Page 8 of DadBod

Because of that, I choose to nod rather than speak.

“I need your words, Elizabeth. Do you understand?”

“Ye––” My voice cracks. I try again. “Yes.”

“Good.” He turns his back to me, which gives me a chance to make a run for it. I speed walk to the front door. I can beat them.

And by them, I mean the tears.

Angry tears, but also tired ones and sad ones. Angry and tired for obvious reasons, but the sad ones are because, deep down, secretly, I thought Rome liked me enough that he wouldn’t really ever fire me. I’m not sure why I believed that honestly. Maybe because I seem to get away with more than other people, but that’s neither here nor there. Besides, that theory was just proven wrong. Completely and utterly wrong. He will fire me. He won’t hesitate.

At least I didn’t believe the nonsense from Jeriann and the woman at table fourteen tonight.

I’m not stupid enough to think Rome has a thing for me. That notion is ridiculous. My heart couldn’t take that on, anyway. Rome, I mean. My heart is the dumbest organ in my body. It’s the one that gets my hopes up about all kinds of shit. When those hopes get crushed like grapes at a winery, it hurts.

Ugh, I hate my heart.

No. Rome James would never have a thing for me. And the same is true for me. I’d never have a thing for him. It doesn’t mean I couldn’t have been his favorite employee, though.

“Wrong again, Beth.” Wrong again.

* * *

My trek hometo my Berwyn neighborhood took forever. The El, or the elevated train, was packed with people. Not surprising. It was a beautiful spring night and the warmest in a while, and a Saturday in Chicago on top of that. I missed my second transfer, which forced me to wait for another train. According to my Felix the Cat clock on the wall of my tiny kitchen, I finally made it to my apartment by 2:30.

By that time, I was too tired to think about Rome James and his jerky face. I was too tired to think about my brothers or my dad or about the fact that I was starving since I didn’t get the chance to eat my one free meal we’re allowed at When in Rome when we work. Hell, I’m still too tired to eat. Instead, I drop my purse, kick off my Chucks, strip out of my black uniform pants, and leave them where they lay on the floor as I stumble my tired butt over to my bed slash sofa, falling face-first onto my pillow. My stomach growls, but I couldn’t care less. Sleep is all I want or need right now.

Nothing else.