face anymore.
I shove the containers at my mom and Rick. “I guess he messed up an order. Want some free food?”
Rick doesn’t even ask what it is. Free is the only part that matters. He turns toward the door. “Are we going, Paloma?”
My mom frowns. “Tell Ben to note what he’s using. We have an ordering system that doesn’t allow for waste.”
When they’re gone, I check the women’s bathroom and find Candy curled up asleep in the corner, an apron under her head. I hang an “Out of Order” sign and take the rest of her shift. As a small act of rebellion, I don’t change into my uniform. It has nothing to do with Ben.
Well. Maybe a little.
It’s busier than normal, a handful of locals sauntering in to check out the new chef. Ben doesn’t talk much—he smiles and waves out the window, too busy to come out. I stick my head through to find him pulling cookies out of the oven. The telltale scent of gingerbread hangs in the air like the promise of holiday cheer. He even has flour on his crooked smile of a nose. It’s adorable.