"ORDER UP!" Paul shoves two plates of burgers through the window from the kitchen. Darting behind the counter, I dodge the spill of pop so I won't slip on my ass (again).

"No mayo on this one?" I pick up the plates and try to catch my breath.

"No mayo," Paul says with a grunt. On the other side of the window, heat simmers off the fryers and distorts the tiled walls. "I'm too old for this crap," Paul mutters as he hobbles away.

Even I feel too old for this. We're absolutely slammed. Mom's "Monday Burger Madness Special" might've been a good idea for business, but I wish she'd held off until we found a few new workers. There's so much chatter in here I can hardly think.

I make a beeline for table six and drop off the plates before I go into the bar, refill their Cokes, and do it all again for tables three, five, eight, and ten. Mom covers the others the best she can, but anxiety bulges in the whites of her eyes when no one's looking.

The worst part is, she's been working all day too. If we had more people, Mom would be upstairs resting. Instead, she puts on the best face she can as she serves. I wonder if the customers can see the way her bones shake like I do.

Carson's dejected face flares in my mind. He hates me. Of course he does, he has every right to. I thought throwing his resume in the trash was the right thing, but now guilt is making a mess of my thoughts. Who am I to play God with his life?

But I'm still so damn conflicted because I don't think having a guy like him around is a good idea. I can admit to myself it's fear. All of our previous workers and waitresses have been clean as can be. Drinkers, maybe. But not addicts like my dad.

The rush clears out around eight. Mom collapses against the counter, and I take off my shoe so I can stretch my sore foot. Every single table is piled with ketchup-splattered plates and cups of melting ice. All I want to do is go upstairs and play my guitar, but it's going to take forever to clean this crap up.

"Good lord, we really need a new server who can do evenings." Mom smooths her hands over her face, blue-green eyes lethargic and faded. Mom's happy-go-lucky mask falls off when no one's around—she becomes tired, irritable, and listless. Ready to give up.

"I'm sorry, Mom. We'll find someone trustworthy soon."

The bell dings, and we both put on our faces. I turn to the door with a big smile, but it falls right off when Carson walks in. Oh no. Ohnonono.

"Hiya, Carson." Mom stacks some dishes away.

He's cleaned himself up the best he can, like he did last night when he came in. "Hey, Ms. Williams. Uh, how are you?"

"I'm great. You hungry? You just missed the rush, so we've got plenty of tables open. Let me just clear one off..."

"Actually"—he holds out a sheet of paper, not looking at me—"I saw you guys are hiring, and I wanted to apply."

My jaw drops. After everything I said this morning, he's going right over my head? In a way, I have to respect him for it. I didn't know he had a determined bone in his body.

Mom's brows shoot up. "Oh, you do? That's wonderful." She accepts the paper and glances it over. "You know, this is probably the cleanest resume we've gotten. It amazes me how many people don't know how to format right."

He scratches the back of his head. "Thanks. I got one of my teachers to help."

"Isn't that nice. When can you start?"

"Anytime, ma'am."

"How about right now? We're slammed for cleanup."

I want to shout, Mom, hold up, don't you think we should talk about this? But I say nothing.

"Really?" Carson asks. "I mean, yeah. I'm ready. Thank you."

"That's great. Here, come on to the back and we'll give you a quick prepping."

They breeze past me. Carson's eyes briefly lock with mine before he follows Mom into the back.

Shit, shit, shit!

"Jill, come on back here!" Mom shouts, and I scurry after them.

This building used to be an actual house, and when the Yates converted it into a restaurant fifty years ago, they left the sunroom as it was. Now we use it as a breakroom. The setting sun pours through the mesh windows and soaks the ratty couch and coffee table in an orangey light.

"Hand Carson an apron, will you, Jill?" Mom asks.

Obediently—because I'm not sure how else to react—I dig in the drawer and hand him one. He doesn't meet my stare as he ties it around his neck.

Mom tells him to focus on helping clear the tables, that her and I will deal with any new customers who come in. With that, Carson gets to work. I grab Mom's arm on the way out of the sunroom.

"Hey, are you sure about hiring him?"

"Why wouldn't I be? Carson's a nice boy."

God, I hate having to say this out loud—I feel like such a bitch. "I caught his brothers giving Nolan beer last night. I don't know if having Carson around is a good idea—for Nolan."

Mom pauses and places her hands on her hips. "Well, did Carson condone it? Has he ever given Nolan alcohol?"

"Not that I know of, but—"

"Oh, Jill." Mom sighs. "I have my qualms with the Blue family like everyone else, but Carson is a nice boy. No one chooses their family. You know that better than anyone."

She has me there.

"And besides, I'm so tired," she goes on. "Carson's more than able-bodied enough to lift all the heavy stuff, like those big boxes of burgers we both struggle with. It's been two weeks since we put up our hiring sign, and frankly, you disapprove of everyone. I'm making a decision. Are you going to make a fuss about it?"

I can't help but glower. Mom always says I'm "making a fuss" when I get pissy about things. But she's right—I spent so much time thinking about how Nolan could be affected, I forgot to think about Mom. She's the real reason we need new employees. The longer we go without hiring someone, the harder she'll have to work.

So I mumble, "No fuss. Just wanted to make sure you were sure."

"I'm sure. And I want you to make him feel welcome." Mom winks. "Who knows? If this goes well, you could be seeing a lot more of him."

***

We have most of the dishes in the dishwasher by the time the sun goes down. I swipe the mop against the checkered tile while Mom hums along with the Coldplay song that plays from the radio. She looks around the restaurant and smiles.

"Carson, you're a saint," she says. "We haven't tidied up this fast in forever."

He wipes off a table with a wet rag until it shines. "Thanks. I appreciate the opportunity."

"Well, you're a godsend. Really. Don't worry, I'll get you on the payroll ASAP and you'll be compensated for all this."

It's only been an hour, but I have to agree with Mom. I can't believe how fast Carson carries trays, and those arms of his can lift way more than mine. I don't have so much pride that I can't admit when I'm wrong; he's doing a good job so far. If he doesn't influence my cousin and keeps his "extracurriculars" away from work, maybe having him around won't be such a bad idea.

I snap out of my trance when I notice Mom balancing a tray with trembling arms. I go to help her, but I'm too late—she wobbles and the tray pitches to the side. I gasp and brace myself for the shatter, but Carson dives in front of her.

"Whoa, you all right?" He holds the tray with two sturdy hands.

"Oh my goodness." Mom shuts her eyes and places her hand over her chest before she laughs to herself. I relax too, because even my heart was pumping from that. "I'm okay," Mom says. "Thank you, Carson. I'm lucky your reflexes are so quick."

He sets the tray on a table, and I hurry over and touch Mom's arm. "Mom, why don't you go upstairs and rest? I've got this."

"Can I trust you to show him the ropes on how to close?"

"How many employees have I trained?" I nudge her and smile in a way that says no fuss, remember? "Come on, I've got this. Go get some rest."

"Okay. Thank you, sweetheart." Mom goes upstairs, and Carson quirks an eyebrow at me.

"She all right?"

"She hasn't been feeling well for a while. I think she's just overworked. I try to help as much as I can, but it's hard when I have school too." We fall quiet. I lean against the mop and fidget with the chipping white paint on it. "So... you're officially on our payroll."

Carson tugs at a loose thread on his apron. "I know you said you didn't want me around, but I could really use this job. If your mom's willing to look past my family's reputation—hell, I need this, Jillian."

"I know. I'm sorry. You were right, it wasn't okay of me to make that decision for you."

"No, it wasn't." He pauses. "Are you pissed I came in anyway?"

"No. If Mom's happy, I'm happy. But Blue..." I clear my throat. "Listen, your life is none of my business. Really, I'm not nosy. But if you're hanging around here, I have to ask... are you clean?"

He's silent for a moment, averting his eyes. "I haven't used in a few weeks, yeah. I'm trying."

"All right," is all I say. I won't touch it anymore. Carson doesn't need to hear it, but Mom's always had a weak spot for addicts, and after what my dad put us through, I guess I'm a little more cautious. It's been five years since a drug-user was close to me and trust me, I was never planning on letting another one in.

But it's Mom's call. All I can do is hope Carson will be different.