"Welcome to Chili's. Would you like a booth or a table?" My smile is so practiced my cheeks don't even hurt anymore. With the couple standing before me, the guy is tall, well-built, and has near-black hair. Although he looks nothing like Alex, I'm somehow reminded of him anyway, which sends heat searing into my cheeks.

Oh, lord. When am I going to stop thinking about Alex? When he drove me home three nights ago, he firmly planted himself into the recesses of my brain. At first I only thought about him at night, before bed, replaying those moments we were together.

Then he emerged from the recesses and is now front and center in my mind. It's like a delicious secret that I'm keeping, but also ridiculous. Stupidly I'm allowing myself to think what if.

What if he was interested in me?

What if he took me out on a date?

What if he looked at me with those intense eyes all the time, and not in the office?

The couple, who are beaming, practically glowing they look so happy, inform me that they prefer a booth. For what feels like the millionth time tonight, I grab the menus and lead them to a booth four along the far wall of the restaurant. I make small talk about the weather, which is unseasonably hot. Management likes us to be "uber friendly." Those are their words, not mine. Uber. Friendly.

"I guess we'd better settle in for a long, hot summer," I chirp.

The humidity's been a killer lately. I'm not looking forward to walking home in this soupy, hot mess tonight. Or any other night.

"Can you bring us two margaritas right away?" the woman asks as we approach the table, her black Coach bag hanging in the crook of her arm. "On the rocks, no salt."

"Of course. And I'll get your server."

Besides home and the office, this is where I spend most of my time. At a Chili's on a main road in my suburb, located exactly 1,852 steps—a little less than a mile—from my house. I know the distance because that's what I do when my night shift is over. I count the steps on the way home, hoping I won't get run over when I cross Peachtree Avenue, abducted near the vacant lot, or murdered along the way.

I've worked at Chili's for six months. When I was hired, I was told that a server job, which earns more in tips, would open up soon. That hasn't happened, and I've stayed as a hostess because, well, Sabrina and I need that ten fifty an hour. And the waitstaff does share a portion of the tips. Well, most of them do. Tonight might be one of those lucky nights since it's Saturday, but then again, maybe not. Gabe—the stingiest server—is working tonight, and I suspect he's not going to divide a single penny of his tips.

Once the couple at table four is settled—in Gabe's section, no less, because he'd sniped at me earlier in the evening, claiming I wasn't giving him the good customers—I make my way back to the hostess station at the front. We're about an hour past the dinner rush, which means it's nine o'clock. Two hours until we close, thankfully, then another half hour on top of that for cleaning and closing up. By the time I walk home it will be well after midnight.

I flag Gabe down and clue him in on the margarita order.

"Did you already tell the bar?" he asks, bored. Gabe isn't bad-looking, but he'd be far more attractive if he wasn't so surly. It's as if a kind word can't cross his lips. All the hostesses hate him.

For some reason, my feet are aching something fierce tonight. Probably because I cleaned the house this morning, then ran over to my neighbor Ida's home a few blocks away. She made a casserole for Sabrina and me, which was incredibly kind. Sabrina wouldn't eat it because it had diced chicken. Apparently my sister's a vegetarian now. That's a new development.

"Fine, more for me," I'd told my sister as I wolfed a plateful down for lunch.

Sometimes I skip entire meals because we don't have a lot of money, so whenever free food comes my way, I take advantage of it. I almost feel a little ashamed that I had the casserole and a loaded baked potato here at work, while Sabrina had another frozen pizza, but oh well. She could've shut up and eaten the casserole.

I survey the laminated, erasable layout map of the restaurant's tables and swipe a little sponge to clean it off. As I'm arranging the menus, a deep voice startles me.

"Excuse me."

I look up and nearly gasp. It's the man who I seated, but once again, I'm reminded of Alex. This is ridiculous because this guy's nose is way bigger than Alex's. Why did my brain think it was him?

"Yes, how can I help?" I paste on my most accommodating smile.

The man leans in and down, as if he wants to share something private. I catch a whiff of his scent and it crowds out the pervasive smell of fried onion and beer that hangs in the air.

The guy's cologne is spicy and warm, similar enough to Alex's aftershave that it makes my stomach flutter.

"It's our anniversary tonight. We've been together a year. Can we do something special for my girlfriend, like . . ." He gestures with his hand, and the expression on his face is almost bashful. How cute.

"Aww, congratulations. What can we do that would be special? Do you want us to surprise her? Maybe bring a dessert with a candle?"

"Yeah, that sounds good. She loves chocolate. She's wild about chocolate cake. She's special like that."

Dude, who doesn't love chocolate cake? Still, it's incredibly sweet that he thinks his girlfriend's love for a common dessert is special. Isn't that what everyone wants? To find that one person who is enamored with how unique, how special, you are?

"I'll chat with your server and the guys in the kitchen. We'll come up with something fun. I promise."

"Do you all sing songs at the table? Like happy birthday, but for anniversaries?"

I bite my lip and shake my head. Birthday songs are the bane of my existence. I feel so silly when I have to clap and sing and parade through the restaurant. When I first started, I tried to hide whenever there was a birthday table, but my manager had taken me aside and told me that I needed to participate with enthusiasm. Uber. Friendly.

"No, we don't have a special song for anniversaries, I'm so sorry," I say.

"Okay, well, a cake would be great. Thanks."

The guy stuffs his hands in his pockets and ambles back to his table. When he's out of earshot, I let out a little sigh. Partially because I now have to engage in conversation with Gabe, and partially out of longing.

What would Alex do on our one-year anniversary? Surely he'd take me to some place nicer than Chili's. Probably one of those downtown restaurants, the kind that Josephine's always talking about at the office. Alex would definitely make reservations.

Holy crap. Am I losing my freaking mind? Standing here, mooning about the millionaire managing director. I console myself with the thought that Alex probably orders for his date, given how bossy he is. I'd surely grow annoyed with that in about three seconds.

What a waste of brain space. I should be focused on the email I got today from my alumni job network, one that contained an opening at my dream workplace: the Georgia Aquarium. Applying and getting hired there might solve all my problems. Or at least some of them, including the need for Chili's shifts.

Gabe passes by my station on his way to the bar, interrupting my thoughts, and I call out his name.

"I'm busy," he says, but he stops.

"Listen, the couple at table four. It's their anniversary. The guy would like to surprise his girlfriend with a chocolate cake. And a candle. Or you could do one of those sparklers like we do with birthdays. I can handle that part, if you're busy."

"I'll take care of it. Your job is to stay up here." Gabe rolls his hazel eyes as if I'd made the stupidest request in the history of Chili's, then walks away. That's how he's acted toward me for a couple of months; ever since I declined to sit at the bar with him after closing and drink beer.

I squint at his back. "You're welcome," I mutter, then in a whisper, I follow up with, "jerk."

More customers come in, people who got out of the seven-
o'clock movie at the theater across the street. They're all raving about some new blockbuster superhero movie, one that Sabrina and I would love to see. But we don't have the twenty-eight bucks to spare for two tickets, and even if we did, I was short on time.

The more customers I seat the more it becomes apparent that I won't get out of here by eleven thirty. For some irrational reason, I don't like walking after midnight—as if the serial killers only come out at 12:01 p.m.—which means I'll either take an Uber home or ask someone here to drive me. And I hate asking people for favors.

My perma-smile thins as I seat six at a table, and my mood is going the way of my expression. Down, down, down. What is Alex doing tonight? Probably something fabulous. Isn't he in New York? I think that's what Josephine said.

I imagine him at some club, drinking a bottle of something expensive. Probably surrounded by women. Everyone would be in designer clothes, and no one would order a giant fried onion.

The thought of him lounging and drinking somewhere swanky seems so supremely unfair, all of a sudden. Especially since every pore of my body, and my hair, smells like fried chicken and charred hamburgers.

This wasn't what I planned, working two jobs to eke out a living. Raising my kid sister. Spending Saturday night at a hostess station at a chain restaurant. Smelling like I dove into a deep fryer. When I come home from shifts here, I have to scrub and scrub to get the foul odor off my skin.

The couple celebrating the anniversary walks out without a thank-you, a smile, or even a nod of the head. Ugh. Why are people so rude?

Rarely do I throw myself a pity party, but tonight I feel one coming on. The image of a grinning Alex in his fancy car comes to mind, and instead of longing, I feel a tired, dull anger, laced with a thread of shame. Surely he knows how poor I am, and probably that's why he treated me with such kindness.

It was pity, not interest, in his eyes.

How is it that some people like him have all the luck? And how is it that I've had none?