“It’s not a problem. I love your Instagram, by the way. I even made that crabby saffron rice dish a few days ago. Damn, that was good.” One of the servers approached Renee, mutteringsomething that needed her attention. “All right, I gotta get back to work. But it was good seeing you, Cee. I’ll make sure your server knows what to do. Nice meeting you, too, Julian.” She winked before disappearing behind a white wall leading to the kitchen.
“Is there a secret chefs club I need to know about?” he said, settling more comfortably into his seat.
“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
Julian laughed. “So . . . what do you think? About what I had to say?”
Feeling somewhat powerless, Cierra looked at him for a few moments before responding. “You’re not out of the danger zone yet. But I have a birthday party coming up, and I could use a date.”
He smiled. “Gimme a time and place, and I’m there.”
As they marinated in their lovers’ resolution, the server returned with their first course. A sweet vinegar lightly coated an assortment of sashimi, which the chef had adorned with various flowers. The couple each took a bite, savoring the expert mix of flavors, and Julian asked, “You were upstate last weekend. How was it? Get any relaxation in?”
Cierra froze with anxiety, smiling and pretending to chew on her already macerated fish paste to buy some more time. “It was . . . a great reset,” she said, before digging back in. Luckily, Julian didn’t have any other follow-ups, other than to insist she take off a weekend soon so he could show her his cabin.
“I mean it, Cee. No more closing myself off, I want you to feel like you know everything about me,” he said, and raised a glass. “To a fresh start.”
Cierra smiled, but then grimaced. The aftertaste of the sashimi made the wine taste like soured grapes.
A couple days after her date with Julian, Cierra found herself walking down the glistening dark gray sidewalk of the Lawsons’ street, empty save for a few passersby stomping through puddles, who had also got caught in the unexpected summer shower. She hadn’t been back since the Catskills weekend. Her feet squished around in her soggy sneakers while balancing a coffee in her left hand and a London Fog in the right. Even though the weather was a bit shit, the load she was carrying was much lighter than her recent thoughts.
Zelda had called her early that morning, hurriedly asking if she could come down to talk through the upcoming Sincha Summit, a weekend retreat where Zelda and other cofounders would woo new investors to secure Sincha’s next round of funding. And as Cierra was on the way, her boss had also sent a note asking if she could pick up coffees from a cafe nearby, accompanied by a notification from Venmo for fifty dollars. Cierra doubted Zelda knew the price of eggs, much less coffee, but used some of the extra money for some almond and cherry pastries as Zelda likely hadn’t eaten yet, especially if she was in one of her high-strung moods. After being last-minute summoned to work during a flash storm, Cierra could use a danish herself.
Once safely in the mudroom of the Lawsons’ brownstone, Cierra pulled off her sneakers and took a moment to breathe. Upon looking at her dripping grayish-brown socks that were white when she had put them on, she opted to take those off as well. Cierra let herself in and found Zelda in the living room, deeply reclined into an over-sized couch, staring at the ceiling, or maybe nothing at all.
“Did you bring the goods?” Zelda asked in a monotone voice, without taking her eyes off the ceiling.
“It might be a little wet, but yes. Got it all right here. Even grabbed some pastries.”
Zelda didn’t seem to notice Cierra’s drenched clothes or labored breathing. “Thank God, at least one thing is going right today.” As she took a sip, her lip gloss left a sticky pinkish imprint on the cup’s lid.
She frowned at her latte. “This tastes like pure milk. Did they even bother adding any espresso?” She looked disgusted but continued sipping. “Christ, I’m gonna have to make my own fucking coffee now. Anyway . . .” She focused back on Cierra, smiling the way Cierra had seen her before addressing a crowd. “Thanks for coming. I know we were supposed to wait until later, but I’ve been thinking about this event nonstop and realized we have alotto go over.”
Cierra pulled out her notes app and tried her best to jot down the various points Zelda was making, but it was difficult. Her boss rapidly switched from worrying about different guests, to the weather, to dietary restrictions, to other details that didn’t seem to require an emergency meeting on a rainy Wednesday morning.
And the more Zelda talked, the more it became apparent she just needed to vent.
Cierra nodded along with appropriate timing while Zelda rambled on. She was in a plain black button up and acid-wash jeans, and a couple of violet strands had made their way out of her make-shift bun. With hardly any make-up on, she looked younger, Cierra thought, and wondered what her boss would look like with regular colored hair. What about a rich chocolate brown? Did she hold on to her hair as a sign of resistance from her youth? Or was she signaling to others that she had an edge, and that losing it would be like losing a superpower?
“. . . and anyway, it’s not like half the people are gonna be eating anyway, now that they’re all on the magic weight-loss shots,” Cierra heard Zelda say, throwing her hands up in exhaustion. “Tell me, are you worried about the future of theculinary industry, now that there seems to be a war launched on eating?”
Cierra squinted her eyes, trying her best to seem like she took the inquiry seriously, although she was fairly certain that Zelda didn’t know the first thing about what real people went through when it came to weight management; it’s not like everyone had a private chef meal prepping for them. She opened her mouth, hoping that something would come to her, but when Zelda got into these moods, discerning which response was going to appease or trigger her even further was a gamble.
“Um, well . . . no?”
“Hm, well, I guess you kind of have to think that way. You know, self-preservation and all that.”
“Sure . . .” Cierra said, before setting her phone down and looking more directly at her boss, whose bloodshot eyes were shadowed with light purple crescents underneath them.What’s up with this woman today?
“Are you feeling all right?” Cierra asked, her tone revealing more annoyance than she intended.
“Why would you ask that?” Zelda shot back quickly, “Do I seem not okay to you?”
“You’re right, sorry,” Cierra replied. She went to pick her phone up again, the ends of her hair still dripping onto her shirt, which Zelda noticed for the first time.
“No, no, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to snap at you.”
Zelda got up, haphazardly tossing the little blue pillow that had been on her lap back onto the couch, and began pacing on the hand-woven area rug. She dragged a hand through her hair and then raised her arms high above her head in a yoga pose.
