My True Love Gave to Me: Twelve Holiday Stories (34 page)

Angel is sitting at the counter. He grins. “
Hola,
Maria!” I’ve never seen his teeth before, much less his smile. I didn’t realize his scowl lines weren’t permanently fixed.

“Can I get you anything?” I hope I don’t look as confused-slash-unnerved as I feel.

“Take your time,
chica,
you just got here.”

“Right. Thanks.” I barrel into the kitchen. “What did you do to Angel?”

Ben shrugs, clapping his hands together once in a satisfied sort of way. “He needed a good meal.”

“Right. The man who has spent the last three years growling orders at me is now calling me
chica
and smiling.”

“Yup.”

“Okay, be serious. Are you a drug dealer? Is that why you were in juvie?”

He laughs, stirring something on the stove range. “No. Not drugs.”

“I’m pretty sure you spice your cookies with something illegal.”

“Cinnamon is not a controlled substance.”

“That should be the title of your memoir.” I reluctantly button my uniform over my tank top and leggings. Candy comes back as I’m clocking in.

“Hey!” Ben’s eyes are bright and hopeful. “I made you something.”

She puts a hand over her stomach. “No, thanks.”

“I think it’ll help.” He holds the to-go container while she removes her apron and hangs up her uniform.

She takes the container. “Okay. See you tomorrow.” She shuffles out.

Ben goes to the window, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Then his shoulders stoop, his whole body turning down in disappointment.

“She gave it to Jerry, didn’t she?” I ask.

“It wasn’t for him. It was for her.” He frowns. “Tomorrow I’ll make her something at the start of her shift, instead.”

Animatronic Santa ho-ho-hos at a customer, and I’m swept up for the next few hours. Ben more or less cooks what people ask for, and no one complains. My feet are sore from how busy we are, but my tip-collecting pockets are happy.

Angel has moved to the corner booth, leaning over the back to chat animatedly with Lorna, the gas-station owner. He’s drawing pictures on her napkin. I’ve never seen them so much as glance at each other before. But the way they’re acting, you’d think they were best friends. They’ve been in here every day. A lot of the locals have been coming more frequently than new-cook curiosity can account for.

“Bennett,” I say.

“Not short for Bennett,” Ben answers.

“Do you have Angel’s order?”

He puts up a tray, and I frown. “This is not his.”

“It’s for him.”

“He ordered chicken-fried steak. He always orders chicken-fried steak. This is … what is this? Fruit salad? Have you
seen
Angel?” I gesture toward him: hulking, tattooed, shaved head with several prominent scars. “He’s not the fruit-salad type.”

“It’s beets, carrots, jicama, and fruit with a citrus dressing. Ensalada Navidad! And here.” He presents a second plate.

“Tamales.” A sort of pain, like a sore muscle, pulses through my whole body. I’m filled with an inexplicable need to hug my mom. “We don’t serve those here.” The sudden ache inside my heart makes me sad. I scowl at Ben. “Make him the stupid steak.”

“Maria. Trust me. Take it to him.”

“No.”

He sighs. “How about this: if he doesn’t like it, you don’t have to share your tips with me for the rest of the week.”

“And you tell me how you learned to cook in juvie.” His eyebrows come together so I raise my hand. “Not
why
you were in juvie. Only the cooking part.”

“Deal.”

I take the plate, surly but certain of victory. Angel has ordered the same meal for as long as I’ve worked here. When I set down the food, he looks shocked.

“I didn’t order this,” he growls.

“I’m sorry, it’s the new cook, he—”

“Are those tamales?”

I still have my hand on the plate, ready to whisk it away. “Yes?”

He leans forward. His eyes wrinkle upward in a smile. I swear his skin creaks, having to force decades of grim frown lines in that direction.
“Y ensalada navidad! Mi madre siempre…”
His hard black eyes soften, looking far past this dinner.

“So … you want the food? Because I can take it back!”

“No!” He leans over it protectively. “I want it.”

“Great. Let me know if you need anything else.” I scowl at the kitchen window, where Ben is giving me his full-wattage smile. I give him the finger down low, where Angel can’t see it.

“Maria!” my mom says, aghast.

I shove my hands into my apron like that will erase the offending digit. “What are you doing here?”

“Kitchen. Now.”

I follow her back, dragging my feet. She pushes straight through the back door into the alley between the diner and the gas station.

“What was that?”

“Just … goofing off.”

She throws her hands up in the air. “We can’t afford to goof off!”

I fold my arms, take a step back from her. “I’m not getting paid. So goofing off is about all I
can
afford.”

“
Ay,
Maria, we’ve talked about this. We’re a family. Everything we earn goes into the same account, so—”

“We haven’t talked about it! We never talk about anything. What do you need all my money for? So you can live in a crappy, nowhere town, in a crappy, freezing duplex, with your crappy, tightwad boyfriend. Yeah, Mama, I get it.” I turn away from her, slam into the kitchen and past Ben, who is leaning over the stove so intently I’m positive he heard every word.

*   *   *

My mom stuck around for a while, talking to Ben about his weird food supplies requests. He convinced her to go along with it. I guess
he
can afford to goof off. Meanwhile, she ignored me until she left for the mine. When I finish closing, I’m going home, straight to my room, to recount the tips I’ve managed to save. Angel left me fifteen bucks tonight, which still blows my mind. That puts me at exactly $2,792. Three years of working every day, and that’s all I have to show for it.

I turn around to find Ben, yellow bucket filled with hot, soapy water. He squeezes the excess out of the mop.

“That’s not your job,” I snap.

But he shrugs and gets started without a word. With his help, the restaurant is clean in record time. Ben and I shove the cleaning supplies back into the closet.

I hang up my uniform. “I’m still mad at you. I should have won that bet.”

He pulls out a tray of cookies. “Eggnog-chocolate-chip peace offering?”

“Follow me.” I take him out back, where a rusting ladder is bolted to the side of the building. We climb up to the diner’s flat roof. I show Ben where to step to avoid tripping on the peeling tarpaper as we make our way toward the two lawn chairs that Candy and I hauled up years ago. She hasn’t been here with me in ages.

The last time I climbed up was Christmas Eve. My mom and Rick took an extra night shift for overtime. We “celebrated” early, but sitting by myself in Rick’s duplex was too depressing. So I came here, alone, and glared at the junky buildings around me, hating Christmas and Christmas.

The night is cold. Our breath fogs out in front of us. During the day it’s warm enough, but at night the desert temperature drops. We sit, and Ben passes me a cookie. It’s obscenely good. Warm, bright bursts of chocolate, with the creamy comfort of eggnog.

“Show-off.” I elbow him in the ribs. I keep finding excuses to touch him.

I need to stop that.

I lean back, looking up at the sky. That’s the one benefit to living in a census-designated place. The stars don’t have any light to compete with.

“Everyone had to help at my juvie center,” Ben says, without preamble. “Laundry, cleaning, kitchen duty. I’d never cooked anything before, but I had a knack for it, and, before long, they put me on permanent kitchen rotation. The staff was great—they
want
the kids to get better and have good lives—so they let me play around. I loved it. I’ve never felt anything so right as I did when I was making food for other people.”

I shiver deeper into my jacket. “How do you guess what people want to eat?”

He looks at me sideways, eyes hooded. “What do you mean?”

“The woman with the macaroni that first day—no one even took her order. Don’t think I forgot. Angel and the random Mexican food. And this weekend, that horrible green Jell-O with whipped cream, pineapple, and shredded carrots no one in their right mind would ever order, but that you made special for Lorna. She
cried.
You made Lorna cry with Jell-O. None of this is normal, Ben.”

He shifts uncomfortably. “You’ll think I’m crazy.”

“You willingly moved to Christmas, California, to work in our dump of a diner. I already think you’re crazy.”

“Fair enough. I figured it out while I was in juvie. Kind of like … a sixth sense? For what would make someone happy to eat. I see someone and I just sort of
know.
”

“So you’re a food psychic.”

He cringes, his friendly face shifting into something defensive, shielded. I don’t like that look on him, so I hurry on. “My mom’s aunt could tell every disease or health problem someone had by looking at their eyes. I kid you not. She had a perfect track record.”

“Really?”

“We lived with her for a while in Los Angeles when I was little. People were constantly dropping by to have her diagnose them. So. Having a food sense seems way more pleasant than her eyeball trick.”

He relaxes, more at ease now that I haven’t dismissed him. “I think if you can find the right food to connect yourself to a happier time, or a happier version of yourself, it can help you remember. Help you get back to who you were when you were happy. It can change everything. For example, when did you start liking me?”

I stammer, grasping for some response other than
The moment I saw your face.
Is it that obvious?

Ben answers for me. “When I made you the gingerbread cookies. That’s when you decided to be my friend.”

“Right! Exactly. Yes, gingerbread.”

He gives me a look that makes me think maybe he was saying more. Maybe he wants
me
to. But I don’t know what to say, so he turns away again. “I like using something I’m good at to help other people. Even if it’s something silly like cooking.”

“That’s not silly. You know what you love, and you’re good at it. I wish I had something like that.” The moment stretches between us, too honest, and that sore-muscle feeling wells up in my heart again. I clear my throat. “Besides, as long as you keep making cookies, I don’t care if it’s magic or not.”

He balances a cookie on the tips of his long fingers. His ring finger is bent at an odd angle. Like his nose, it’s a testament of broken bones in his past. “If you were a food, you’d be a gingerbread cookie. Spicy enough to keep life interesting, but with just enough sweetness to balance it out.”

I laugh. “I’m not sweet.”

“You gave your tips to Candy.”

I dig my shoe under a strip of tarpaper. I don’t want to talk about her, so I say, “What would you be if you were a food? No, better! What food would you use your sixth sense to feed yourself?”

He puts a hand on the edge of his chair, holding it palm up, almost as an offering. It would be so easy to slip mine into his. I nearly do, but … it’d be an anchor. I can’t be anchored.

“I haven’t found it yet.” He flexes his long fingers, opening his hand even more. “I like it here. I’m renting a room for almost nothing, so I save what I earn. And small towns are cozy. Familiar. You can slip into other people’s routines, become a part of them. I’m staying here until I have enough money saved for culinary school.”

“I’m getting out of here as fast as I possibly can,” I blurt.

His fingers curl up. “Why?”

“Why not? There’s nothing for me.”

“But … it’s your home.”

“I live in my mom’s boyfriend’s duplex. Nothing here is mine. I hate it here. The minute I graduate I’m leaving.”

“Where?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care. I’m hopping on a bus and going until I can’t go any farther. Until I find a place that feels like home.”

He’s quiet for a long time. “How will you know what home feels like?”

It hangs in the air between us, as frozen as our breaths. I don’t have an answer.

*   *   *

Ben pokes his head out of the kitchen window. “How were the waffles?”

Candy barely glances at him. “Fine. Thanks.”

He looks lost as he stares at her untouched plate. The waffles were crisp on the outside, fluffy on the inside, with a Nutella filling and sliced strawberries on top. Unlike Candy’s, mine are gone.

“They were fantastic,” I offer, but he disappears, muttering to himself.

It’s three days until Christmas. The diner has never been busier. Locals come in whenever they can now. We’re also getting a holiday bump in freeway travelers, lured by the seasonal coincidence of our exit’s name. For once in my career, I don’t pity their optimism. The Christmas Café is—dare I say it—worth stopping for.

Ben whips out holiday-themed plate after plate. Every shift, he makes something new for Candy. And when she inevitably throws it up or rejects it in her zombie-like demeanor, he looks even more discouraged.

I grab Candy’s plate and turn toward the kitchen, looking up at my elf out of habit. Only he’s not holding a knife anymore. He’s holding a tiny glass vial with a skull-and-crossbones symbol on it.

I cackle so loudly that Candy jumps. She’s actually trembling.

“Sorry!” I say. She flees, straight to the bathroom.

I find Ben leaning over the counter, furiously crossing off items on a list. “Benedict! Are you the one who messed with my elf?”

He looks up, distracted, and then shakes his head as though clearing it. A smile crinkles his eyes as he pushes his hair away from his forehead. His goofy chef’s hat sits on the counter next to the paper and pen. “Not short for Benedict. But yes. I thought he ought to mix things up a bit.”

I laugh again, delighted. “Nobody even notices him except me.”

“I notice everything.” His eyes linger on my face before he blushes. He clears his throat a few times, toying with the pen. “This Christmas menu isn’t working. I don’t know what to do.”