Together by This Christmas Tree

cally mcgregor

I wiped down another table, brushing my hair out my face and chewing my lip. John had been elusive since our dinner the other night, and spending most of his time either with the rest of the guys or at his apartment. It was okay, since I was working more with Tony on vacation. I was making bank as well, which was what made everything worth it to some degree. Still, I was missing John in the way only I could. Things were just falling in and out of place, and it felt odd.

“Cally, you got table four?” The hostess, Valencia, said, smiling at me. She was a huge The Maine fan, and always smiled at me and told me how lucky I was to be with John. Of course, I tried my hardest to just smile and agree, but for all the wrong reasons. I was lucky to be with John, but not because he was famous, or because he wrote songs about me, or anything of the sort. I was lucky to be with him because he made me a better person. He made me the best person I could be, and it was just another reason I was in love with him.

“Yeah, Valencia, I definitely got it.” I smiled, and grabbed a few menus from under her hostess podium and headed towards table four. No one usually came to eat lunch here, but these stupid tourists decided today would be a good day to do something ridiculous, like eat at a bar. “Welcome, I’m Cally, and I’ll be your server today. What can I get y’all to drink?” I asked, giving my best fake smile.

The bar was hot, but the rest of the restaurant was freezing cold. It was part of the owner’s love for being cold. She often worked in the restaurant, so it was cold. While, however, Tony came from the Bahamas, so he liked it hot. Which is why everyone called him the “little white boy from the Caribbean”, which was actually pretty insulting. But hey, he called me the “stupid slut”, so I guess we were even.

I wiped down the rest of the tables as my table enjoyed their food, cooked fast by the amazingly thin, and female, cook. I wiped down the bar too, wondering when I was going to be allowed to clock out and go home.

“Cally, dear, can you come help me?” Timmy said, our cook. Her real name was Tamara, but we always called her Timmy. She just graduated from the latest culinary school, and she was brilliant. I loved her, and she was becoming my best friend, second only to Gemma.

“Sure, Timmy,” I said, sliding behind the doors, and popping up on the preparation table. “What do you need?”

She tucked her hair behind her ears, and showed me a sheet of ink, and bit her lip. “Which tattoo should I get, love?” She asked, and I smiled, pointing to a palm tree, small and intricate and beautiful. She smiled again.

“Thanks, love.” I stood back up as I felt my phone vibrate in my apron, and I pulled it out, almost groaning until I saw the face flashing, and I smiled.