Chapter Ten (pt. 2) [Eli]

It takes well over an hour from Brunson to Lake City, depending on the pace, but we make good time.

The cold works as special incentive to move faster. By the time we get to The Lodge, I know my face has gained a pink tinge around the cheeks and nose, because Dean looks the same. Even Owen's dark skin can't quite cover the color on tip of his nose.

A dense mass of hot air engulfs us the moment we push past the front door. The intense warmth prickles my face, and Dean's paler complexion blazes with fast-spreading red blotches down his cheeks and neck.

I can see my brother standing by the bar counter, in his black button-down and the manager's tag on the left side of his chest, next to a silver tie. Scarlett, the pretty bartender, stands behind the counter with a smile on her face to mirror Elliott's. His smile fades slightly when he sees me and he makes himself look a little more professional.

I shoot them both a wordless greeting on my way into the staff room to change. When I leave to go into the dining room, Owen and Dean are already there, sitting in front of the counter with a textbook out each.

I used to work most of my shifts with either Addison or Hannah. But the first quit and the latter seems to have been replaced by Liam Astor. At least, during the lunch shift.

I move behind the counter without acknowledging his presence and make my way to the coffee maker. I can feel his gaze on me as I prepare a cup of steaming coffee with two extra shots of espresso and a large mug of thick hot chocolate. I take out the little marshmallow box and drop three times as many as a usual hot chocolate order would take, then spray a more modest measure of whipped cream over the sugarless coffee.

Dean and Owen look up as I set the drinks on the counter.

"We didn't order this," Owen says.

"Elliott's treat," I tell him.

They share a broad grin before taking their drinks. Owen lets his coffee steam away next to his AP Lit book, while Dean blows into his mug.

A clatter of glass on glass draws my attention to the kitchen doors and I find Liam struggling to balance just four glasses in both hands. He shoots us a half-sheepish smile as he sets the glasses safely on the shelves behind the counter before going back in for more.

As soon as he's out of hearing range, Owen asks, "How useless is he?"

I wait a second before replying, "He's not so bad. He actually tries, sometimes." Despite not being a complete lie, that wasn't entirely true either. He did try sometimes, but he definitely was bad. Like, 'can barely carry four glasses ten feet' kind of bad.

"That's more than I expected from these Lake City spawns," Owen murmurs.

Dean lets out a small yelp as he burns his tongue on the hot chocolate, putting down his mug to look at us with a whitish foam mustache. Owen laughs and I reach for a napkin under the counter to give to him. Dean wipes his upper lip with a smile.

I put their orders on my brother's tab, then head back into the kitchen to help Liam.

Lunch time on a Sunday is busier than any other day and it drags on well into the afternoon, thanks to tourists and retired couples who don't have to worry about conventional meal times. By the time the dining room starts to fill up considerably, Owen and Dean have already gone home. To eat lunch, where it doesn't cost fifty dollars a head.

An older couple sits at one of my tables and I walk up to them to take their order. As I approach, I hear them go over the menu in a foreign language. Spanish, I think. But it could be Italian too. They all speak really fast. The woman looks up at me, spilling out a string of strange words.

"English?" I ask as politely as I can.

She shakes her head. "Español," she drawls, as though talking to a really slow five-year-old, or an especially dumb Beagle.

"Uhm, sorry. No hablo Spanish," I try.

The couple exchange a few words between them and, though I can't understand her, the woman sounds impatient. Annoyed, even. The man looks up at me and tries something again. He could be reciting the cure to cancer, though. I wouldn't know.

"Tienes un menú en español?" He repeats slowly, waving the leather-covered menu in front of my face, and emphatically repeating the word, "Español," as he points at it.

"Oh. No, sorry. We don't have any menus in Spanish," I say. Then repeat slowly, "No menus in Español."

The woman looks deeply irritated, as though she can't conceive the idea that such a touristic hot spot could have no Spanish menus. Or waiters that don't speak the language. And that makes me think she's probably Spanish. Because we get a lot of older couples and even families from Spain on vacation here, and they all seem to hate English with a special fire.

"Excuse me. Can I help?"

I'm surprised to see Liam standing at my side. The place is nearly full. He should be attending his own tables. Whatever exasperation I might initially feel for the fact that he's not focusing on his job disappears when I see him nod understandingly to what the Spanish gentleman says.

What Liam says next is slow and awkward, but it's also — to my amazement — in Spanish.

"Lo siento. No tenemos menús en español, pero puedo intentar explicar las opciones."

The look of pleased relief in the Spanish couple's face serves to calm the slow panic that was starting to build inside my chest. I stand uselessly by Liam's side as he continues, as slowly and difficultly as before, lips and tongue curling awkwardly around the words to make them sound weirdly dissonant.

"Uno de los platos especiales del chef es el estofado de carne, pero también contamos con hamburguesas, sándwiches y una variedad de sopas."

They ask a couple of follow-up questions and Liam replies in the same clunky-worded fashion, writing down an order at last. It's not until I see him walk away from the table that I realize how stupid I must've looked just standing there in silence.

"I'll take that table off your hands if you wait on the three women that just sat down at table three for me," he says as I follow him to the kitchen.

He stops by the double-swing doors, and I look between his placid face and the three middle-aged ladies that just walked in. They're all Lake City residents. Which means they're all probably Liam's acquaintances.

"Fine," I say.

He smiles. "Fine."

Then he disappears into the kitchen and I'm off to take the newly arrived guests' orders.

It's past five o'clock when we're finally done cleaning up. We don't really talk until then.

The Spanish couple was one of the last to leave. That's another thing I noticed about tourists from those parts of the world, they love taking their sweet time at lunch. However, I was surprised to see them smile happily as Liam bode them goodbye. It was a drastic change from the aggravated expressions they wore when I tried to take their orders.

"What?" Liam asks, making me realize I've been staring at him as he finished sweeping the floor.

"Nothing."

He smirks. "So you're not shocked that the spoiled rich brat that has never worked a day in his life has one skill you don't?"

I make a point to look unimpressed. "Those were your words, not mine."

"You agreed."

"I didn't contradict you, there's a difference."

He bits back on a kind of sneakily shrewd smile. "You're a lot more talkative when you're arguing."

I roll my eyes.

"It's technically only half a skill, if I'm being completely honest," Liam says, leaning on the broom he is holding like a cane. I raise my eyebrows at him. He smiles again. "My accent is terrible and my grammar's non-existent most of the time. My mom says if I ever speak Spanish around her in public she'll deny she's related to me."

I snort, turning my back to him to move to the register. I don't exactly have a purpose to it, I just feel a sudden need to look busy. When I chance a glance back at Liam, he is leaning his hip against one of the tables we just cleaned. His head tilts to the side curiously.

"You really didn't expect me to speak Spanish?" He asks in a tone close to awe.

I can't do much more with myself besides giving him a blank stare.

I can't say I had ever noticed Liam Astor much before this year. In my head, his face came marked with a general label reading 'boss's son' and that was it. Never thought we'd have anything in common, so I never bothered learning anything else about him. So... it's not that much of a stretch that I was unaware of his language skills.

Somehow, my lack of reaction seems to spike his interest even more.

"You know my mom's family is from Guatemala," he states plainly, though he could have made it into a question. "My grandmother doesn't really speak English beyond 'hello', 'shut up', 'eat', 'go to sleep' and 'where's the toilet'," he raises all the fingers in one hand, one by one, as he lists, before finishing evenly, "And she lives with us, so..."

"Never thought about that."

Once he points it out, it feels stupid. I never went out of my way to get to know Liam Astor, but I waited on his parents before. And on his grandmother once too, although I have been trying not to think too much about that time.

Liam gives me a terrifyingly convincing wounded look. "So you don't think about me?" He takes a hand to his chest. "That hurts."

I roll my eyes again, for lack of a better reaction, and turn around to go into the kitchen. Hopefully, it played out as pure annoyance at his unnecessary teasing. Hopefully, he doesn't see the heat rising to my face as I walk away.

***

Come on, don't be shy. Tell me what's on your mind :)

(don't be like Eli)

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