“Some complimentary wedges,” I say. “For the delay.”
That seems to appease the dad, who nods in acknowledgement, but his dark-haired wife looks at me with a pinched expression.
“How far along are you?” she asks.
“Got a month to go,” I say brightly.
“You shouldn’t be working.”
I don’t know if she means to show concern, but her tone implies otherwise.
“I don’t have that option,” I sigh before I can stop myself.
She narrows her eyes. “Single mother?”
I bristle a little at the question, but the reality of my life these days is hard to deny. “Yes,” I admit. “I am.”
She looks like she’s about to say something else. But I’m not sticking around to be insulted—or worse, pitied.
So I pivot around to table four and pull out my notepad.
“I’m really sorry about the wait, guys,” I say to them.
Both their expressions soften when they take in my huge belly. They don’t give me any attitude as they relay their orders. When we’re done, I walk away and let loose a heavy sigh.
Ruby’s waiting for me back at the counter with her arms crossed. I used to be concerned by that particular stance, until I realized that it was Ruby’s resting pose. Same for the bitch face she wears around the clock.
I start to say, “I still have one more table to—”
“It can wait,” she says, cutting me off. “I want to talk to you about something.”
Fear rises up inside me like bile.
I can’t lose this job. I can’t lose this job. I can’t lose this job.
“Maternity leave,” Ruby says.
I hesitate. “What about it?”
“You need to go on maternity leave,” Ruby repeats grimly. She’s eyeing my stomach.
Sometimes, it feels like my pregnancy is the only thing that defines me anymore. That’s all people see. It’s the first question they ask.
“I will,” I say. “But not yet.”
“When, then?” Ruby asks. “When the kid pops out between table three and table four?”
“I’m fine,” I argue. “I feel strong and fit and capable.”
“Do you know what you look like?” she asks.
“Umm…”
“You’re the skinniest pregnant woman I’ve ever seen,” Ruby continues impatiently. “You’re skin and bones and the biggest fucking stomach on the West Coast.”
Ouch.
“You’re making customers uncomfortable.”