Mia barks out a humorless laugh and shakes her head.
“You really don’t get it, princess. Working in a restaurant isn’t like whatever fancy private school you went to. You don’t get a gold star just for showing up. Things aren’t always fair.”
She whirls around again, this time gesturing in Corbin’s direction with her knife.
“See that dickhead over there? When I first started working here, I had your job and he was in my role. And every day for months, he found some way to put his hands on me. A slap on my ass every time I walked by, a grope in the basement storage room. Every. Day. Until one day, I finally had enough and stabbed him in the leg with a fork.”
The corner of her mouth twitches into a proud smirk at the memory. Then, just as quickly, her frown returns.
“And guess what? Six months later, he moved up to vegetables.Six months. So, trust me when I say that nothing about this industry is fair when you’re a woman. Especially a queer woman.”
A ball of lead forms in the pit of my stomach. I’ve never really warmed to Corbin, but the thought of him putting his hands on Mia like that makes me want to hurl. Unfortunately, her story isn’t surprising. I’ve heard plenty of rumors about sexual harassment in restaurant kitchens. Still, hearing horror stories about strangers is one thing. Seeing one play out in front of you is something else altogether. I take a breath, trying to arrange my thoughts into some semblance of order.
“Why didn’t you report Corbin? Oren would have fired him.”
Mia looks at me again. But this time, it’s not anger in her eyes. It’s pity.
“Oh, Lexi,” she says. “What makes you think I didn’t?”
JAKE’S ALBUM RELEASE CONCERTis the following Thursday at Radio City Music Hall. Thankfully it fell on my one night off, ahead of the three extra shifts I’m taking to make up for the LA trip. I don’t even want to think about how exhausting it will be to work for ten days straight, but the past few days have been so busy that I’ve barely had time to worry about it.
When Jake and I arrive outside the theater, I’m as jubilant as a little kid taking their first trip to Disney. I probably look like a tourist, but I can’t resist pulling out my phone to snap a photo of the iconic red and blue lettering.
As I’m aiming the camera for a second shot, Jake jumps in frame, throwing his arms out to the side and grinning maniacally.
“You almost forgot the most important part. The talent.”
I roll my eyes but oblige him by snapping another few photos.
“I’m just grateful you’ve managed to stay so humble, despite your celebrity status.”
“Send me that one,” he says, pointing to the screen. “I want to get a framed copy for Jeffrey Taylor’s desk.”
When we step into the empty theater, Jake’s backing band is already tuning their instruments onstage. The last time I was here was in the fourth grade, when my parents took me to see theRadio City Christmas Spectacular. For two weeks afterward, I practiced my high kicks so relentlessly that I nearly pulled a hamstring.
The space is as breathtaking as I remember. The orange arc above the stage looks like a sunset, and the rows of dark, empty seats make the theater look cavernous. Grabbing my hand, Jake leads me up the staircase to introduce me to everyone.
Unlike Jake with his clean-cut, Southern boy-next-door look, the rest of the band look like rock stars. The keyboardist, Tessa, is sporting a choppy mullet, with half a dozen earrings crawling up one earlobe. She’s dressed in a ruffled white blouse with a black ribbon necktie and has a series of black tattoos scrawled across both hands. Jack, the lead guitarist, is wearing a flared velvet suit and has long, dark hair that hangs like a curtain over his face, parting down the middle to reveal an aquiline nose. Only Matt, the drummer, is unremarkable, with his head of blond curls, plain white tee, and blue jeans.
As Jake chats with the band, I look out into the audience. So, this is what it looks like from his point of view. Only half of the stage lights are on, but it’s far brighter than I imagined. Will he even be able to see me watching from the crowd?
After some vocal warm-ups and a sound check, we head to Jake’s dressing room so he can change. Adena, his stylist, is waiting for us, clutching an enormous Starbucks cup. She rolls her eyes when she sees me. I guess my Jack Sparrow comment has not been forgotten.
As she pulls items off hangers and hands them to Jake, I sink into the green leather couch against the wall and take out my cell phone to review the photos I took earlier. The one I snapped of the marquee before Jake jumped in front of it came out great, and after a moment of deliberation, I decide to upload it to Instagram. Chloe made it crystal clear I shouldn’t post about Jake. I believe her exact words were:I love you, but god help me, I will not hesitate to kill you.I’d gotten similar instructions from Jake’s PR team. But I’m too excited and proud to resist. Besides, it’s just one photo and he’s not even in it.
It’s been ages since I last checked Instagram, and when I scroll to the icon, my body turns cold. Two hundred and thirty-five new notifications.Holy shit.Clicking it open, I see there are hundreds of comments underneath my photos and over a dozen DMs. I’d meant to set my Instagram to private, but I suddenly realize that in the chaos of last week, it completely slipped my mind. Chloe’s going to be pissed. Her voice echoes in my head. “Whatever you do, never ever read the comments.” But I can’t help myself. And as I scroll through the dizzying array of missives from complete strangers, I instantly regret it.
sriously who does this girl think she is?
your not even that cute tho LOL
so pathetic jake can do way better then some basic af bitch
U R NOT EVEN A REAL CHEF LMFAO
u guys relax it’s just publicity stunt. #TeamMadison for lyfe!
Someone with the handle @REALJakeTaylorGF has commented on every one of my photos from the last three years with a single word: “fugly.” Why is it that, regardless of their platform, internet trolls universally struggle with basic grammar and spelling? At least I can still laugh about that.Sure, @jTforLyfe42, you might think I’m a diarrhea-faced bitch, but between the two of us, I’m the only one who can actually spell “diarrhea” correctly.
