The Waiter Bradleigh Collins (autobiographies to read TXT) 📖

to end. I did, however, want to make my escape from Drunk Darryl who had somehow managed to make me his dancing partner.

Afterwards I said my goodbyes to everyone, promising Katie and Lucy I’d keep them updated on The Waiter and my potential move to the big city.

Josh walked me outside. “Call me after your big date tomorrow. We’ll grab lunch before you leave for the airport.”

“Will do,” I hugged him. “Love you.”

“Love you, too.” A cab pulled up. I hopped in and waved goodbye.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

“Broadway and 77th, please.”

To my next New York minute.

CHAPTER 5

◆◆◆

I woke up early and, as they say in the south, nervous as all get-out. I wanted to give myself plenty of time to get ready for my date with The Waiter. That is, if he actually showed up. I also had to pack. I chugged a Gatorade and threw all my clothes onto the bed.

What if he does show up? That thought scared me more than if he didn’t. I hadn’t been on a date since I broke up with Dalton, and I wasn’t sure if I was ready to see someone again. I wasn’t sure about anything. Except that I had to get dressed.

I decided to wear my new Jean Paul Gaultier halter top and maxi skirt. I bought it at a sample sale after my job interview on Thursday. It was comfortable and classic and just the right amount of sexy. And today I would wear flat sandals. I was afraid the clip-clop sound of my Maddens would be just as annoying to The Waiter as it was to Josh.

I finished packing and jumped in the shower. Afterwards, I spent a bit more time on my makeup than usual and pinned my hair up into a messy bun. It was now nine-thirty. I checked out of the hotel and left my luggage with the bellhop. I wanted to take one last stroll around the neighborhood. Plus, I didn’t want to arrive at the flea market too early and appear too eager. God, I sound like Josh.

The more I walked, the more I convinced myself that The Waiter wasn’t going to show. I figured I would just go to the market and enjoy it by myself, and then I’d meet Josh for a late lunch. I was already prepping myself for disappointment.

I turned back onto 77th Street and paused to look at all the quirky dishes in the window at Fishs Eddy. I wanted to go in and buy some to take home with me, but I had no room in my suitcase and I was afraid they would break, so I continued walking.

As I crossed Amsterdam, I heard laughter coming from the corner playground, which was already filled with neighborhood children. The flea market was just one block away, and I was beyond apprehensive. I took a deep breath and tried to distract myself by gazing at the beautiful brownstones lining the street. I imagined how wonderful it would be to live in one of them. But as each step brought me closer and closer to my destination, my legs turned to jello and my hands began to shake.

Then I saw him. He was leaning against the fence by the entrance. He was wearing a gray t-shirt, black track pants, and sneakers. A large backpack was hanging off his shoulder. He looked up and saw me coming.

“Hey, Red!” he yelled.

“Hi!” I smiled and waved as I walked towards him. He met me half-way.

“Morning beautiful.” He gave me a quick hug. He was taller than I remembered. Not as tall as Dalton, but close. His hair was still wet. It smelled like my Aveda candle. “You’re tiny,” he said, looking down at me.

“No, you’re just really tall and I’m wearing flats. Okay, I’m short.”

He laughed. “Come on, shorty. I’ll show you around.”

The market was behind a school and covered almost half the block. Hundreds of tents were lined up side-by-side with vendors selling everything from hand-carved soaps to vintage clothing to Persian rugs. There was also every type of food you could imagine. Baklava. Grilled corn. Mozzareppas. Egg rolls.

My senses were on overload from the smell of exotic food and incense. The sight of colorful silk pashminas and gilded antique mirrors that looked heavier than most cars. The sound of Sinatra singing “Fly Me To the Moon” on a vintage record player as a beautiful elderly couple danced inside the tent. And the touch of The Waiter’s hand on my back as he guided me through the market gave me chills.

“What do you think?”

“This place is amazing!” I said. “I’m not leaving here without one of those pashminas. Or a mozzareppa. Or four.”

The Waiter laughed. I was no longer nervous and felt relaxed. I picked up a light blue pashmina from one of the tables.

“So, you’re a writer,” he said.

“How did you know that?”

“Your business card.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Have you written any books?”

“Not yet. I definitely want to in the future. Right now I just write ad copy and content for various clients. And some freelance articles. I was in town interviewing for a position here in our corporate office.”

“You’re moving here?”

“If I get the job.”

“So there’s a chance I might see you again?”

“If I get the job,” I repeated.

“You’ll get it. Wait here. You have to try something. I’ll be right back.”

I was still holding the pashmina. I wrapped it around my shoulders. It was so soft. I had to have it. And I got one for Dana, too. I paid the vendor and stepped across to the mozzareppa stand.

“Two please.”

A few minutes later, The Waiter returned with two paper cups. “This is my favorite thing about the GreenFlea. Fresh grape juice. And it’s ice cold.”

I took a sip. It reminded me of taking communion as a kid in church and how I always wanted more because it tasted so sweet. But this was even better.

“Okay. That’s it. I’m never leaving. I will just live here at the flea