Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
The woman looked at the money, then at the shoes, and then back down at me. She was wearing a strange look, like she was a little sad about something. I didn’t understand why.
I was buying new shoes. That wasn’t sad.
“Um, this isn’t enough money, sweetheart,” she said, placing the bills down on the counter and sliding them closer to me.
I looked at the money and then back up at her. “What?”
“These shoes cost fifteen dollars. You only have eight.”
I frowned. “But I don’t have any more money,” I said.
She was frowning now too. “I’m sorry. You’ll just have to wait until you have enough.”
The phone behind her started ringing. She turned away to answer it. I looked at the money again and at the shoes I wanted.
No. Not wanted. Needed.
I needed those shoes. My feet hurt so bad from that run.
Again, I thought about what my teacher always said. Stealing was bad, but she was talking about people who took stuff when they had other choices, and I didn’t have other choices. My toes were bleeding now through my socks. I could feel it.
I wiped harshly at my face when I felt tears, and then, making sure no one was watching me, I did it.
I grabbed my money and the box of shoes, and I ran until I couldn’t anymore, because it hurt too bad.
Hiding behind a car, I pulled off my old shoes and put on my new ones. They fit so good. They didn’t hurt me at all. I thought I’d feel bad for taking them, but I didn’t. I needed these shoes.
The run home felt so much better.
Mom never noticed me, so I never got into trouble. But I would get into trouble eventually.
My teacher said stealing was wrong, but sometimes people needed to do things that were wrong, because they didn’t have another choice.
I was nothing to nobody.
I never had another choice.
Chapter One
SHAYLA
I wanted to tell her no. I wanted to lie to Gladys or Dorothy, whatever this sweet old lady’s name was seated in my section, and say we were fresh out of ranch dressing, and the little cup of it that came with her large garden salad was the last drop. If I didn’t and obliged her request, it would mean walking back over to the kitchen window I avoided like the plague and speaking to him—Sean “Stitch” Molina. The keeper of the dressings. The cook at Whitecaps Restaurant. He hoarded the ranch back there, and the only way to get more of it was with words.
And we didn’t do words anymore. Not as of eight months ago.
So, instead of doing my job as a waitress, I contemplated the dishonest route, which could very well get me fired.
Was I willing to roll those dice? Maybe. It might be worth a shot. My boss, Nate, could overlook my wrongdoing. He was understanding enough.
We’re fresh out of ranch, I could tell the lady. And all other dressings, for that matter. I am so sorry. Could I maybe get you another refill? Or something else not located in the kitchen?
I thought on this plan—it could work. Maybe she would believe me. Or maybe she would rethink her request and decide she no longer needed more dressing.
Help a fellow woman out here, Millie. Christ.
“I just need a little bit more,” the lady requested with a gentle smile. “Would you be a dear? I won’t trouble you for anything else, I promise.”
“Of course,” I replied, the response compulsively leaving my tongue. I couldn’t fight it. I couldn’t lie. I’d feel terrible.
Besides, this was my job. If someone requested more ranch dressing, I got them more ranch dressing, even if it meant speaking to the man I was completely and pathetically infatuated with, no matter how badly it hurt me to do so.
I gave the lady a smile in return before moving away.
My steps were slow as I weaved between tables and headed toward the kitchen. I tried to keep my head down, to focus on the tile floor disappearing beneath my feet, but I couldn’t.
I had to look.
Who was I kidding? I wanted to look.
As I approached, Tori was leaning close to the window that separated Sean’s domain from everyone else’s. She slid two plates of food off the ledge, commenting, “Looks good. Thanks, Stitch,” before walking off to deliver her orders, winking at me as she passed.
Sean only went by Stitch when he was here, I was assuming. I wouldn’t know for sure since I’d never spent any time with him outside of work. It was a nickname Tori and I had given him when he’d cut himself a bunch of times during his first week on the job, and he didn’t seem to mind being called that.
Back then, he didn’t seem to mind a lot of things, like listening to me talk and talk about anything and everything, putting my problems on him in between waiting tables, my stresses, my fears, needing a person to vent to and him being the only person I wanted to vent to because of the way he listened and looked at me.