“Charlieforgot to take out the toothpicks,” I said in a relaxed tone that could havebeen mistaken for a suggestion instead of a warning.
Wyattkept his back to me, his shoulders stiff, his body rigid. He didn’t critique meout loud this time, but I felt his disdain as it hung heavily in the air. Thewaiter shifted the tray toward Wyatt, so he could remove the toothpicks andsave the diner from accidentally impaling the roof of their mouth.
Oncefinished, he jerked his chin down in a subtle cue for the waiter to disappear.The waiter did, scurrying to the dining room with perfect parsnips and mediocrechicken roulade. Wyatt watched him go without bothering to turn around andthank me for noticing what could have been a terrible mistake.
Thatwas okay. There was no need. I was much better at having that conversation inmy head anyway.
Crisis averted, asshole. You’rewelcome.
Iwas also very good with passive aggressive texts. We were supposed to be aunited front in the kitchen, a dysfunctional mom and dad to all our littlebastard children. Since Wyatt was the head chef and I was his second incommand, I found it easier to communicate all my angry thoughts via SMS.
Notthat Wyatt was an amateur. He knew his way around insulting emojis better thananyone I knew.
Forinstance, much earlier today he’d texted to remind me to be early fordeliveries, something the two of us usually handled together. I had texted backthat I remembered all on my own. He had hit me back with the surprised catface.
Butthead.
Histexts always riled me up and earlier in the evening I wouldn’t have held mytongue. I would have poked the bear out of need to rile him back, forced him tosay what he was biting his tongue not to say—which wasn’t thank you by the way.But it was so close to quitting time now, I didn’t have the energy to fightwith Wyatt. He could be disappointed in me all he wanted, I wasn’t the one thatforgot about the toothpicks.
Plus,my parsnips, just like all my side dishes tonight and every night, wereperfect. I’d made over a hundred and fifty of them in the last several hours, andnot one complaint had made its way back to the kitchen. At least not about me.
Scowluntil your face is full of wrinkles, Wyatt, those parsnips kicked majorfive-star ass.
Archingmy entire body backward, I stretched my arms over my head and released some ofthe tension curling like a tightened fist in the center of my back. My feetached. My legs had gone numb an hour ago. There was a migraine crawling up theback of my neck into the base of my skull. And I smelled like duck fat andcilantro. It was time to go home.
Iloved my job. I loved it more than anything in this world. Except for maybeWyatt’s job. I felt fairly confident I would love running this kitchen as executivechef. I mean,really, reallylove it.But, there wasn’t any difference in the physical part of that job and mycurrent job. Executive chef responsibility wouldn’t change how often I had tostand on my feet or how exhausted I would be at the end of the night.
Wyattcurrently looked like he’d been mugged at some point tonight, and then draggedthrough a carwash backwards. Not even his tall chef’s hat could hide theunruliness of his dark hair.
Anyway,I loved my job, but I also loved going home at the end of the night. Therewasn’t anything better than working your absolute hardest for a solid fourteenhours and putting your feet up at the end of the night when you knew you hadabsolutely nothing left to give.
WhichI planned on doing in T-minus forty-one minutes.
As Istarted to let the blissful daydream of a shower fill up my head, Wyatt’s deepvoice boomed through the noisy kitchen, snatching my hopes and dreams from theair and shoving them into his filthy pockets. “A friendly reminder that we’redeep cleaning tonight, so nobody take off until your station has been checkedout.”
“Sonof a bitch,” I growled at the still dirty pan in my hand. Now that Wyatt hadsaid something, I vaguely recalled getting an email about this two weeks ago.But in my current exhausted state, I’d chosen denial and daydreams about a hotshower and a cold bottle of beer the second I got home. Yes, both.Simultaneously. Shower beers were basically what I lived for.
“Therego my plans for the night,” the sassy blonde to my left, who had also clearlyforgotten about our monthly kitchen ritual, mumbled beneath her breath.
Ilooked at my friend Dillon and quirked an eyebrow. “I’m sure Mr. RandomStranger will be happy to wait for you.”
Shestuck out her tongue before crouching to wipe the bottom shelf of astainless-steel counter that was already pristinely clean. “Aren’t we judgytonight, Ky?”
Lettingout a frustrated sigh, I leaned on the counter next to where she workeddiligently. “I wasn’t being judgy. I was… reassuring you that you’re worthwaiting for.”
Sheblinked up at me. “Bullshit.”
Icouldn’t help but smile. “Fine. I was being judgy. But only because I’m jealousof your steady stream of action.” The admission tasted like dirt as I forcedmyself to speak the truth I preferred to ignore, deny, and convince myselfwasn’t true.
Itwas a hard thing to admit you were envious of your friend’s sex life.Especially since mine had a neon vacancy sign blinking into the dark night likea dilapidated country motel everyone avoided. Because they were afraid they’dget sliced and diced by the local serial killer.
Notthat I was a serial killer. Just a serial relationship ruin-er.
Okay,that was a little harsh, seeing as I’d only had one long-term relationship inall of my twenty-seven years. But man did I do all that I could to destroy thatone. Straight up annihilated whatever happiness and trust we’d managed to buildtogether.
Afterwards,there had been a series of bad decisions in an effort to forget and move on.Those had also ended terribly. The worst of which I was still forced to workwith.
Fastforward to today, when my closest relationship with a man was the maintenanceguy at my apartment complex because of how often I needed him to unclog my drain,and it was easy for me to feel like the damage I’d done all those years ago hadsome lasting effects on my current dating life. Or lack thereof.
