Little Secrets(36)
“I meant to tell you,” her mother had whispered as they were seated in a different section for the first time in probably ten years.
“Yeah, well, you didn’t,” Marin said. “And now I feel like shit, and so does the hostess.”
Her mother pursed her lips. “Language, Marin.”
This waitress’s faded green uniform hangs loosely on her wiry frame, and her nametag reads BETS in slanted letters. Marin wonders if it’s supposed to read BETSY, but somehow the Y got rubbed off. She blinks, realizing she hasn’t yet answered the waitress’s question.
“More of both would be great, thank you.”
Bets/Betsy fills her mug and glass without spilling a drop. Her knuckles resemble ginger roots.
“Something to eat?” the waitress asks. “Or still waiting for someone?”
The door to the diner opens, and a group of noisy college kids sweeps in along with a gust of cold wind. There’s nowhere for them to sit; every table is occupied. The last thing Marin wants is food, but it doesn’t feel right to occupy a booth big enough for four when all she’s having is coffee.
She looks over the waitress’s head at the menu scrawled onto the large chalkboard that takes up half the wall above the open kitchen. “I’ll do the Monster special. But with scrambled egg whites, please, and no pancakes, toast, or hash browns. Do you have turkey bacon?”
Bets/Betsy raises a painted eyebrow. “Hon, that’s not really the Monster special. It costs extra for the egg whites, and you’ll be paying for a bunch of food you won’t eat. And we don’t serve turkey bacon.” She frowns as she says turkey bacon, as if the very idea is blasphemous. Which it probably is, because only an asshole comes to a twenty-four-hour diner known for its all-day breakfast and tries to make it healthy.
Marin smiles at her. “You know what, I’ll do eggs over easy. Sourdough toast. Hash browns. And the regular bacon, which, if I remember, is delicious.”
The waitress returns the smile. “Want to add a pancake for a dollar?”
She won’t finish any of it, but what the hell. “Sure, why not.”
Bets/Betsy writes none of this down. Marin wonders how she ended up here, working the midnight shift at a greasy spoon at her age. Mo used to say she enjoyed it, that the customers at the Golden Basket were like friends, the coworkers like family. But the midnight shift at the Frankenstein is an entirely different situation.
It’s exactly midnight now, and Sal’s “guy” still isn’t here. She has no way of texting or calling to verify that Julian is still planning to come at all. Sal assured her that they would get along fine. And that’s really all she knows. But what if Julian doesn’t show?
Her phone pings. It’s a text from Sal. You alive?
He’s not here yet, she texts back with nervous fingers. I’m freaking out. I don’t know if I can do this.
Sal’s reply is equally fast. You’re fine. Stay put. It’s just talking.
With nothing to do but wait, she clicks on her Instagram app. She doesn’t prioritize social media; Sadie and the managers at the salons handle the posts on Instagram and Facebook. But Marin’s been addicted to it today, and she’s learning that the younger generation seems completely comfortable uploading their entire lives onto these virtual platforms. And if you look closely enough, you can learn almost everything about anybody.
Derek’s mistress, for instance, posts something on Instagram every day. Every. Goddamned. Day.
There’s one new photo since she last checked, and it’s of … feet? Long feet attached to skinny ankles, encased in pink-and-white polka-dot socks, crossed casually on the dashboard of a car. It was taken at a strategic angle to show off the steering wheel, where the unmistakable Maserati crown logo is right in the center. There’s a hand on the steering wheel, clearly masculine, and the caption reads, Hot rod, hot guy, with a sunglasses emoji face.
There are over a hundred comments on the picture, but the first one is the only one McKenzie responded to.
sugarbaby1789: bitch who dis????
kenzieliart: got boo’d up, gurl! [kissy face emoji]
Again, Marin has to consult Urban Dictionary for the official definition. Boo’d up means with a boyfriend/girlfriend; in a serious relationship.
Humiliations galore.
A man slides into the ripped vinyl seat across from her. Startled, Marin almost drops her phone. Again, she was so consumed with her thoughts that she didn’t notice his approach. She didn’t see him walking up to the booth, and she didn’t feel the gust of the wind on her face from the front door opening. The same rowdy college kids are still crowding the front entrance.
He must have come in a different way, through the back door, or maybe through the kitchen.
Her heart is pounding, and her palms are sweaty, and reflexively she sticks out her hand, but he makes no move to shake it. Instead, he signals the waitress, who comes over with a clean mug and the coffee pot.
“The usual, Bets,” he says, and she nods.
So her name really is Bets, and it’s clear they know each other. If he uses a back entrance, he probably comes here a lot. Marin tucks her hands into her lap, so he won’t see them shaking.
Is she really doing this?
She’s having trouble making eye contact with him, but he doesn’t appear to be feeling any awkwardness whatsoever. He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out a packet of Wet Wipes, and extracts one from the plastic packaging. She watches as he wipes his hands meticulously, getting every finger, and when he finishes, he balls up the used wipe and wraps it in a napkin. He leaves the napkin on the corner of the table.