1
JULIUS
I smellit before I see it.
“Open your own coffee shop,” they said. “It’ll be great,” they said.
Theydidn’t consider the lack of available skilled baristas in Stillwater, or bakers for that matter. Or that my kitchen seems to be extra combustible? I really should look into dating a firefighter.
Like you have time to date.
Why didn’t I open in the city?
Because you hate the city, dumbass.
“On the house,” I say to my customer with a smile, placing extra marshmallows on the hot chocolate I just finished preparing and setting it on the counter. She stares at me, but I don’t have time to explain that if I stop to charge her, I’ll lose far more than the cost of the drink.
The fire extinguisher is within arm’s reach, so I grab it and rush to the kitchen.
Billowing smoke hits me as I push open the kitchen door. The second thing to hit me is the kid who only started working for me last week.
“I quit. Please don’t sue me.” He coughs.
I can’t see an actual fire, so I take a few short strides to the back door, open it, and let the smoke out. The chill of the Connecticut fall is a welcome relief from the heat in the kitchen.
“What happened?” I ask, trying to show a calm I’m really not feeling, but I know I’m a big dude, and the kid already looks ready to shit his pants.
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I set the timer to make sure the toast didn’t burn. I was checking my messages on my phone and then there was smoke. Lots of smoke. Likeeverywhere.”
I glance at the oven.
I choose calm. I choose calm,I repeat to myself as I open the oven door, releasing even more smoke into the small space.
“Which timer did you set?” I ask when what I really want to know is how long he’d been lost in his phone before he noticed what was happening.
“That one.” He points to the oven timer, which is timing the baking of a batch of brownies for an order. I’ve had a lot of fires in this kitchen, but burning two things at the same time is a first.
“Did you think of using the timer on the wall next to the toaster?”
The kid purses his lips in anO, but no sound comes out.
“Do you agree that maybe this job isn’t for you?”
“You can’t fire me because I’ve already quit.”
I want to shout that it’s just semantics because either way, I’m now without an assistant and down a batch of brownies for an order. The brownies aren’t for just any customer. Fletcher is a friend, and he’s going to be here in just a few hours. Instead, I say, “I’ll mail your last check to you.”
The kid runs out like his ass is on fire, which is a thought that should make me laugh, considering the current situation. But it’s not funny, especially because I can’t shake the feeling thatthis is somewhat my fault for not getting the toaster fixed when the automatic pop-up button stopped working.
I lean over the island in the middle of the kitchen until my forehead touches the cold marble top.
“I release worry and embrace calm,”I repeat to myself half-aloud, hoping it’ll make the feeling a reality.
“Does that actually work?”
I lift my head to find a guy leaning against the doorframe. It takes a second for my brain to engage. “I’m sorry. I’ll be right out to take your order.”
He smiles and points at the still-smoking oven. “Brownies, right?”
