Chapter Four [Eli]

"I know I'm late."

Elliott just stares at me blankly. I rush past him around the counter and through the staff room door. Inside, I drop my backpack on the floor beneath the peg rail, where I leave my parka. The door opens as I walk over to the employees' lockers on the opposite wall.

Elliott clears his throat. "You're lucky your brother's your boss."

I look over my shoulder to see him crossed-armed, shoulder leaning against the door frame, watching as I open my locker to take out my uniform. I take off my sweater and reach for the black button-up.

"Hockey practice ran late."

I fumble with the buttons, with the hurry to get dressed quickly, and Elliott stays put and quiet until I have my silver bow-tie around the collar. I take my phone from my jeans' pocket and leave it inside the closed locker, along with my beanie. My brother follows me back out of the staff room to the bar.

"Hannah's been alone in the dining room since your shift started. I need you to go help her."

I nod wordlessly.

It's not common for Coach Hansen to schedule two practices a day, and it definitely doesn't usually happen twice in the same week. And when we do have a morning practice before classes and another after school, Coach doesn't usually hold us past the scheduled time.

But I guess Owen got in his head.

Owen's been obsessed with this year's season. He seems to have convinced himself that this is the one that counts. And that the performance of the whole team will determine his success as a captain and, therefore, his value as a prospect student.

Basically, he's stressed. All the effort, time and dedication he's put into classes, hockey, work and getting into college, for the past three years, culminates into senior year. Of course he's stressed. And Owen only knows one way to deal with stress. Well, two. Hockey and stressing others.

So, he convinced Coach Hansen we need to start out strong this season. Go for the two-a-days and the long practices now. Make sure those new 'green players' get into the swing of things from the start. Which is fine. Unless it makes me late for work.

"Addison quit yesterday, so we have a lot of shifts to cover with extra hours until I find a replacement," Elliott tells me as I tie a black apron with The Lodge's tiny logo around my waist.

"I'll check my schedule," I say.

"Might wanna talk to Owen too. I know he had to quit this year to have time for his AP classes, but he might want the extra pay for a couple of hours," my brother suggests.

"I'll talk to him."

Doubt he'll have the time, though. I don't think he even remembered to include time to sleep and eat in his schedule this year.

"You could talk to Dean too," Elliott adds.

"He's helping out his dad this year."

"How's that going?"

I shrug. "You said Hannah's alone in the dining room?"

Elliott leans against the bar counter, with a neutral expression. Clear grey eyes stare back at me, all too familiar. He looks a lot like our dad. Same brown-blonde hair, same hooded eyes, same sharp jawline covered in reddish stubble, same tall lean figure, same voice. He even has those same thin smiling lines around the contour of his eyes, although I think dad smiled more.

"Yeah," my brother says. "But it's not too busy."

I nod again and turn around to walk through the wide open double doorway that leads into the dining room.

The Lodge is the rustic-chic restaurant and bar area of the Astor Ski Resort, the all-season family resort destination for skiing, snowboarding, dining, shopping, golf, ice skating and recreation in Lake City. Or, at least, that's what it says on the website.

On weekends, the dining room is often full at lunch and dinner times, as is the bar area just past the lobby. On weekdays, though, it's usually a lot calmer. There is the occasional foreign pensioner or local upper-class businessman dining with us. But generally, most guests stay at the resort on weekends. Unless it's break time. Then it's full twenty-for-seven, as are the ski lanes, the shops downtown and the lake.

I guess if I'd grown up with a different zip code, The Lodge would be the perfect place to go out for dinner in a town where options are scarce. It's cozy enough to look inviting for families, but it still has the same air of money-bought impotence as the rest of the whole town.

I always thought it was funny how different it was from Brunson, just a minutes-long drive west. Especially since most of the people who fill the resort's workforce are from Brunson.

"Hey, you're here," Hannah says with a smile. "I'm so glad I don't have to cover your tables anymore. I would not like to wait on table eight tonight," she babbles.

It seems mean, but she really does babble. It's just the way she talks. There's no other word for it.

Hannah is a petite girl, shockingly blonde, with a heart-shaped face and front teeth that sort of protrude out of her mouth. She grew up in west Brunson, just one block up from me and Owen, and two houses down from Dean. She's two years older than us, and Owen made out with her in freshman year. Then Dean hooked up with her in sophomore year.

It's a small town.

"What's wrong with table eight?" I ask, reaching under the counter for a notepad and a pen that isn't too chewed on the tip.

"Special reservation," she says in this tone that makes me feel like she expects me to understand more than I do.

When I don't offer much of a reaction, she powers on.

"Did you start practices already? How's it going? Do you think you'll win? You always win! You could probably go pro. Is that what you wanna do, go pro? I feel like everyone in this town either wants to be an NHL player or a professional figure skater. Well, except me, but I can't skate."

"I should go check on my tables."

Her eyebrows draw in as she looks around the room. There's only one gentleman eating soup on a corner table, and an old couple reading menus on another. Neither of those people are sitting on any of my tables.

Still, I walk away before she can point any of that out. Or just start talking at all.

Maybe this is why both Owen and Dean made out with her. Maybe that's the only way to make her shut up.

I slide my notepad and pen into the pocket of my apron, to grab a cloth from behind the counter, and start wiping my already clean tables. That makes me look busy, so Hannah leaves me alone.

After a while, I hear the light commotion that usually comes whenever new guests arrive at the front lobby, and I think I can even hear my brother's voice greeting them. As manager of The Lodge, Elliot doesn't receive just anyone at the door. If he made a point to greet them personally, they're probably one of the action-holders from the Astor Investments Group.

I hear Elliott's voice get closer as he walks the 'special reservation' to the dining room and I look up. The cloth slips from my hands.

I scramble to pick it up and rush to the counter to discard of it. When I make my way to table eight, privilegedly placed by the broad windows with open view to the ski lanes, Elliott is already sitting our guests, with a bright welcoming smile on his face.

The mere sight of it makes my stomach churn. He really does look like dad.

The family of five take their seats around the circular booth table and I reach for the metallic sign reading 'reserved' at the center. As soon as my hand touches it, a pair of dark blue eyes catches sight of it and lift up to follow the length of my arm before finally landing on my face.

He doesn't outright gasp, but the contours of his lips relax in an almost-gape as his eyes fill with recognition. I turn around to store the sign under the counter.

As I make my way back to the table, Elliott shakes Mr Astor's hand — the Mr Warren Astor, CEO of the Astor Investments Group, owner of the Astor Ski Resort and the Astor Group Ice Arenas, and Liam Astor's dad.

My brother leaves with a final pleasantry and I take out my notepad and pen.

"Good evening, Mr Astor. My name is Elijah and I'll be your server today," I say.

The man looks up at me with the same pair of deep blue eyes he passed down to his son. I think that's about where the similarities end, though.

Where Liam is lean and tall, his father is burly and rugged, even beneath the charcoal-grey two-piece suit. With evenly cut, short blonde hair, fair cold-flushed skin and a square jawline, Warren Astor is a handsome man in that clean-shaven way from older movies.

His son, on the other hand, seems to take after his mother. Who I assume is the gorgeous, meticulously primped, dark-haired woman sitting between Liam and Mr Astor. Liam has the same near-black hair, light brown skin and heart-shaped lips as she does. He sits between his mother and a younger girl, with the exact same features. A sister, probably. I know he has two.

An older woman with graying long hair caught in a low bun and dark eyes sits next to the younger girl, with her hands folded on her lap.

"What's the kitchen cooking tonight?" Mr Astor asks.

"I don't know yet, but I can find that out for you, sir."

"Thank you."

I excuse myself with a sort of polite head nod and walk back around the counter and through the kitchen door. Hannah is standing inside, leaning against the wall and probably talking the cooks' ears off.

Chef Armel is a little moody when I first ask him about what he's making tonight, but he quickly changes tunes when I tell him who's outside. I walk back out to the dining room and do my best to smile. I think the best I manage is a slight softening of my features.

"We've been serving kale soup only tonight, but the chef said he can make a beef stew for you. Or grill a steak, if you'd like."

"La cocina tiene sopa de col rizada y estofado de carne esta noche," says the stunning dark-haired woman sitting at Mr Astor's side, while looking at the older woman. The latter replies with a series of mumbled foreign words and a determined wave of her hand.

Mrs Astor looks up at me with a smile. "My mother and I will have the soup."

I take note of their orders and I mean to look up, back at Mr Astor, but my eyes take a stubborn detour towards Liam. I'm surprised to find he's already looking at me. The edges of his lips twist up and he leans forward, eyes trained on me.

"Got any grilled cheese?"

The younger girl at his side laughs and his mother rolls her eyes without any real hint of disapproval in it. Mr Astor looks at his son.

"How about an actual meal?"

"Grilled cheese is a meal," Liam argues.

"I want one too," the younger girl chimes in.

"You're not making Chef Armel prepare you a cheese sandwich," Mr Astor objects.

"Why not?" Liam cocks his head at his dad. "You don't think he's qualified?"

The younger girl laughs again. Liam's eyes light up with a sort of satisfied sense of accomplishment, then he looks up at me again. I grip my pen tighter.

"Leah and I will have two grilled cheeses," he declares promptly.

I look at Mr Astor. The man sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose between index finger and thumb.

He meets my gaze. "I'll have the stew, please."

I nod. "So, that's two kale soups, one beef stew and two grilled cheeses." I try to keep my voice even and free of any kind of intonation, but I can practically see Chef Armel assaulting me with a spatula when I walk into his kitchen with two orders of cheese on bread.

"That'll be it, thank you." Mr Astor smiles politely.

"And to drink?"

Mr Astor opens his mouth, and I expect him to ask for the wine list, but his wife cuts him off.

"We'll all have water, thank you."

I can't help the glance at Mr Astor. With all due respect to Mrs Astor, he's the boss.

The man gives me a resigned smile. I excuse myself once again.

Turns out, the chef chooses a pair of metallic tongs as a weapon. Hannah snickers peskily to the side as I slither away from the maniac's reach.

When I go back to serve the drinks, Liam's sister — Leah, I think he called her — is knee-deep in a story about her math teacher. I don't interrupt and no one acknowledges me, except Mrs Astor, to thank me quietly.

I retire back to the kitchen, sitting down on a lonely stool to the corner, where Chef Armel can't assault me and I can pretend I don't have to spend the whole night waiting on a guy I see at school every day. When the food's finally ready, though, I'm forced to go back out.

"Why am I offering this boy a free night on my resort?" I hear Mr Astor ask, as I balance three bowls and two plates on my hands and arms.

"Because you said he can't stay in my room. You wouldn't have to pay for his stay if he stayed with us," Liam tells his dad, as I set the two grilled cheeses — prepared with an extra dose of loathing and a pinch of spite, courtesy of the chef — before him and his sister.

"I'd rather give away a whole free week at the resort's most expensive suite than have you bunk up in your room with him," Mr Astor says firmly.

I put the first bowl of soup in front of the grandmother, carefully, then stretch to place the second one. Mrs Astor meets me halfway and puts her own bowl down on the table with a gracious smile.

"Why?" Liam asks, moving around me to maintain eye contact with his father. Like, he genuinely contorts to look past me, as though I'm just an inconvenient barrier in the middle of his conversation.

"Seriously. Mack has stayed with me multiple times and you never had a problem with it," he says, grabbing his grilled cheese.

I adjust the final bowl, filled to the brim with steaming hot beef stew, to grip it with both my hands.

"We know Mackenzie. And we know her parents very well too," Mrs Astor speaks up.

I hold a second until Mr Astor catches on and leans back so I can put his food on the table. Meanwhile, Liam's lips curve shrewdly as he looks between his mom and dad.

"You sure it's not because he's terrified that if Rafael stays with me we'll have scandalous butt sex under his roof?"

My hand wobbles unsteadily and the bowl of stew tilts enough to spill on the table, which drips down on Mr Astor's lap. The bowl finally lands on the table with a clatter. I take a step back as my boss — actually, the boss of my boss's boss — leans back to assess the boiling hot mess of grease on his expensive dress pants.

Fuck.

To make the whole situation better, Liam's sister laughs and I can see Liam biting down on an amused grin. The grandmother ejects a stream of confused and unhelpful Spanish.

Mrs Astor is the only one doing anything to manage the situation. She grabs her own napkin and gently taps down her husband's lap. I realize then I should've probably offered up a towel or napkin myself, instead of just standing aside like a scared deer.

"I'm very sorry, sir."

"That's alright," Mr Astor says reassuringly, taking the napkin from his wife's hand to carry on the job.

"I can get you a wet towel from the kitchen, if you want."

"It's okay. Don't worry." He looks up at me with a curt reassuring smile.

I stand awkwardly next to their table, feeling my face get warm with embarrassment.

"I'm really sorry, sir," I repeat.

"Accidents happen. Don't worry about it," Mr Astor says.

Were it any other costumer, we'd offer the meal on the house. But this man owns the house.

I want to be able to do something, but I've already apologized. And I can't wipe down the man's crotch myself. I realize standing here, looking shameful and regretful only makes the whole thing more awkward, so I excuse myself with another apology and go hide in the kitchen.

Hopefully, I can hide here until I die.

***

Couldn't update yesterday so here goes today! Didn't go through the most thorough editing process, so feel free to point out any typos or weird phrasing :)

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