A woman taps the counter, waiting for a to-go order that clearly hasn’t even been started. Someone coughs. Someone complains. The espresso machine lets out a loud hiss.
Behind me, the door to the kitchen swings on its hinge, wide open to reveal… nothing. A few dirty pans. An empty prep station. Abandoned chaos.
No cook.
Sanjay rushes past me again with two drinks balanced on a tray and flour on his apron. “I’m sorry,” he says as he breezes past. “I tried calling him, but his voicemail says he’s out of town. Like literally says it, like it’s normal.”
I blink. “He left town?”
Sanjay twists back toward me. “I think he quit.”
“Did he say he was quitting?” I sound like an idiot, as if clarity on the whereabouts and plans of my MIA cook is what can save the current situation.
“He posted an Instagram story with a cocktail on a beach and the caption, ‘finally free.’ I’m reading between the lines here.”
Jesus.
Coffee overflows behind me and scalds my hand as I reach for it. Fuck. I grab a rag, clean the cup up, and push it across the counter to the wrong customer, who glares at it like I just served them poison.
I inhale slowly.
Then I walk into the back, find my apron, and start making wraps and sandwiches.
Tomato, lettuce, smear of pesto. Next.
Hummus, cucumber, alfalfa sprouts. Next.
I don’t taste; I don’t feel; I just move. Because that’s what I do. I keep the ship from sinking. Even if I’m bailing water with my bare hands.
“Sanjay,” I call out through the open door. “Stop seating new tables for now. We’re in triage mode.”
“You got it, boss.”
The bread is stale.
We’re out of turkey.
We’re down to two avocados, and one of them is already halfway to brown sludge. But I keep going.
I make four sandwiches in a row before realizing Ihaven’t buttered a single slice of bread. Doesn’t matter.Just keep going.
The kitchen smells like wilted greens and burned coffee. My headband is slipping. A drop of sweat slides down the back of my neck. I scrape together something that passes for a caprese wrap.
Sanjay lets out a grateful sigh as he whisks them away.
I grab another tomato and slice it with a little more force than necessary.
I should never have gone to the gala.
Not because I regret the dress. Or the dancing. Or the way Xander looked at me, like I was a puzzle he was desperate to solve.
But because of how easy it had been to forget this.
This chaos. This grind.
This version of myself who lives in reaction mode. Who wakes up already behind, and goes to sleep never quite caught up.
For one night, I pretended I belonged somewhere else.
