I could kill him. Easily. No jury would convict me. Heknows. Knows exactly what I’m talking about, which means he knows what he did. And instead of owning it, he’s panic-texting me like I’m his therapist. But before I can tell him to grab a pistol and meet me at dawn, I’m hit by a wall of texts:
It’s not what it looks like.
When did she find out???
Ada’s phone’s off. Is she with you?
Cece,please call me?
I’m coming to the bar.
I slam my finger on the screen and switch to all-caps, as I smell my chips burn black behind me:
IT’S NOT WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE???
IT LOOKS LIKE YOU'VE FUCKED UP ANY CHANCE YOU HAVE WITH ADA. IT LOOKS LIKE YOU’RE DATING THE CUNT QUEEN OF PUKEKOHE!!! IT LOOKS LIKE I’M PLANNING YOUR FUCKING FUNERAL!!!
DON’T COME ANYWHERE NEAR MY BAR EVER AGAIN BECAUSE YOU CAN’T FIX THIS.
Jake doesn’t seem to register anything except my last three words:
I can fix this. I have to. Just tell me where she is, or I’ll come to the bar and wait for her.
“Fuck!”
Davis sticks his head through the pass. “Need help?”
“Yes, please.”
It pains me to admit anything, but I push through. Davis wouldn’t ask if he didn’t mean it. He’s there in seconds, yanking on an apron and scooping the ruined chips directly into the bin. A drop of grease flies off the basket and hits my forearm. I hiss, wiping it off with a tea towel.
Davis looks horrified. “Shit. Are you okay?”
I wave a hand at him.
“I’m fine.” The stinging speckle is already lost in the constellation of grease burns I’ve accrued this past year. Although anyone without hospo experience might assume they’re freckles.
“Ada’s here,” he says, eyes still locked on my arm. “She’s?—”
“I know.” I flip the top part of my apron down and storm out of the kitchen like I’m charging a battlefield. Ada doesn’t see me coming, but the rugby guys do. They smirk at me like they’ve just discovered fire.
“Are you the chef?” one of them asks.
I don’t respond. “Ada? I’m so glad you’re back. We’ve all been really worried about you.”
She turns to face me, eyes glassy, lips slick with gloss and tequila. Her smile is so empty it hurts my heart.
“Cece!” she claps her hands. “Look at you! So put-together! Ilovethat for you.”
I amnotput together. I am a panic attack in a tank top. The kitchen’s a furnace, my staff are one slow week from getting laid off, and my best friend is disintegrating in front of me. “Addy, listen to me, Jake’s on?—”
“Hey,” one of the uni boys interrupts. “Did you know this is Ada Renaldo? The Christmas song chick?”
“Yes,” I snap, grabbing Ada’s arm and dragging her away from her new nursery school friends. “The fuck’s happening right now?” I whisper-shout.
“I’m fine,” she says, her eyes skimming past mine.
“You’re wasted.”
