My True Love Gave to Me: Twelve Holiday Stories(85)

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.

“You are a terrible cook,” I say.

He looks up, gentle features set in alarm. “Have there been complaints?”

“You haven’t followed any of the standard recipes. I’ve worked here long enough—I can tell.” The mashed potatoes are creamier. The fries are crispier. And his rolls are golden, buttery-topped miracles instead of the straight-from-the-bag variety we normally serve.

For a moment, he looks distressed. And then the agitation melts away as his eyebrows lift, disappearing beneath his mop of brown hair. He is the definition of merry. “But has anyone complained?”

I blow my bangs away from my eyes. “No. They’re just being nice because you’re new.”

That’s not true. The regulars like their familiar terrible food, and if anything is ever different, I get yelled at. They’re not nice.

Except … tonight, they are. Steve and Bernie, who always get a steak after their shifts and don’t say a word to anyone, are laughing and swapping stories at the counter. Lorna, who after my entire life of never ever stealing anything still follows me suspiciously around her gas station, complimented me on her way out. And I swear, Angel, the mine’s two-hundred-fifty-pound truck driver, he of the aura of constant menace, he of the incredibly inaccurate name—Angel actually smiled at me.

I think. It might have been indigestion.

But then he tipped me. Ten whole percent, which is a one hundred percent increase over his previous tips.

Ben hums as he dusts the cookies with powdered sugar. “I had to make them circles. What kind of Christmas-themed diner doesn’t have cookie cutters?”

“The kind that doesn’t offer gingerbread on the menu.”

“Right, which, again: how does that make any sense?”

“None of this makes any—oh, no, what time is it?” I dart to the bathroom and shake Candy awake. “Ten minutes until your shift is over.”

She sits with a start, the blood draining from her face.

“It’s okay. You have time. Get cleaned up.”

I clear the tables, and Candy emerges right as Jerry walks in. His eyes, gray and dull as sharkskin, take in the abnormally busy diner. I can see him calculating.

Candy lifts a trembling hand. “Hi, I—there’s a reason—”

“You dropped your pad.” I stand in front of her. “Here.” I dig out my tips from my jeans and shove them into her apron pocket. She can’t even look at me, but she squeezes my arm as she passes. And then I watch, Frank Sinatra crooning at me to have myself a merry little Christmas, as my tips go directly from her pocket into Jerry’s hand.

Merry effing Christmas yourself, Frank.

*

I make it through the next hour until closing time. Everyone wants to linger, huddling around the old television playing a repeating loop of a log-burning fireplace. They’re laughing, talking, acting like friends. Like people who are happy to be in Christmas.

“Feliz Navidad” stabs into my ears from the speakers, and I can’t handle it anymore. I took a shift that wasn’t mine, and I didn’t even get my stupid tips. Ben emerges just as I’m about to scream for everyone to leave.

He’s carrying a tray of gingerbread cookies. There’s a near-visible trail of scent, which reaches out and tugs the customers after him. He holds the door open and gives each person a soft, warm cookie, and an even softer, warmer smile as they leave. And then they’re gone. I flip the sign from “Merry and Bright” to “Closed for the Night” and deadbolt the door.

I turn, fists on hips, and direct my anger at the only person left.

“I’m not sharing my tips with you.”

Ben holds out a cookie. “Okay.”

“Usually we share tips with the cook. But I’m not sharing mine with you tonight.”

“That’s fine.” He pushes the cookie at me, but I swat it away.

“That’s all you’re gonna say? That’s fine?”

He looks down at the cookie like I’ve hurt its feelings. “Yeah, I mean, they’re your tips. You can decide what to do with them.”

“Of course I can. But we’re supposed to cut you in.”

“If you don’t think that’s fair, I understand.”

I throw my hands in the air. “You’re supposed to get mad at me. Then I can yell at you and feel better about everything.”

He laughs. “How would that make you feel better?”

“Because I want to yell at someone!” I slump into a booth and pick at a chipped spot in the Formica table. Ben slides in across from me, setting the cookies between us. Whether as an offering or a barrier, I can’t say.