I hate my job.
I hate how the smell of burnt coffee stinks up the place without fail every morning. I hate the cherry red vinyl seats and obnoxious black and white checkered floor. I hate the awful fifties music that constantly blares from every corner of this hellhole, the pale blue of my skirt, the freakishly cheerful ruffled white apron that I'm forced to wear each day.
But most of all, I hate the customers.
God, I hate them.
I hate the way that they're loud and obnoxious and think that they're the boss of me. I hate how I have to plaster an enormous, brilliant smile on my face and act like the happiest person in the world, like it's my absolute pleasure to bend over backward at their every beck and call.
Do you think I like telling people that I work in a kitschy retro diner in Manchester? I don't. But hey, it pays the bills, so I guess I shouldn't be complaining.
But then again, maybe I should because of the Goddamn customers. They all walk in, cooing over the vintage feel, snapping pictures of chrome appliances and hanging lamps, gasping at the flickering neon lights, wondering at how authentically American it feels.
As if that's an important selling point for a restaurant in Manchester.
It's not even that big of a place compared to some of the others around. Six tables line the big bay windows that stare out onto the main road, four oval-shaped groupings sit in the middle, and you've pretty much covered it. Add in the eight stools at the counter and I'd say it seats about forty, give or take. Not overly crowded, but not slow enough to bore you to death.
To be honest, it probably wouldn't be that bad of a job if it weren't for the customers.
I hate them. I honestly and truly hate them right down to the very core of my being. I hate them with a passion that mere words cannot express. It's just a burning, fiery loathing of every person that parks a fat tourist arse in one of those vinyl seats.
They're bloody annoying, like –
"Ava. Table forty-two," my co-worker, Matt Johnson, calls out as he swings into the kitchen.
Matt drops a platter of dishes at the wash station as I groan and glare up at him from my semi-comfortable seat on a sack of potatoes. I sit here whenever I manage to catch a break – which, when it comes to waitressing, means a few spare minutes here and there.
A trademark cheerful grin covers Matt's face as he comes skipping towards me – yes, he's literally skipping – and slides my book away, shutting it with a swift snap. I wince as the noise echoes around the supply room, mixing in with the assorted clanks and hisses issuing from the kitchen, and shoot him another glare. But Matt, of course, pays me no mind and simply waves the book in front of my face tauntingly.
"You'll get this back when you take care of your table."
Git.
As much as I give Matt a hard time, I hate when our manager Gina pairs me with anyone else. He's one of those perpetually cheerful blokes, always smiling and cracking jokes, but somehow it hardly ever gets on my nerves. Probably because his cheeriness has a cynical twist to it. Sort of like the executioner who's smiling as he leads you to the guillotine.
I even thought about dating him once or twice, and Matt made it very clear when we both started here a few years ago that he felt the same. We've never progressed beyond friendship, though, save for one time when we went to the pub after work and got a little too tipsy.
I know. The rom-com cliché. Getting drunk and hooking up with a co-worker. My life has been reduced to a predictable movie plotline. How pathetic.
I really don't know what I'd do without him, though, especially on days like today, when the customers have driven me to the edge of my limited sanity. It starts out simply enough – someone asks for no cheese, so you give them no cheese, but they really meant with cheese, and you were meant to read their mind somehow, so it's obviously it's your fault. Then the screaming toddler in the corner throws a chip in your hair and knocks a milkshake over, while another table flags you down because it's been five fucking minutes and their food isn't out yet.
And on it goes, never-ending, as the customers slowly make you question if you have, in fact, died and gone to hell. Because surely, it would look something like this.
"Ava," Matt warns in his utterly annoying, authoritarian tone that drives me up a wall.
"I'm up," I hiss, and I push to my feet, send him a pointed look, and wander out of the supply room, grabbing a coal-coloured serving platter in the process. Two metallic doors stare back at me, leading into the Great Beyond of the diner, so I kick one open and glare out at the black and white checkered floor.
Table forty-two. Bloody customers. All my tables were gone, I was tucked into a good book, and then forty-fucking-two had to walk in and disrupt my peace.
Forty-two, forty-two.
Jenny, one of our fountain girls, whirls a milkshake together in the diner's authentic fifties blender as I scope out my table. Bloody thing makes far too much noise in my opinion, but Hank Jameson, the owner, will hear nothing of upgrading to a modern, quieter one. Everything must be authentic, after all.
At any rate, I spot forty-two – one of the tables lining the bay windows, just to the right of the diner's main door – and fix a large smile on my face before clacking across the floor towards it. A bloke sits there, fairly young, with blonde hair styled in that effortless "I want you to think I just rolled out of bed but actually spent thirty minutes doing my hair" look. He leans over the table, rubbing his finger against the plastic surface at some invisible speck of dirt, as I soak in his side profile. Straight nose, high cheekbones, long lashes, cut jawline. The quintessential formula for swoon-worthy men, isn't it?
Clearing my throat, I stop abruptly in front of his table just as the blender shuts off. A bright neon sign blinks in the window behind his head. Help wanted.
"Hello, and welcome to the Daybreak Diner. My name is Ava and I'm going to be taking care of you this evening…" I start my spiel off confidently, playing the role of friendly hostess like I've done thousands of times before. But by the time I reach the end of my second sentence, Blondie's head lifts up towards me, and that's when everything starts to fall apart.
Because sitting there, on cracked red vinyl in a Muggle diner, is Louis Weasley.
This is just my luck, really.
Out of all the places in the world, out of all the continents, countries, and cities, somehow one of my ex-classmates manages to find his way into my own personal tenth circle of hell. You know, because the ninth level just wasn't enough of a punishment for me.
This was not supposed to happen. Like, ever.
I left all of that behind after graduation. It's not like the magical world ever did anything for me, anyway. Especially not after I couldn't focus during seventh year, after I couldn't find a job in the world I never asked for, after I couldn't even get a good Muggle job because I had no proof of secondary schooling.
The diner was the only place that didn't ask for a diploma or a transcript, and I was kind of okay with it. I never wanted to be part of that world anyway, and the odds were ten thousand – no, ten million – to one that no wizard would ever walk through those doors.
But just like everything else in my life, I guess the odds were simply not in my favour.
It just had to be him, too. It couldn't have been any other of my Hogwarts schoolmates. No. It had to be Louis fucking Weasley. Not that we ever had any relationship in school, friendship or otherwise. We were in the same year, of course, but we never spoke a single word to each other as far as I can remember. And honestly? I was fine with it.
Because Louis Weasley was a right arse who didn't give two fucks about anyone but himself. It wasn't exactly arrogance, not exactly that attention-seeking bullshit some people pull, but more… coldness. Like he couldn't be bothered to care about any of the rest of us, I guess.
And, as if to prove my point – namely, that Louis Weasley has zero respect for anyone but himself – the man in question skims his eyes up and down my figure with that laddish look that I usually only get from drunk blokes in pubs. Because that's not obvious at all.
"Hello, Ava." He drawls out the first word, accentuating it slowly, and I nervously brush my hand back over the top of my head. My dark hair still sits in its messy bun like a giant puffball, hairs sticking out at irregular angles, and I find the pencil stuck straight through the bun whilst simultaneously bumping the tray out from under my left arm.
"Can I get you anything to drink while you look over the menu?" I ask roughly.
He leans back against the red vinyl, stretching one hand behind his head like I've seen him a million times in school, and it takes everything in my power not to roll my eyes at the sight of him, lounging around in that lazy way of his.
"What I want definitely isn't on the menu."
Oh, God.
My teeth find my lip as I bounce the tray absentmindedly against my waist, a habit that I've picked up from watching Matt far too many times. Figures he would eventually rub off on me; I've only spent nearly every day of the past three years with the bloke. "Perhaps you should try another restaurant, then? I know some good pubs nearby if you're interested."
Louis raises one eyebrow as I ramble on about the cuisine of Manchester, apparently uninterested in my highly superior knowledge of which places have the best bangers and mash, but I will not let him get to me. What I want isn't on the menu. Arse.
And he could at least pretend to pay attention. But no, apparently basic human decency is just too much to ask for. He's just the same as in school, never caring about anyone but himself and his little clique of Chris Lowry and Parker Borden, and – did he just cough at me? Oh my God, he did, he's trying to get me to stop talking, the absolute nerve –
"I wasn't talking about the food."
My cheeks tinge with a slight bit of heat at that, and I shut my gob with a snap. Why he's hitting on me now, after seven years of classes without so much as a glance in my direction, is beyond me. It's almost as if he doesn't know who I am.
Wait.
"You don't remember me, do you?"
Louis blinks once. "Come again?"
"We went to school together."
Another blink. "I'm sure you must have mistaken me for someone else. I went to a very prestigious –"
"Oi, don't give me that. You were in Gryffindor, Louis. I remember."
His eyebrow ticks ever so slightly higher in surprise at my comment, but nothing else changes in that blank expression, just like it never changed at school. "I'm sorry, but I don't recognise you at all. What house were you in?"
"Hufflepuff," I respond hotly, and Louis poorly disguises a guffaw of laughter as another cough.
A loud clatter echoes in the background of the diner as Louis and I stare at each, but I don't even flinch. It's probably just Matt trying to balance a platter of dishes while opening the kitchen door with one foot. He has a nasty habit of dropping dirty plates at least once per day.
Turns out I don't even have to look behind me to find out, though. The door to the kitchen squeaks open as Matt comes back out into the diner, footsteps clacking loudly against the checkered floor. And just as the footsteps pass behind me, a hand lightly brushes against my arse.
Yep, definitely Matt.
It's stupid and yeah, probably a little weird, but it's this thing we started doing way back before either of us realised we'd end up as just friends. It doesn't mean anything now, of course, other than being a bit of fun to distract us from bashing our skulls in. See how frisky we can get without the customers noticing. Honestly, people can be so damn oblivious to what goes on around them.
Louis, however, is apparently a bit more observant than most, as evidenced by the amused expression currently flickering across his face. Of course he would manage to see that. Because clearly my life just needed to get worse.
"Do you actually want something?" I huff, feeling embarrassment flood to my cheeks as he cocks an eyebrow in Matt's direction.
"Yeah, I do. I'm in the market for a job."
What?
I feel my mouth drop open slightly, but I snap it shut quickly and shoot him a glare. This is a joke, right? I mean, him? Want a job? Here? He really doesn't need to make fun of me, it's already quite apparent this place is beneath him –
"The neon sign says you're hiring," he says cooly, evidently bored with my non-response, and jabs his thumb behind him at the glass window.
"Wait, are you serious?" I choke out, and he nods slightly.
What the fuck?
Louis Weasley does not need a job at a diner. He probably doesn't need a job at all, ever, in his entire life. His family's absolutely loaded – parents both worked for Gringotts, I think, and banking pays just as much in the Wizarding world as it does in the Muggle one, if not more.
So why the fuck is he asking for a job?
"Gina's coming in at nine," Matt says cheerfully, and Louis turns slightly to look at my best friend, who's hovering with a wet rag at the table next to us. "She's our manager. You should talk to her."
"It's half eight now, so I think I'll just wait." Louis yawns, stretching back lazily, and kicks one leg up onto the red vinyl lining the other side of his booth. "I mean, if that's okay with you, your highness."
Wow. That's rich. Calling me out? Please. Why is he even here? Did Daddy cut him off? Oh, poor little rich boy, probably only gets three thousand Galleons a month for his allowance. Boo fucking hoo.
It was bad enough having to watch him at Hogwarts, always so cold and distant and never caring about anyone but himself. I remember the way he used to have girls falling all over him – nice girls, too, ones that deserved much better – and how he didn't even bother letting them down easily. And don't get me started on his infuriating group of friends.
"If you want to sit here, you have to be a customer. And if you want to be a customer, you have to order something," I hiss through gritted teeth.
Louis looks completely nonplussed by my statement, however, and simply shrugs, skimming his eyes along the menu. "I'll have the cheeseburger, then."
"And how would you like that prepared?" I ask, not even bothering to hide the loathing in my voice this time. But if he picks up on it, I guess he doesn't care, as he simply tosses the menu back towards me with a dismissive flick of his hand.
"Rare."
I give him a snarky curtsy and spin around back towards the kitchen, but not before I realise that he hasn't ordered a drink. That's just too fucking bad for him, though, because there is no way in hell that I am going back there.
"Oh, and Ava?" Louis calls after me. I pause, but don't bother to turn around and look at him. "You forgot to take my drink order. I'll have some water if you feel so inclined as to actually do your job."
I let out a snarl under my breath while I continue my stalk back to the kitchen, where I shove the door open with such force that it swings all the way around and bangs into the wall.
"If you feel so inclined," I mock in aggravation as I clip up the order for Keith, our chef, and storm back to the supply room.
Matt's sprawled out lazily on my potato sack, both legs dangling languidly over the sides, and smoothly raises an eyebrow at me before going back to reading my book. My bloody book. He's sitting on my potato sack and reading my bloody book. This day just keeps getting better and better, doesn't it?
"Stop being a bitch to the customer, would ya?" Matt asks, flipping to the next page.
"I will not. That tosser isn't worth my spit."
"Blimey, Ava. Calm down." Matt glances over at me as I drop down onto the potato sack beside him, then hands me my book back. I actually borrowed it from him – it's one of his uni books from a literature class last semester – but I suppose it's as good as mine now. "You two know each other or something?"
"Yeah," I sigh, and he raises an eyebrow at my lack of elaboration. "We went to school together. He's a prick."
"You're not exactly a ray of sunshine yourself," Matt points out, so I give him a smack across the chest. "Oi, don't hit me! I'm just stating the truth."
"Love you too, Matty."
"I know you do."
"I do," I say quietly, and it's true. For all his faults, Matt's been there through everything – the highs and the many, many lows, and he truly is my best friend. I don't know what I would do without him. Murder a customer, probably.
I barely have time to contemplate this, however, before the diner's "order up" bell rings and shout of "Ava, forty-two!" echoes around the room. Groaning, I push off of the potato sack and toss the book back onto Matt's stomach.
"Well, what did you expect? He's the only customer in the place," Matt comments with a shrug, apparently picking up on my annoyance. Not hard, given how I spend most of my life perpetually annoyed. "My last table just left. Should go and clear that, actually."
Matt opens the diner doors for me as I snag Louis's cheeseburger, and I let out another sigh as I see him lounging there, scrolling through his mobile aimlessly. The newest model of that phone, I'm sure, as he always did have the nicest things, even back in school. Maybe most people didn't notice – he was never flashy, after all – but I did. Force of habit from growing up on benefits, I guess.
"Here," I mutter as I dump the food on his table.
He eyes the cheeseburger suspiciously, probably trying to gauge the likelihood that I spit in his meal. Which I did not, because as stated previously, he isn't worth my spit. And I don't really appreciate the insinuation, either. He's apparently not satisfied, though, and pushes the plate to the side, then glances up at me with those brilliant blue eyes that all the Gryffindor girls used to giggle on about in the toilets.
"Where's my water?"
"Oh, sorry," I say, voice dripping with sarcasm, and the corner of his mouth twitches at my comment. "I didn't feel inclined to bring it."
Then the twitch turns into a full-on smirk, and he leans back against the booth again in that casual way of his. "I like you, Ava. You've got spunk."
"She does, doesn't she?" Matt cuts in from where he's wiping down his last table. I swivel my head to glare at him – I did just tell him how much I dislike this arsehole, didn't I? – but he ignores it, as per usual, and sends me a flirtatious wink instead. God.
Louis turns slightly, making eye contact with Matt from over the top of the booth, and they share some sort of secret lad-type look that I, for one, will never understand. "You shagged her yet?" he asks, almost thoughtfully, and my supposed "best friend," who clearly cares deeply about my sanity, lets out a burst of laughter.
"Just once, ages ago," Matt replies as he tosses the cleaning rag over his shoulder. "And she loved every second of it." Then he sends another flirtatious wink in my direction, and I'm fairly certain my face flushes as red as the vinyl seats in front of me.
"Matthew –"
"Aw, don't be a spoilsport, Ava."
"You complete arse –"
The tinkling of the bell above the diner door stops me mid-sentence, though, as Gina, our manager, strides across the checkered floor in cut-off shorts and a plain white t-shirt. She actually used to work with us as a waitress, but got promoted last year after graduating from uni with a degree in hospitality. It suits her, though, and she's way better than our last manager, a greasy forty-year-old man named Don who always smelled like cigarettes.
"Something going on here?" she asks, tucking a stray curl behind her ear.
"Not at all, Gina," I respond cheerfully, and she raises both eyebrows questioningly. Right. Probably shouldn't have used a cheerful tone, come to think of it. Everyone knows I'm never cheerful.
"Actually," Louis cuts in abruptly, "I'm here to speak with you."
"Me?" Gina asks in disbelief, and I roll my eyes. I forgot how annoying it was, watching girls stumble all over him. Please. I mean, yeah, you'd have to be blind not to realise how attractive he is, I'm not denying that, but his awful personality more than counteracts it.
Gina doesn't know that though, and I doubt she would care, anyway, as she's firmly fixed on Louis and the way his shirt slightly rides up as he stands, exposing just the tiniest bit of abs beneath it. Arse. Bet he did it on purpose.
"I'm looking for a job," he says, and Gina takes a slight step backward on the diner's checkered floor. God. Pull it together, woman.
"Oh – er, well, we are looking to hire a new server, so, you know..."
"Maybe we could have a private chat, then?" Louis says suggestively, and I let out a snort at the utter ridiculousness of it. Private chat. He always was quite the flirt in school, not that he ever needed to be. Girls followed wherever he went, regardless.
"Oh, um, that's okay. You know Ava, yeah?" Gina twitters, her hand flying back to the curl she played with earlier. I'm not sure how she knew that – well, I guess from the way she observed us earlier it was pretty obvious, I'd never behave like that with a regular customer – and her flush darkens slightly. "Ava's fantastic, so I'm sure any friend of hers will do fine as well. You can have the job."
"I'm sorry, what?" I gasp, and behind me I hear a glass bottle smash as it hits the floor. Matt, I assume.
"What the fuck, Gina?" Matt says in outrage. "I didn't think we were actually hiring, I already don't get enough hours as is –"
"Sorry," she says, cutting him off. She doesn't actually sound sorry, though, and I can practically picture the uncharacteristic scowl on Matt's face. "We're going into football season. You know what that means."
Yeah, it means the whole bloody place is packed with tourists. Fucking Manchester United, mostly, and apparently Manchester City's gotten good now, too. I've really never understood the fascination with football, but it brings in money and extra shifts.
"But – but – you didn't even give him an interview! Or ask if he has previous job experience!" I sputter wildly.
Gina shrugs again. "He has the right look. And you can train him."
The right – the right look? What the bloody fuck?
"Fuck no, Gina –"
"Look, Ava," she says impatiently, and I sort of regret snapping at her now, as she sets my schedule and I really need more hours. "When I transitioned into management, I talked with Hank and he's committed to selling the image. Wholesome, clean cut, all that." She points to Louis, who simply shoves his hands in his pockets and smirks. "He fits that image. I mean, look at him. Hank would definitely want him on staff."
My jaw drops slightly as I stare at her, standing there so calmly and explaining this away like it's nothing. I cannot believe this. I mean, yeah, he basically does look like the perfect all-American boy, I guess, but that doesn't mean it's fair. I bet he's never worked a day in the service industry in his life.
"This is complete shit," I protest, and Matt mutters something in agreement from behind me.
"Okay, enough," Gina hisses, and once again, I mentally kick myself for talking back to her. I need those hours. "Hank told me to hire someone, so whether you lot like it or not, we're doing it. Seth and Jackie just put in their two-week notice, and Taylor and Emma are doing a summer session at uni, so they won't be around nearly as much. Fact is, we're heading into the busy season and we just can't handle the place with the staff we have now."
And at that, she heads back through the kitchen doors towards her office, leaving a silence hanging over the diner floor. Well, silence except for that God-awful fifties music blaring from the jukebox.
Looks like I really am stuck with Louis Weasley.
God, I hate my job.