Rearranging Fate, page 1
Rearranging Fate
Copyright © 2022 K.C. Ale All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309
Printed in the United States of America
Table of Contents
Copyright Page
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
Epilogue
Acknowledgment
Reinventing Fate
About K.C. Ale
Books by K.C. Ale
Prologue
Twelve Years Earlier
~ Damian ~
The long car slows on a street so stained, so littered with the dejected and the unseen, it’s a miserable black pit baking under the June sun. Tattered, filthy tents, some occupied, a few appearing abandoned, line the marked sidewalk. The car’s tinted windows are fully up, the doors fanatically secured, but no one bothers to spare us a glance.
We’re crawling through the neglected, unhoused population of bustling Lower East Side.
As though he’s picking up on whatever foulness is emitting from the desperate, Jenison adjusts the temperature with one hand while keeping the other firmly on the steering wheel. Pops’ driver has always been annoyingly particular about every little thing.
I know what Pops is doing.
Relaxed on the lush beige leather next to me, he carelessly reviews an open document on his laptop. He’s too good, too self-important to peer out the window, to peek at my reaction. Just as well, since I refuse to play his game and give him one.
It’s not like I’ve never seen a homeless person, for fuck’s sake.
Just not this many at one place.
Mood grumpier by the minute, I huddle deeper into my black sweatshirt, the hoodie over my lowered head hopefully thwarting his view of my profile. I’m only seventeen for another five months but a fresh high school graduate, but Pops thinks that just means he should kick up his demands of me a few hundred notches.
All because I want to wait on college.
Elle is four years old. How can I possibly leave my baby sister? Worse yet, leave her with him. He doesn’t remember he has a young daughter half the time, and that was before he started running for the senate.
What’s the big deal? It’s not like I’m ditching it forever.
Now Pops is giving me the silent treatment. He doesn’t need to say a word for the message to be bullhorn loud. That’s his superpower. That, and his superhuman ability to hide his asshole-ness to the general public.
You’ll end up like them if you don’t shape up.
Mentally rolling my eyes, I gaze out the window instead. What’s so bad about not going to college anyway? I’m young, healthy, I can work. I don’t need all that money. Gramps left me plenty anyway, made sure I wouldn’t have to rely on him.
Some guy is strolling around, not a care in the world, in nothing but scruffy shorts and flipflops. He’s bone-thin with scraggly hair sticking to his scalp. Squinting, I peer closer. A few paces behind scraggly hair is another man clutching the hand of a girl with pretty reddish-blonde hair. She can’t be more than ten-or just really tiny for her age-with a frayed book hugged protectively against her chest. The folded hems of her pants drag on the ground, short legs stumbling trying to keep up with the man.
Leaning right up against the glass, I study the sad pair. They don’t look like they belong there.
Something hard knocks in my stomach.
Why are there kids like this?
Is this what Pops wanted me to see? Homeless children?
The girl, she’s the most serious little thing I’ve ever seen. Her hair glints nearly red under the bright sun, but as soon as they fall in the shadow of a building, she’s blonde again. It’s long and uncombed. I can’t see what book she’s holding, but she’s clutching it like other girls would their prized stuffed toy.
I kind of want to know what she’s reading that’s so precious.
If Pops weren’t here, judging me without a word, I might’ve rolled down the window and asked.
I got a lot of books, a whole library full of them at home. Maybe she’d want some of them, since it’s obvious she likes to read so much. I’d give them to her.
She looks like she needs them more than I do.
1
~ Cara ~
Dangling strings of flickering lights, bright and cheerful, drape at each window, alluring anyone who passes the bustling city sidewalk with a wink and a smile to venture in from the biting cold. The city is shouting with jovial year-long anticipation of the upcoming holidays. Times Square is already bustling nonstop in preparation for the turn of the year, drawing in tourists from around the world. Irate honks, the swish of tires, occasional bursts of laughter, and hurried footsteps shape the noise of the nonstop city around me.
It's damn cold, but the easy, beckoning joy warms my heart.
Dashing across the slushy street during a rare break in traffic, I sidestep a young couple arm in arm, each with a shopping bag swinging. I huddle deeper into my castoff jacket while sirens blare from a distance. The white fluff is starting to drift down, and I pick up the pace to round the corner toward the rear entrance of Café Love. I’ve got a few minutes to spare, but I like to be early anyway.
The heavy thump of steel hitting steel has me instinctively glancing over just as the fancy black sports car roars to life. It idles for a second, gorgeous ingenuity roasting nature’s freeze. My steps slow, my gaze riveted to the light eyes from the shadowed interior pinning me through the windshield. They’re spicier than the lavish vehicle, a silent, burning message, before the showy car zips away from the curb.
Something dances in my chest before dropping to my stomach, awakening my snoozing veins.
I know that flashy car. Or rather, the dashing glimpse of the puzzling man in it. Both have been missing for over a year.
Now he’s back.
Not that he knows me or leads me to believe in any way he wants to change that. He’s friends with Paige, who quit Café Love to go overseas for medical treatment with her new fiancé, Colin. For the longest time this man came to Café Love-or simply Love’s for the locals-nearly every week, openly, rudely gawking at me, but not once had he made a move to even inquire about my name, content to sit quietly and stare.
Why would he try to talk to me? He’s just like everyone else most of my life, ignoring me while I’m right in front of them. I’m just a nameless girl who cleans after people at a small diner.
I shake off all intrusive thoughts of the man. I don’t have time to dwell on something as silly as men. I’m here to work. Nothing more.
Before Love’s, everything I ever owned I could pretty much jam into my pockets with room to spare. The only reason I even have this job is because Bob Love found me digging through the garbage in the alley of his restaurant three years ago, and his soft heart simply wilted at the sight of my ragged, too large clothes hanging on my gaunt frame, filthy hands rummaging for abandoned cans and bottles so I could bring them in for a few dollars. The older man stood there for I didn’t know how long, quietly watching me.
When I finally realized I wasn’t alone, my busy eyes veered up to find the expression I was all too familiar with.
Pity.
It quickly morphed into an impatient scowl. “Come back again tomorrow,” he instructed in his no-nonsense tone. “I ain’t got time to haul away that junk.”
It went on for weeks, Bob setting aside the recyclables for me every day. The cash wasn’t much, but for a girl who didn’t have anything, the chance to earn even pocket change was everything.
Then a miracle happened. Bob offered to pay me to clean tables. All I had to do was come back neat and presentable, and he’d give me the standard uniform he required of all his employees, do my job and try not to break anything, sass him or his customers, or steal from him or anyone else. If I showed up drunk or high, he’d throw me out on my skinny ass, he’d told me in his stern, scary voice.
It wasn’t until much later that I learned Bob was a giant teddy bear with an even bigger heart hidden beneath a scary scowl for show.
That night at the shelter, I scrubbed myself until my skin was bright pink, my hair bouncy fresh.
Bob always pays me in cash at the end of the day. And to my astonishment and delight, he told me the first time I got a tip that it was mine to keep, the customers’ way of showing their appreciation for a job well done.
In a little over a month, I had saved up enough to permanently leave the shelter and rent a small furnished room from an elderly couple, an acquaintance of Bob’s. I can’t help but smile at the memory. It was t
As soon as I push through the heavy metal door of the little diner, the lively holiday tunes pumping out invigorate my steps. The scent is mouthwatering, so aromatic my alerted senses steam at the tempting whiffs of crispy fried foods and fresh baked pies.
Briskly stowing my things in my locker, I grab my gear. Tying the half-apron around my waist, I nod at Gus on my way from the back room to the kitchen.
“Cara.” The dishwasher glimpses at me long enough to flash his smoker’s teeth, a terrible habit he refuses to give up no matter how many times I nag him. A red bandana keeps his few gray hair under wraps. “Bob was looking for you.”
I snatch the plastic bin near him. “Did he forget I have the second shift?”
He snorts. “Probably. You know he secretly relies on you to run this place so he can spend his time cooking and yakking with the customers.”
The casual description was spot on. “That’s customer relations. He’s good—"
“Cara! There you are!” Jenny calls out, pushing through the swinging kitchen door. Her face is flushed with animation. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“I know, I know. Bob is looking for me.” I do a quick visual survey. “Where is Bob?”
“He’s chatting with a customer, but forget about him for a minute.” She bounces excitedly on her sneakered toes. “That guy was here. You totally just missed him.”
As one of the servers, Jenny has been here almost as long as I have. She knows all the regulars and their usuals, but there are certain ones she grants special attention.
The image of the black sports car flashes in my head. “What guy?” I play dumb.
“The hottie with the suits. He hasn’t been here in, like, forever.”
A year and a half, actually, but I don’t share that observation with her.
Gus rolls his eyes and begins stacking the clean dishes. “Don’t you got a man?” he comments to Jenny.
“Riley’s cool, but that out there?” Jenny juts a thumb in the general direction of the street. “That there was the man.” Biting back a knowing grin, she shares a mischievous wink with Gus. “Besides, I was excited for Cara.”
“You better watch yourself, girl. If Bob gets wind you’re panting after a customer, he’d chop you like salad. He still hasn’t gotten over Paige taking off with Big Tipper.”
“Paige did not take off with Colin,” I’m compelled to remind them both, snagging a clean rag to hook to my apron. “He took her to Denmark to seek treatment. That’s a big difference.”
The kitchen door swings in to admit Sissy. “There you guys are. Bob is out there running his mouth, and I’m telling you, that customer is looking for a rescue. Hey, Cara. Bob was asking for you.”
“I’m on it.”
Jenny dumps two leftover plates in the filled sink. “I’m out in a few. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”
“You have plans for the weekend, Cara?” Sissy asks as she hurries by to grab a prepped paper cup of butter from the fridge, her perky blonde ponytail swinging behind her with each motion. “Or are you working again?” She makes a face as if she just swallowed a sour pickle by accident.
My own blonde hair–strawberry shade, someone had once called it–is haphazardly pulled back with a band and lacks the bounce that Sissy’s display, probably because I wash mine with cheap, gallon sized stuff from the dollar store that always smells like hard plastic, while she luxuriates in commercial worthy products.
Sissy is around my age, but that’s about all we have in common. She started not too long ago, hired to replace Paige. A college student working part-time to help with the expenses even though her family is fronting the cost of her education. Sissy wanted party money, she once professed with a laugh, and her parents weren’t willing to increase her allowance, so she reluctantly took the job working three evenings a week. Her boyfriend, Paul, a good-looking athlete that attends the same university, often stops by for a bite. To Bob’s irritation, he spends more time openly flirting with her in between her taking orders than eating. He sometimes waits around until she’s off so they can go home together in his little motorcycle. It’s like something out of the shows my landlady, Mrs. Fernandez, likes to watch on weeknights.
It's a life I can’t fathom.
“I like working,” I tell her, and it’s nothing short of the truth. Though it’s not openly discussed, the crew pretty much knows about my situation, but Bob makes it a point to treat me like all the others. “I like getting paid even more though.”
She laughs, easily, girlishly, not a worry in the world. “I hear that, gurl. I hear that.” With practiced effort, she sweeps a plate of chicken salad sandwich with fries, a basket of fish and chips, and a cup of tomato basil soup onto a fresh tray that Bob must’ve left for her to pick up. “Hey, listen, Paul has a friend who’s hanging out with us this weekend. I thought you guys might hit it off. You want to come with?”
I blink, a little perplexed. That happens a lot with Sissy and some of the other girls who have come and gone. Why would she think I would get along with someone I’ve never met? “Umm... I have to work.”
This isn’t the first time Sissy or some of the others have invited me out, but with the exception of Paige Zine, I turned them down each time. I can’t imagine spending time with real people without busting their tables or hovering around to clean up their messes.
And what would I have in common with a bunch of college kids anyway?
What’s your major, Cara?
Nothing. I work. I sleep. I work some more.
It’s not that I’m some illiterate simpleton who can’t carry a reasonably intelligent conversation. Not so much, anyway. I read a lot. That was my favorite pastime when I was at the shelter. There were always used books and outdated magazines around, donations from volunteers who’d already perused them, and I read whatever I could get my hands on and loved every second of it. I even looked up words I didn’t understand like I was taught when I was in school and tried to use them as much as I could. That was, until people at the shelter started looking at me like I’d been licking the inked pages.
“Oh, come on, it’ll be fun. The guy is really hot. Besides, you know the saying. All work and no play...”
“Sissy,” Bob barks as he swings into the kitchen, his bulk ambling over with impressive haste. “Table seven is waiting for food. Cara, Ahmad was having all kinds of trouble working that new stinking credit card machine. Get your skinny ass out there and show him again. Oh, and table ten needs your TLC.”
I nod sheepishly, having been explained to me what TLC stood for on my first day, and hurries after Sissy, brushing by Bob as he sighs loudly. Today he’s sporting a black Yankees cap on his bald head, the gray, neatly trimmed moustache unsuccessfully hiding the twitch of his lips as he watches us go. He’s probably overweight by a good fifty pounds, but his abundant energy and youthful optimism makes him a man I admire tremendously. Not to mention all the kind, tolerant things he’s done for me, an unhoused stranger.
Oh, but I’m homeless no more.
I’m starting to dream, daring to. Wanting things. Working toward goals. Striving to be normal. Bob is helping me with that by letting me work here. But I want more.
It takes only a few minutes to go over the machine with Ahmad. We were all trained on it, but his mind has been preoccupied with his new girlfriend lately. With the gray bin hooked under one arm and a rag in my hand, I weave my way to the back of the cozy café until I get to the newly vacated table ten. It’s mindless work, clearing tables, wiping them down, straightening chairs, but the sense of renewed purpose and accomplishment always make me want to work harder, move faster, as I dump the sullied dishes and silverware into the bin. It’s while I start spraying and mopping the scarred surface with the cloth that I see it.
Half against the side and sleeping on the ground is an expensive, classy black leather wallet with a fancy designer logo, one I recognize from the colorful, glossy magazines at the shelter. It’s grazing the wall as if it had accidentally fallen out of a pocket without anyone noticing. Frowning, I bend to retrieve it, flipping the heavy fold open to find bulging slots of credit cards, bills of hundreds in the long compartment, and a peek of the top of what I think is a driver license in one of the slits.
Hundreds of dollars. In cash.
A burning buzzing in my ears drowns out the chirpy music, the lively murmurs, the clanking of dishes in the restaurant.
