“I saw your review of Earl’s,” Lucas said. “Man, that was brutal. What does a guy have to do to get a good review from you?”
Frank snickered. “Ask Chef.”
At least they weren’t mad at me. They clustered around, curious and sympathetic. Suffocating.
Ray’s face folded like a wet towel. “All right, back to work. All of you.” His gaze flicked to me. “You good to go?”
“Go. Just go.”
Out of his face? Or out of his kitchen? I couldn’t leave. I couldn’t walk off the line, leaving the kitchen short-staffed a few hours before service.“What about your commitment to me?”
“I’m fine.” I was furious. Shattered.
“I want you on batch work today,” Ray said.
I nodded. The assignment—making the vinaigrettes and aiolis the whole kitchen would use over the next two days—was a mark of his confidence in my ability to follow a recipe. Or maybe he just wanted to keep me out of Eric’s way.
Smart move.
I blew my nose and washed my hands. Focusing on the ingredients, chopping and measuring, helped keep my mind off the fight in Eric’s office. And if occasionally my eyes watered, hey, I blamed it on the onions. Anyway, I made it through the afternoon somehow without cutting myself or stabbing anybody with a kitchen knife.
An hour before service, Malik, the headwaiter, bustled into the kitchen with the reservations book. “Heads up. The phone’s been ringing off the hook. We added twenty covers to the second seating.”
Lucas swore. “I need to prep more sunchokes.”
“You knew we’d be slammed. It’s the holidays,” Ray said.
“It’s that blog.Hungry,” Malik said. “Nothing brings out the foodies like thinking they know something nobody else don’t know.”
“We should sell tickets,” Frank said.
“Give sex tours,” Kevin suggested.
Lucas laughed. Constanza hit him with a spoon.
“What? Oh.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry, Jo.”
“It’s fine,” I said.
Not fine. I didn’t want them to censor themselves on my account. I wanted the comfort of being one of the guys, part of the team.
When Eric called us together to demonstrate the day’s specials, I hung back, not pressing with the others around the table. I watched over Constanza’s shoulder as Eric layered colors and flavors on the plate, his hands beautiful and sure. I snuck a glance at his face once or twice. Okay, maybe three or four times. But he would not look at me.
When the staff gathered afterward for family meal, I fled to the storeroom, seeking out the deepest, darkest aisle behind the wire shelves. I was not going to snivel. I was not the type. I pulled out my phone, like a teenage boy surreptitiously surfing for porn.
The torrent of comments had slowed. One hundred fifty-eight. But interspersed with the usual comments (Yummy. Hate dry scrambled eggs.AndDo you know where I can buy fresh farm eggs in Millington, New Jersey?) was speculation on Eric’s identity. On mine. On our relationship. (I love it when my boyfriend cooks for me.AndSo does Bhaer wear the chef pants in the kitchen?)
You took something that was personal, private, and put it on your fucking blog without telling me.
Meg had messaged me a picture of a Christmas tree, a cluster of red balls weighing down one branch, a snapshot of her small, bright, perfect life.Decorating with Daisy and DJ!
A swell of longing for my sister swept over me. I tapped my phone once. Twice.Don’t go to voice mail, please don’t go to voice mail...
“Jo?”
I swallowed hard. “Hey, Meg. Whatcha doing?”
“Just throwing dinner together.” Something clattered on the stove. “What’s up?”
