My True Love Gave to Me: Twelve Holiday Stories
Page 74“You gave your tips to Candy.”
I dig my shoe under a strip of tarpaper. I don’t want to talk about her, so I say, “What would you be if you were a food? No, better! What food would you use your sixth sense to feed yourself?”
He puts a hand on the edge of his chair, holding it palm up, almost as an offering. It would be so easy to slip mine into his. I nearly do, but … it’d be an anchor. I can’t be anchored.
“I haven’t found it yet.” He flexes his long fingers, opening his hand even more. “I like it here. I’m renting a room for almost nothing, so I save what I earn. And small towns are cozy. Familiar. You can slip into other people’s routines, become a part of them. I’m staying here until I have enough money saved for culinary school.”
“I’m getting out of here as fast as I possibly can,” I blurt.
His fingers curl up. “Why?”
“Why not? There’s nothing for me.”
“But … it’s your home.”
“I live in my mom’s boyfriend’s duplex. Nothing here is mine. I hate it here. The minute I graduate I’m leaving.”
“Where?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care. I’m hopping on a bus and going until I can’t go any farther. Until I find a place that feels like home.”
He’s quiet for a long time. “How will you know what home feels like?”
It hangs in the air between us, as frozen as our breaths. I don’t have an answer.
Ben pokes his head out of the kitchen window. “How were the waffles?”
Candy barely glances at him. “Fine. Thanks.”
He looks lost as he stares at her untouched plate. The waffles were crisp on the outside, fluffy on the inside, with a Nutella filling and sliced strawberries on top. Unlike Candy’s, mine are gone.
“They were fantastic,” I offer, but he disappears, muttering to himself.
It’s three days until Christmas. The diner has never been busier. Locals come in whenever they can now. We’re also getting a holiday bump in freeway travelers, lured by the seasonal coincidence of our exit’s name. For once in my career, I don’t pity their optimism. The Christmas Café is—dare I say it—worth stopping for.
Ben whips out holiday-themed plate after plate. Every shift, he makes something new for Candy. And when she inevitably throws it up or rejects it in her zombie-like demeanor, he looks even more discouraged.
I grab Candy’s plate and turn toward the kitchen, looking up at my elf out of habit. Only he’s not holding a knife anymore. He’s holding a tiny glass vial with a skull-and-crossbones symbol on it.
I cackle so loudly that Candy jumps. She’s actually trembling.
“Sorry!” I say. She flees, straight to the bathroom.
I find Ben leaning over the counter, furiously crossing off items on a list. “Benedict! Are you the one who messed with my elf?”
He looks up, distracted, and then shakes his head as though clearing it. A smile crinkles his eyes as he pushes his hair away from his forehead. His goofy chef’s hat sits on the counter next to the paper and pen. “Not short for Benedict. But yes. I thought he ought to mix things up a bit.”
I laugh again, delighted. “Nobody even notices him except me.”
I nudge him with my shoulder. “You always know what to do.”
A deep line has formed between his eyebrows. “I thought so, but nothing’s working.”
“Everything’s working! People have never been so happy to eat here. It’s like they actually enjoy living in Christmas.”
He looks back down at his paper. “Not you.”
I hover, torn between leaning into him and backing away. I can’t commit to this place or anyone in it. I have to be able to leave.
“And not Candy.” He drops the pen. “I haven’t made a single thing she’s liked.”
“Well, she’s puking all the time. Kinda throws things off.”
“I should be able to help. What would she like?”
“I don’t know. She used to be my friend, but then she stopped. She stopped being anything.” Just like my mom. They stopped being the people I needed them to be. “Don’t worry about it. She won’t let you do anything. No one can help her.”
Ben’s brown eyes are so soft, but somehow pierce right through me. “Someone needs to.”
Santa ho-ho-hos the arrival of a customer. Scowling, I head for the door. Ben crumples up his list and throws it in the trash.
* * *
“Maria? That you?”
“Yeah,” I shout, answering my mom.
“How was work, mija?”
The rest of my shift was terrible. Ben was being all, I don’t know, normal—he made people exactly what they ordered. I tried to complain to him about Paul McCartney simply having a wonderful Christmastime, and he just shrugged. Two people stiffed me on tips. And, to top it all off, Candy’s creepy boyfriend showed up early, while she was puking in the bathroom. She still hasn’t told him the news, so I had to lie and say it was food poisoning. His stare was even colder than this wretched duplex.
My mom’s standing over the stove, stirring a pot of macaroni. It gives me a pang of loneliness for Ben. Which makes me angrier, because why should I miss a person who I only left five minutes ago?
“Maria, we need to talk.” She points at a stack of envelopes on the table.
“Were you in my room?” The envelopes are college applications, mailed to me or forced on me by my school counselor. I tried to throw them away—so many times—because they’re pointless. But it felt too depressing to get rid of them, and too depressing to stare at what I can’t have, so I shoved them under my bed. Right next to the duffel bag I keep my tips in. “Did you take my stuff?”
“I was vacuuming. Why aren’t any of them opened? Where have you applied?”
“Did you take my money?”
“I would never take your money. I want to—”
“You take my money every day! I work my butt off at that stupid restaurant and you don’t even let me get my own checks.”