Chapter 2

"The doctor said I'm fine." She set down her menu. "I'm so sorry I made you late. We figured we'd eat here so you could make a little extra in tips."

I said nothing, set out their silverware, and took their order.

For the next two hours, I carried burgers, steaks, and drinks to tables and cleared away dirty dishes. By the time I came back to their table, my hands were shaking under the plates.

Evan steadied my wrist, took the stack of dirty plates, and set them on the nearby bussing station. "Leave them. Take a break."

I stared at his hands, briefly lost in a memory.

Back when we lived in that tiny Chicago apartment, he'd go several blocks out of his way after work to get my favorite chicken soup from a deli. He'd practiced making the roast chicken and mashed potatoes I loved, not even complaining when he burned his arm taking a pan out of the oven.

Whenever he served it, he'd sit across from me and wait for me to take the first bite.

I could barely remember the taste of any of the expensive dinners that came after.

"Lia, this coffee's cold. Could you bring me a hot one?"

Brooke's voice brought my attention back to her.

I brought over the freshly refilled cup, and she immediately reached for it.

"Careful. It's hot."

I'd just reached for an empty plate when she suddenly let go of the cup. Hot coffee spilled over the back of my hand, with a few drops splashing onto her wrist. The cup rolled off the table and shattered.

I sucked in a breath at the pain, but she was already jumping up and screaming.

"Ow! That's hot!"

Evan immediately put down his phone, stepped past me, and pulled up Brooke's sleeve.

"It's red. Let me see. Does it hurt?"

Brooke leaned into his arms, her voice shaking. "Lia, are you still mad that I made you late? I already apologized..."

Evan looked at me. "Apologize to her."

I cradled my injured hand. "She let go of the cup. What am I apologizing for?"

"Do you want me to get your manager? Let's see if they'll let you treat customers like this."

My hand burned. I bit my lip and finally forced out, "I'm sorry."

Evan looked down at Brooke. "I'll take you back to the ER. Have someone look at it."

As he passed me, he finally noticed my red, swollen hand and stopped to catch my wrist.

"You should come too."

I pulled free. "No."

He stood there for a moment, then left with Brooke anyway.

I watched them through the floor-to-ceiling windows until my vision blurred. Wiping my face, I turned to take the next table's order.

My manager fired me that night over the customer complaint.

When I got my final paycheck, I repaid part of what I owed a friend. That left eighty dollars in my account.

I still had no way to pay for Mom's care the following month. I stood in the convenience store for a long time before picking up a single can of condensed soup on sale.

Back home, I saw Brooke's new post.

"Best day of the week. Thanks for dinner and the gifts, Evan."

The photos were full of designer clothes, handbags, and shopping bags. Evan's wrist was visible at the edge of one shot.

Behind them was the restaurant overlooking Chicago's skyline. I'd checked the prices. The meal and wine in those pictures cost as much as six months of my salary.

The lock clicked, and Evan came in. He put a tube of burn cream on the table. "Got this for you. Remember to use it."

He frowned at my bowl. "This again?"

"I'm broke."

He immediately grew irritated. "Here we go. Can you stop bringing up money?"

I looked up, and he went on. "Lia, what are you really after?"

I put down my spoon. "Worried I'll spend your money? Break up with me. Then you can stop worrying."

He stared at me for a few seconds, then went into the bedroom and slammed the door.

Over the next few days, I spent my newly free evenings preparing for my promotion interview. I revised my project presentation, checked my performance figures, and practiced answering questions over and over. I even scraped together enough of what I had left to buy an outfit that fit me at a discount store.

On the day of the interview, I walked into the conference room in my new clothes and presented my projects from the past two years and my plans for the future to several department heads.

They kept nodding. Afterward, my coworkers said I was sure to get promoted.

But when the list came out, even the coworker with the worst performance had been promoted. I hadn't.

After I kept asking, my manager finally told me:

"The panel gave you the highest score, but the promotion wasn't approved. I asked. Evan vetoed it himself."