A muscle jumps in my jaw. I don’t bite.
But she’s not done.
“You know what you have to do, Knoxie. I don’t want to have to act out.”
I straighten, pulse hammering. “Stop threatening me.”
She smiles, sharp as glass. “I won’t have to if you just do as I ask.”
Something in my chest twists. “You promised.”
“Only if you keep in line.”
“That’s it,” I snap. “You’re done here.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“You’re banned from The Marrow. Don’t come back. Don’t call. Don’t so much aslookat someone who works here, or I swear...”
“You’ll what?” she says sweetly. “Throw another tantrum? Maybe that’s the headline I leak next. ‘Disgraced NFL star throws fit in failing kitchen.’ Think that’ll sell?”
I lean in, voice steel. “Try me. You’ll see just how fast I stop playing nice.”
Her smile drops for the first time. For a split second, I see it, that flicker of panic behind her eyes.
But then she recovers. Tosses her hair over her shoulder like this whole thing bores her. “You know, I really thought you’d be smarter about this. Guess not.”
She turns on her heel and walks out.
I don’t move. Can’t. My fists are clenched, my brain’s on fire, and I already know, whatever she’s done, whatever she’s set in motion, it’s going to hurt Josie.
And that’s the part I can’t live with.
I head back to the line, barking out orders just to keep myself upright.
But my voice sounds hollow. My hands shake.
A minute later, I’m elbowing through the pantry door and locking myself inside like it’s the last safe place in the world.
Maybe it is.
I slide down the wall until I’m crouched between a case of fire-roasted tomatoes and a bag of lentils that’s leaking at the seam. My knees protest. My back aches. My brain feels like a pulled muscle. Tight, twitching, useless.
I’m spooning cold butterscotch pudding into a cup of chicken and wild rice soup.
It’s disgusting. I don’t care.
The soup’s from the lunch shift. I didn’t even heat it up. The pudding’s from Gracie’s dessert prep tray. I think it was supposed to be part of the seasonal sampler. Pretty sure I just committed a crime against food.
Still, I take a bite.
Salty, sweet, vaguely gelatinous. Absolutely vile.
I take another.
It’s something to focus on. Something to keep my hands busy while my thoughts spiral out of control.
Dinner service was a war zone. No show servers, a burner that wouldn’t light, a Yelp blogger in the corner who I swear was timing everything with a damn stopwatch. One of the sous chefs burned the halibut and started crying. I think I might’ve snapped at Nova. Can’t remember. Might’ve apologized. Might’ve not.
