And that might actually be enough.
By the time I get to the restaurant, Josie’s already here.
She’s usually humming to herself, sleeves rolled up, smile playing on her lips, moving through the kitchen like she owns it. Today, she’s dead silent. Hair pinned back tight. Head down, focused on her station like it’s the only thing holding her together.
I clock it instantly. The shift. The space that wasn’t there yesterday but feels miles wide now. Dread settles in my gut. I thought things were different between us now. I thought we’d moved past this icy distance that feels like a chasm keeping us apart.
“Morning,” I say, keeping my voice easy.
She doesn’t look up. “Morning.”
Just that. No smile. No teasing spark in her eyes. Just quiet, clinical calm.
I set my thermos on the counter and wash my hands, giving her a beat. But she doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t even flinch when I move into the space beside her.
I can’t tell if she’s trying to pretend nothing happened or if she’s waiting to see if I will.
We work in silence for a while. Her chopping herbs like a machine, me rubbing down the racks of ribs I preppedyesterday. The sounds of the kitchen feel too loud—metal clanks, knife on wood, the hum of the fridge kicking on.
It’s not usually like this.
“So,” I finally say, clearing my throat, “everything good?”
She nods too quickly. “Yeah. Just tired.”
Right.
I don’t call her on it. Not yet. But I glance at her hands, noticing the way her knuckles are white around the knife. She’s holding everything too tight today.
I keep my tone light. “You forget to sleep or something?”
She lets out a dry little laugh. “Something like that.”
We fall back into silence. Tension swirling under the surface, like a pot about to boil over.
I could say something. I should say something.
But the way her shoulders stay tense, the way she won’t quite meet my eyes. I don’t know if she needs me to talk or to back off.
I choose neutral ground to bring us back to what we both know best. “Any thoughts on the new menu draft?”
Her eyes flick to mine for half a second. “It’s good. The trout confit might be too rich as a starter, but the flavors are great.”
“Yeah, I was thinking the same.”
We talk food. Safe, familiar ground. She critiques my balance of lemon and thyme like it’s life or death. I argue back, just to hear her voice settle into something that sounds more like her again.
But neither of us says a word about last night.
It’s there, though. In the way she won’t quite meet my eyes. In the way I keep glancing at her without meaning to. In the way our shoulders brush as we pass in the narrow space between prep tables, and neither of us mentions it.
Finally, she leans over the counter, scribbles something in her notebook, and says, “We should probably get ahead on the mirepoix. You want to start on that?”
“Yeah,” I say, voice quieter now. “Sure.”
She doesn’t move right away. Just taps the pen against her page. Then, so quiet I almost miss it, she says, “We’re good, right?”
I look up at her. Her eyes flick to mine and away again, fast.
