Waite - A beautiful, terrible thing: a memoir of marriage and betrayal

M ARCO . This man, I knew in my gut, was it. I finally understood what it meant, when you just know. I just knew about Marco. I met him at the Square, the restaurant where we both worked. I got a job as a waitress to make the money that did not seem to be materializing from my acting and modeling careers. Two years out of college, I had quit my job as an analyst at a hedge fund and decided to become a full-time actor, to go for it. It sounded great in theory.

A year later, Id gone to audition after audition, casting after casting, and the biggest job I had booked was starring in a holiday vodka commercial. The role called for blonde, pretty, aspirational, Swedish-looking. Check, and apparently check, check, check. A whole twenty seconds of staring dreamily into the eyes of the chiseled-faced man I had met a few hours before and clinking my glass against his. Having a restaurant job to pay the bills made me a clich, but it was necessary, and besides, it gave the days structure.

On the first day of training at the Square, a trendy burger restaurant a few blocks from my apartment, I sat with ten other new employees around a large, circular table, listening to Bruce, the tiny, energetic manager, go over the corporate steps of service. It was my second waitressing jobthe first, a chain restaurant in midtown (the only place that would hire me with no experience) lasted just two months. As Bruce danced around the restaurant, demonstrating when to bring steak knives versus butter knives to a table, I scanned the faces around the table, landing on dark brown eyes belonging to one of the bartenders. He was tall and Latin with black, slicked-back hair and mocha skin. Judging by his accent when he asked a question about the bar setup a few moments earlier, he had been born elsewhere but had lived in the States awhile; the way he spoke was confident and fluid. Our eyes briefly locked, and he gave a quick, easy smile. I looked away, willing myself not to blush. I had learned long ago that the best way to survive in New York City was to keep my defenses up at all times. And anyway, I was happy with my long-distance boyfriend back home in Maine. Jeff had light blue eyes, curly brown hair, and a build comprised of the muscles he used every day in his construction job. When I saw him without clothes, it was like seeing a Greek god in the flesh. I had never seen a body like that in real life before. I had met Jeff while I was home for the summer helping my mom recover from surgery. When I went back to New York at the end of the summer, we substituted drunken nights on his couch for hours on the phone, and what was supposed to be a fun fling somehow turned into a yearlong romance. Our relationship of texting and sporadic weekend visits was easy, and he made me laugh.

The meeting ended, and I gathered my notebook and pen and slid my sunglasses up to rest on top of my head. I was almost through the doors leading to the street before anyone else had even gotten up from the table. I felt someone come up right behind me, and suddenly the door was opening. It was the Latin.

Jen, right? Except the way he said it, it sounded like Gin.

Um, right. Sorry, I was just

Im Marco, the bar manager. Bruce asked me to hand out these employee packets to everyone at the end of the meeting, but you ran away before I could give you one, he said, passing me some rolled-up sheets of paper.

Oh, sorry, I was just... thanks. I couldnt help but meet his open face with a smile.

Well, youre obviously in a hurry, he said with a wink, and then walked away before I could respond.

The next day at work we did speed drills at the bar to see how quickly the bartenders could churn out drinks during a rush.

Send three drinks on different tickets, right now, bam, bam, bam, Bruce whispered to me, and rubbed his hands together. I put in the order for three drinks.

Ah, a jalapeo margarita for... Gin, Marco said as he read the first bar ticket. My face flushed with color. The next ticket printed. And a mojito for... Gin, Marco said with a half smile. I smiled back as the third ticket printed. Martini straight up with a twist. Wait. Dont tell me. He scrunched his face up. For Gin!

Im sorry. I laughed, walking over to the bar. Bruce made me, I whispered when I got close enough.

Dont be sorry, he said. At least I have something nice to look at while I make these drinks.

Oh. Ha, I said, and forced myself to breathe in and out steadily through my nose.

On the last night of training, before the restaurant opened to the friends and family of the owners the next day, everyone decided to go for a drink at the dive bar two blocks away. I finished my side work and walked to the bathroom to change out of my black uniform.