Four Years Later
I hate Sundays. I dreaded them all week long.
Sundays are suppose to be relaxing, the best day off at the end of week. Sundays are for sleeping in, church, grocery shopping, family dinners, but I spend every Sunday with him.
My job waitressing at the local dinner isn't that bad any other day of the week. With the Lodge right in between the town of Forks and the reservation, my lunch and dinner rushes are filled with locals. Sundays are our slowest days, they should be easy, but I hate them.
Every week he sits at the same stool, orders the exact same truck load of food, and spends the whole morning watching me wait on him.
And this Sunday was no different.
Embry Call always comes after the breakfast rush, when the whole restaurant empties out for the rest of day. It's always just us in the entire building. He's so tall and bulky now he has to bend at the neck and knees to fit through the door. He sits at his usual spot, the first stole at the counter that's closet to the waitress station.
The first Sunday that started this was years ago. I've been working here since I was sixteen and he's been eating here every Sunday since. Years ago the boyish, scrawny Embry stopped coming to school. No one saw him for months. Then one Sunday I turned around and he was sitting in a packed booth with the five other huge shirtless guys.
He wasn't scrawny anymore. He was massive. Twice his original size, all muscle and at least 6'3. He wasn't the same. His long hair was clipped. And he gotten a tattoo that matched all of Sam Uley's bizarre group.
I had glanced at him for a second. Just a moment. I couldn't help myself, I couldn't believe it was him. I hardly recognized him. He caught my stare, holding it till he broke the plate he was eating off. He didn't say a word to me while I swept it up, but he's been coming in every Sunday since.
I wish it was Monday.
"What are we getting today?" I ask, pouring him a cup of coffee. He doesn't have to wait to order one anymore. He comes in every week looking exhausted, as if he's been up the night before. He always slumps against the counter like he needs it to support him. The bags under his eyes are purple and dark, and his eyes always blink shut till he downs a cup. So right when he sits, I give him a cup with four sugars and a bit of cream like he has it every week.
But he always orders something different to eat.
"A dozen eggs, a loaf of bread toasted and a whole packet of bacon." He doesn't even glance at the menu.
It should phase me, but he always orders that much food. Last week he ate a stack pancakes that I couldn't see over.
I don't bother with the manners that usually earn me my tips. I just put his order in then cross my arms over my chest. He watches me the entire time, calm and indifferent like he couldn't careless if I was there or not. His eyes never leave me. The burn into me while I keep myself busy, follow me wherever I go, stare at me point blank when I hand him his food.
And just like every week he stares, eats his weight on food, doesn't say thank you or goodbye and leaves a huge twenty five dollar tip.
Embry's POV
Sundays are my favorite day.
It's the day I look forward to all week.
Sundays can never come fast enough. The entire week feels demanding and long till I see her on Sunday morning. I always hate the night leading up to it. Saturday night patrols are long, and by the time they're over I run straight to the Lodge to see her, my imprint.
I can feel my body protest as I run across the reservation, but I only force myself to speed up. When I see the roof of the lodge, I can feel my tail shoot up, wagging so excitedly it blurs. I don't wait, phasing back mid run, going from four legs to two on the dewy grass. I don't stop till I'm at the edge of the parking lot, pulling on clothes and smoothing down my short hair.
I should be home sleeping, I'm exhausted. But this one hour just near Winnie Brooks is what make my days worthwhile.
I can feel my heart pick up when I walk in, beating excitedly and unevenly in my ears. My eyes immediately find her, her back to me while she puts plates away behind the counter. Her eyes land on mine, but she doesn't say hi to me like she does with her customers. She calls them hun and sweetie, but she doesn't say a word to me. Hasn't said a word to me since freshman year.
We're not fifteen anymore. We're different now.
Winnie was always tall for her age, 5'7, but she's grown into it. Tall with beautiful lines when she moves and with her head up high strongly, I'm not sure if she was shy when we were young, or just ducked away from me. Her face has matured, less round around the cheeks but the thoughtful look is still there, but more serious around her brown eyes. Her eyes are the warmest, deepest shade of brown that shine bronze when they soften up. They're not afraid to meet people's stares anymore, but holds them unwavering as they bore into you. She's steady now, strong, sturdy isn't the exact word for it, but close. Her hair is close to dark, but more brown than black. It's always tied up in a bun when she's at work, I'm not sure how long it is, but stray strands always fall out.
"What are we getting today?" She asks, avoiding my eyes as she pours me a cup of coffee. She doesn't give the warm service like she does her other customers, but it doesn't stop me from trying to meet her eyes. The way her hands always tap the four packets of sugars before stirring them is cute, makes me want to grasp her hand, but she might punch me in the face if I do.
"A dozen eggs, a loaf of bread toasted and a whole packet of bacon." Up close I can see the trail of pale freckles running across her nose. She use to scrunch her nose up whenever I ordered, but she's gotten use to it. So has the cook. I might be the owner's best customer.
Winnie doesn't know she's my imprint, I've never knew how to tell her. She avoided me like the plague for the rest of high school, and I was in and out since I changed. We probably would have gone the rest of our lives circling each other in the res, never glancing at each other. It was just by chance that we bonded for life, the slightest glance.
I had a mouthful of ham and runny eggs when I lifted my head from my plate, and my eyes just happened to find hers just as Winnie was turning her head. I felt the entire universe shift around her. Nothing, nothing has ever felt more right than being with her, and nothing felt more wrong than being away from her.
My throat aches, dying to talk to her. My hands shake, just wanting to reach out to brush against her. I always jump whenever she burns or cuts herself, and I hold my breath when she balances stacks of plates and knives. I always want to comfort her, despite how she never complains. I almost wish she would.
The hardest moments are when she closets, when she's lowering my food and the only thing between us is the counter. That's when I struggle the most not to ask how her day was, or tell her how pretty she is. And then darts away a second later like I'm hazardous.
It shouldn't bother me much anymore, yet it kills me everyday how she avoids me.
When I get up to leave, I always tuck a folded twenty five dollars in between the handle of the mug, and leave before she can protest that it's too much. I can always feel her watching me as I leave, her eyes always follow me out, like a warm hand against my back.
It hurts walking away from her. This doesn't get easier every week. Then I have to trudge through the whole week all over again till I see her again over breakfast.