Lines I hoped I would have one day from all the smiling I’d done.
I pushed the back of my head against the small leather cushion behind me and closed my eyes for the briefest of seconds. The thing was, at this point, I didn’t even know what I was smiling about. There was that much good happening in my life. And a part of me worried that with all this good, would there be bad too? Or had I already experienced enough of that?
“I didn’t know a happiness like this existed,” I admitted. “I didn’t know, in life, there would ever be a reason to smile every day.” I released a long breath. “And I know how sad that sounds. Trust me. But it’s true.”
“It’s not sad, my pumpkin. It’s reality. And it was my reality.”
“It was?”
She pulled her hand back and crossed her cardigan over her chest. “I didn’t find happiness until I found art. I smelled flowers and traveled and tasted and walked through forests all on my canvases. But the truth was, I didn’t see those flowers or travel or taste or walk through forests. I had to create those moments with a brush and paint.” She stared at her hands, a yellow smear covering the nail of her middle finger. She didn’t pick it off; she left it. “You’ve found your art, Alivia. And now all the dreams you’ve had, the ones you recited in your head when times got tough and you wondered if you would ever make it, they’re all going to come true.”
The nights I’d slept on the mattress on the floor, shaking beneath my comforter, turning up the volume in my earbuds, but no sound could take away their screams.
The hours I’d spent with my back against the door.
The threats, the coercion.
The abuse.
Those were just the years at Dean’s, but so much more had happened before him.
I didn’t know where the emotion came from. I didn’t expect it to enter my eyes and to have to fight so hard to hold it back. But when I nodded, the first drop rimmed my eyelid, and I whispered, “You’re right. They are going to come true.”
“The main courses have all been delivered,” one of our servers announced as she entered the kitchen.
A kitchen that didn’t have the most ideal setup for an event this large, but Walker and I, along with the pastry chef from Charred, were making it work.
Walker stood in the center of the cramped room, and with his arms crossed, the position tightened his chef’s whites across his back, showing the muscles there and in his shoulders. “You’re telling me everyone is happy with their selection?”
“Seems to be,” the server replied.
It had been an extremely stressful day, especially since we’d already been here for at least ten hours, first prepping, followed by cooking each course. The appetizers were finicky. The sides of each of the mains were time-consuming. The main dishes were tedious. He hadn’t exploded or raised his voice once, but there were times, I knew, he’d wanted to.
However, the nonchalant attitude of this server was going to send him straight over the edge.
“No assumptions,” he growled. “I need you to go out there and check on every fucking guest and make sure they’re pleased with what they’re eating. And if they’re not, I need you to come in here and tell me, and we’ll make it fucking right. Understood?”
Her mouth opened, and instead of saying anything, she nodded, almost immediately turning around and rushing toward the exit that led to the dining room.
Walker faced me as I was pouring hot fudge into the tiny dessert bowls. “I almost tore the fuck into her.”
I smiled. “You kinda did.”
“I could have done far worse.”
“I know,” I replied.
The pastry chef laughed.
We’d been here all day prepping each course. The onlything we had left was dessert. James had ordered a cake. Our responsibility was the homemade ice cream that went with it, which Walker and I had made this morning, along with the toppings that I was currently pouring, and a specialty dessert for our guests with allergies. Once this was served, we could breathe a giant sigh of relief.
Walker came over, standing on the opposite side of the counter as me. “Is this the only thing that’s left on our end?” He nodded toward the vat of chocolate I was holding.
“Yes. I have just enough bowls for every person. They’ll each get the three toppings we’re offering. At least for dairy options. The vegan and gluten-free option will come in a separate dish that I prepared this morning.”
“How’s it coming with the vegan dessert?” Walker asked a little louder, getting the pastry chef’s attention in the back of the kitchen.
“Almond flour biscuits were just put in the oven, non-dairy ice cream is ready to be scooped, and I’m making the strawberry sauce as I speak.”
