For my Twin
CHAPTER ONE
ON A FRIGID Friday evening in Manhattan, Tribeca elites scrambled for indoor plans to escape the freezing weather. And in the middle of a packed Michelin-starred restaurant called Terra, in the heart of New York City’s most exclusive neighborhood, Cierra Brooks was one millimeter away from losing her shit on a forty-something woman and her somewhat meek-looking husband. Terra had been Cierra’s place of employment for the past three years, ever since she’d quit her corporate job, emptied her savings account, graduated from culinary school, and become a full-time chef. But if you had told her on graduation day that in a few years’ time she’d be squaring off with a prep-school mom over charred chicken, she would’ve laughed in your face. Or, at the very least, perhaps listened to her boyfriend when he begged her to rethink the career change.
Groovy electronic dance music and the sound of conversations ricocheting off Terra’s brick walls buffered the slew of critiques from Prep School Mom. “. . . I just don’t understand what the concept here is? This chicken is clearly burnt . . .”
Normally, the sous chef addressed these kinds of complaints. But as Cierra’s luck would have it, he was on vacation, which left her next in line. And it’s not like Cierra hadn’t grown accustomed to entitled guests — just two weeks ago, a sixteen-year-old girl had screamed at a waitress after being informed the last swordfish had been ordered by another customer.
But tonight, something changed; a switch flipped in Cierra’s previously passive mind. She could feel her body flash with heat, first in her armpits, where drips of sweat were working their way down toward the crease at her hip. Then the heat traveled to the sides of her temples, which were throbbing within seconds.
With exhaustion in her dark brown eyes, Cierra gazed stonily at the woman, who had finally stopped speaking. Was she looking at her, or through her?
Prep School Mom snapped her fingers in Cierra’s face. “Hello? Are you even listening to me?!”
As if confused herself, Cierra raised both eyebrows, shrugged, and sighed. With a straight face, she responded, “Mm, I see. You could always go back to the kitchen and show the staff the proper charring technique. I’mfascinatedto learn this new method that doesn’t involve burning.”
Cierra gestured with her arms sarcastically toward the kitchen, as if inviting the couple to accompany her to the back. Two partially opened mouths, revealing overly bleached teeth, looked back at her. The bulging left eye of the woman twitched, and her shiny black bob swayed as she cocked her head in confusion. Her husband looked like he was trying to hold back a laugh. But before either could get another word in, Cierra turned sharply on her heel (difficult in her gray clogs) and marched toward the back of the restaurant.
Shit, shit, shit. What were you thinking back there?
Cierra booked it to the kitchen, where a frenzy of open flames seared through marinated meats. Tangy notes of citrus and vinegar cut through aromas emanating from fresh herbs like basil and cilantro. She thought she might have heard “What’d that bitch at Table Seven have to say?” or “Cee looks pissed” from her co-workers, but she didn’t have time to respond to theircomments before bursting through a second set of doors to the washing room leading out to the alley.
In three years, Cierra had never talked to a customer like that. It had been a long, draining dinner service. Even so, she couldn’t justify the anger that had broken through just now. Cierra’s heart was still pumping hard, but at least the adrenaline pulsating through her veins was shielding her from the harsh wind chill slicing through the alleyway. All night long, she had worn her mass of corkscrew curls in a tight bun, which had only contributed to her growing headache. Mindlessly, Cierra pulled her locks free, gently massaging her scalp; anything to release the pressure. She made a mental note to wash her hands as soon as she got back inside.
This wasn’t supposed to be her life. About two months ago, she’d auditioned for the biggest national cooking competition TV show,Plated, but hadn’t made the cut. So, she was stuck here. Cooking the same dishes every night and being patronized by people who wore outfits worth more than her rent. And after this, she got to go home to her boyfriend, Harry, who was still upset with her for missing his parents’ anniversary to go to that damned audition in the first place. With closed eyes, she leaned against the frozen brick building as steam billowed from her nose and mouth with every deep breath.
It was only a matter of time before the general manager pulled her aside. Or worse.
Moments like this made Cierra wish she still smoked. Even though she had quit a year ago, she still liked the smell and would sometimes join the other chefs and busboys during their breaks. Harry had hated the smell. Yet another one of her life choices he’d disapproved of.
By any metric known to man, Cierra was a classic overachiever; she was never one to disrespect authority (contrary to this event, anyway). So, this lightheaded feelingwashing over her in the alley, that moment after the flash of lightning and before the harsh crack of thunder, was foreign to her. But then the thunder came, in the distinct click of men’s dress shoes. Cierra didn’t need to turn to know who was standing to her right.
“Cee . . . we need to talk,” Jesse said in a stern but measured voice. “You’re gonna get frostbite out here. Let’s go, walk with me.”
Jesse wasn’t a hot-headed general manager. There was a reason the executive chef trusted him with handling one of the most respected — and lucrative — restaurants in Lower Manhattan. Jesse was a professional, always, which filled Cierra with that much more dread to be pulled aside. It was a packed Friday night, and he only had time for the most urgent matters. Reluctantly, she followed him to his office.
The space was cramped, but he kept it more organized than most people in his position. General managers spent their time flying between the front and back of the house, managing the egos of both staff and customers. Always with a warm grin. He gestured for her to take a seat, which she did immediately.
“Now look, I only have a minute,” he said matter-of-factly. His large hands were clasped together, resting on the austere metal desk. “I don’t know what happened out there, but it doesn’t sound like you.”
“I didn’t mean—”
He put up his hand to stop her. “Listen. I already talked to Table Seven and smoothed things over. They’re assholes. I get it. But this is fine dining, Cee. This comes with the territory. And outbursts like that . . . they’re not acceptable. That outburst is going to become a story. A story that hurts our reputation.”
Cierra just sat, not making eye contact, shaking her head. Not in humiliation, though. Something else. Usually, she’d be dreading what was going to come next. In her tenure, she’d seenstaff fired for far smaller offenses. But part of herwantedto be fired. To just be done with it. Done with Terra and restaurants and . . .
“Cee, you’re putting me in a tough position,” Jesse said, bringing Cierra’s attention back to their conversation. He pinched the pink skin between his eyebrows and looked at the ceiling as he let out a big exhale. “This is what we’re gonna do, okay? You’re gonna take tomorrow off. Be sick. Whatever. Just take a day. You’re not the first chef in this restaurant to lose it, all right? But you’ve got too much potential to let go of because of a one-off.”
“Thanks, Jesse. It won’t happen again.”
“I know it.” He looked at his watch one more time. “Listen, for what it’s worth — even Lana gets crazy flak. And if the award-winning executive chef can grin and bear it, so can you. By the way, you’re lucky as shit she wasn’t here tonight.”
“Okay, Jesse. And thanks again. I’m not sure what came over me . . . it’s like . . . I don’t know. Just, thanks.”
“You’re a talented chef, Cee. I mean that. Take the day and figure your shit out, okay?”
“Sure, all right.”
