Chapter 22: Earth

“You expect me to believe that your family owns all the Perry’s restaurants?” I put my hands on my hips. “I stood next to you for months, degreasing broiling pans and scraping people's leftovers into the garbage.”

“Well, technically, I scraped leftovers into the garbage. You dumped them into to-go boxes.”

Henry’s funnier than I gave him credit for being, but it doesn’t mean I buy his story. “There’s no way the heir of the entire Perry’s empire has been washing dishes for the past six months.”

Henry grins and slides his driver's license out. He passes it to me. Henry Perry. He's twenty years old. He pulls out another piece of paper and hands it to me as well. It’s the registration on a two-year-old Range Rover in his name.

“Can we go eat now?”

“It does explain why you were always late, but you never got fired.” My eyebrows draw together. “Why didn’t your parents get mad at you for that? They had to be the ones keeping Ramon from firing you.”

“My dad’s the one who insisted I do soccer,” Henry says. “That’s why I was always late—practices and games.”

Speaking of him being late. “I put my job on the line for you that last day. When you were late, Ramon said he was going to fire you, and I begged him not to do it. He said if you didn't show up within an hour, he'd fire us both.” I can’t believe it. I stood up for the one person in the place that Ramon couldn’t possibly fire.

Henry pats my shoulder. “Chris mentioned that. It’s one of the things that impressed me about you.”

“So what? You’re undercover over there? Who else knows?”

His tone turns pleading. “Food, please? I'm dying of hunger. I'll explain while we eat.”

I'm hungry too, and at least now I know he can afford it. We both walk toward the door, which he reaches around to grab for me when we arrive, but a host beats him to it. It's exhilarating to be here as a customer. The guy in the suit who opens the door doesn't meet my eyes, and someone else entirely whisks a chair back and then pushes it in for me. A menu appears as if by magic in my hands.

Henry orders peppadews as an appetizer, and I ask for the bobotie. The waiter disappears. “Isn't it kind of. . .I don't know, disrespectful for you to come eat here when there's a Perry's like a block away?”

Henry laughs. “I like all kinds of food, and if I'm being honest, I'm a little sick of our menu. I prefer the Taste of Texas.”

I feign horror, but I'm only sort of kidding. “Seriously? The chateaubriand? How could you ever be sick of that?”

“I also figured you'd be uncomfortable eating there, especially once I told you.”

“You were definitely right.” I arch one eyebrow. “You meant to tell me all along?”

“I've tried to ask you out like ten times. You never even let me start, and every time I asked for your number, you’d change the subject. So yeah, I've been planning to tell you. Obviously you're too good to date a dishwasher.”

“Henry! I'm a dishwasher.”

“When they fired you, at first I was really upset. I almost told Ramon who I was and demanded he bring you back. But then I thought—”

“They were right to fire me.”

“Because you were taking home leftovers instead of throwing them away?”

“It’s a health code violation,” I say. “I knew that. But things have been a little tight lately and it seemed like such a waste to throw away amazing food when. . .” I shake my head. “It was stupid.”

He runs one hand through his hair. “The thing I don’t get is, why do you have a fake ID? I pulled your file. There’s no way you’re in your mid twenties, Alice Walker.”

I open my mouth, but I have no idea what to say. So when the appetizers show up, and the waiter takes our orders, I breathe a sigh of relief. I'm glad Henry’s rich, because I could probably clear out the entire menu. I order a center cut filet with Huguenot sauce, a soup, and a sampler. Henry's eyebrows rise, but he doesn't comment. Even with the temptation of the delicious food coming my way and a rumbling stomach, I want to stand up and walk out the door, grab Jesse, and drag him home. Which reminds me of what Jesse called me last night: paranoid. I want to prove him wrong, but. . .

Henry's asking about my fake ID and I’m gripped with an overwhelming desire to bolt.

“Are you an immigrant?” he asks. “Maybe I can help you get a work visa.”

I shake my head. “Worse. I’m a minor.”

Henry laughs.

“I’m serious. I won’t be eighteen for six more months. My brother and I had to run away from home.”

My heart pounds. I twist my hands in my lap. Jesse told me we needed friends, but this—waiting to see how he’ll respond? It’s agonizing. I want to get up from the table and sprint to the corner. Get on the bus and head straight for our apartment. Then I want to pack our stuff and keep on moving. Maybe we can try Boston. I bet it’s not sweltering there.

He hunches forward, and his eyes sparkle. “Seriously? Who are you running from? Did you see something you shouldn’t have seen? Is it the mob? I can help—like, do more than just buy you dinner.”

“The mob? There's something wrong with you, Henry.”

He sits back. “I like mysteries, okay? So if it’s not criminal or something, what's the deal then?”

I sigh. “I shouldn't tell you this. People always get weird once they know.” Which is why I haven't told anyone in three years. “My parents died when I was little, and they ended up putting us in a group home. I didn't fit in, and things got. . . ugly.”

“That really sucks.”

“The social worker they assigned to us only made it all worse. Eventually we couldn’t take it anymore.” I’m the one who couldn’t take it, but I hate sounding like a victim. ‘We’ is non-specific, but it feels a little disloyal to Jesse. I plow ahead. “I’m not old enough to live alone, and if I use my real identity, they could find me and drag me back.” I left out a few relevant details, but there's trusting and then there's stupid. I’m trying to balance between the two.

Henry reaches across the table and takes my hand. Even more surprising, I let him. It feels nice to tell someone and not have them glare or mock or pull away. Although, there’s plenty of time for that later.

“Look, when Paul wouldn’t agree to hire you back, it made me so angry that I couldn’t handle standing by and watching anymore. I firmed up my resolve and demanded that my parents promote me. I said I was sick of washing dishes while the management made bad decisions that harmed peoples’ lives.”

Henry? I can’t even imagine it. Which means it was likely a lot less of a demand and a lot more of a wheedle.

Either way. “What did they say?” I’m surprised how curious I am.

“They started laughing.” His frown is too cute for words.

“Laughing?” I don’t understand.

“Apparently they were going to start me out as an assistant manager, but Dad was worried I didn’t have the gumption to manage people. He said until I demanded they promote me, I should be doing scut.”

Henry’s dad sounds like a hoot—and like he knows his son.

I got fired, and. . . “So you’re going to be working with Ramon?”

He shakes his head. “They're letting me pick the location. If I choose Katy, would you want to come work with me here? You did say you were applying for jobs.”

Danger, danger! I should leap up and sprint away. Henry knows too much. I should never have told him anything.

“You don't have to give me any info you don't want to, okay? The file can just say Alice Walker. But if this feels like too much pressure, or it makes you uncomfortable, I’m fine with being your reference.”

I shouldn't have shared my first name. Ever. I mentally curse Jesse for pressuring me to make friends. Friends are fair weather, isn’t that what they say? They’re overrated.

“I think you'd be a great waitress.”

Wait. Waitress? “Really?” Not a dishwasher?

“I bet you'd get great tips, and of course, all of those are totally untraceable.”

I bite my lip. I would love to be a waitress, and I'd have no stress over being outed, since my boss already knows I’m a fraud. I want the job, and I like Henry well enough.

I think about the alternative—waiting around for who knows how long for an interview to be a busboy or hostess. And that’s my best-case scenario. “It might be worth a try.”

Henry beams. “That's great. Can you meet me at Perry's tomorrow to fill out the paperwork?”

We agree on 10 a.m. the next day and spend the rest of the meal talking about how Henry's last day went. Apparently he quit today.

“So wait, Paul fired Jeremy too? And you quit? That means they went from seven dishwashers to four in only two days.” I snort. “Double shifts really suck.”

“Yep. I hope they find replacements fast, or I don't know what they'll do.”

“You should suggest to Ramon that they try some paper plates.”

“He might pass out,” Henry says. “I’ve always thought that pulsing vein in his neck signaled the existence of a bigger problem.”

“I'd love to see him pass out.” I gulp. “I’m not saying I want him to really be sick. But one good faint would be amazing, especially if it happened in, like, the dining room.”

Henry laughs.

The rest of dinner is pleasant and the food—I had no idea South Africans ate so well.

“This was fun, thanks.”

“I know you don’t want me to know where you live,” Henry jokes, but his eyes actually look wounded. “But I’m happy to give you a ride if you want one, to any corner you name.”

My phone buzzes.

-READY TO GO?

“That’s a sweet offer, and I would like to rub my hands over the leather seats in your car some time, but my brother's waiting on me.”

“Oh, so he has a car?”

I shake my head. “Nah, but we both have a bus pass.”

“I can give you both a ride, you know.”

“That's so kind, but we really are fine on the bus.”

“I get it. You don't trust me.”

I flush, but I don't contradict him. “I also have no idea how far out of the way it is for you.”

“If you play your cards right, I might one day reveal to you where I live. Probably not,” Henry says, “but maybe.”

“A girl can dream.”

Henry tosses money into the black check holder and stands up. “Walk you to the bus station?”

“I think my brother's waiting outside.”

“Maybe I'll get to meet him, then.”

When the host opens the door and we step outside, I don't see Jesse anywhere. I look right and then left. “Maybe he's still in Torchy's. Let's walk that way.”

Henry shrugs. “My car's parked over there anyhow.”

“Right.” We walk across the street together and I still don’t see J.

“I’ll text him, but you don’t need to wait. I’ll walk inside.”

“Are you sure?” Henry looks around, dubious.

“Absolutely. And thanks so much for dinner and for bringing my last week’s pay. And thanks for the new job. Wow, you've done a lot for me.”

“It was honestly nothing.” He shrugs. “See you tomorrow.”

I edge away from him as breezily as I can, but some part of me is nervous. What’s wrong with me? Henry’s shaping up to be the world’s nicest guy, and I’m bolting like he’s a predator.

I stumble on a reflective pavement marker, of all things, and almost fall. Strong arms catch me. I look up at Jesse's new boss, John. “Oh, thanks.”

I straighten and look into Jesse's silently laughing face. “Wow, that guy really likes you. And did I hear him say you got a job? Or did you agree to a second date?”

“You were listening?” I shove him. “Where were you? I was dying over there. Plus, he wanted to meet you.”

Jesse points at a bench between the two restaurants. They must've been waiting for me to come out. “The only bad part was that we couldn't hear every single word. The wind is a real buzz kill.”

I scowl. “I like Henry. He's nice, and his parents own Perry's, and yes, I'm going to be a waitress at the Katy location. Starting tomorrow.”

Jesse smiles at me. “That's great news. Good for you.”

“Congratulations. I love Perry's, too. I'll be sure to ask for you whenever I head over,” John says, “but be careful. That puppy dog really likes you. And I'm guessing here, but I think you might need someone who's already housebroken.”

I roll my eyes, but I wonder whether he's right.