“Nice try, sweetheart. But there’s no way in hell you could ever get me to go back to garde.” His words make me physically recoil, and I know the reason they cut so deeply is that they’re true: there isn’t a chef in the kitchen who wants to be in my position right now. Including me.
“Screw you, Corbin.” Bitterly, I tear off the two tickets that have just emerged from the printer. It’s nice to finally have Mia’s approval, but I’m too upset to take any pleasure in her camaraderie. One way or another, someone needs to work garde-manger, and if I fail, she’s the one who will end up back here. I can’t let thathappen, not when she’s finally moved up. Corbin is right; I need to get it together, for everyone’s sake.
The adrenaline of the fast-paced kitchen is usually enough to get me moving, but today, nothing seems to be doing the trick. I’m so sluggish that I can’t keep my station in order—alarmingly, it looks like a lettuce-and-tomato-filled bomb exploded—and I reflect ruefully on how I cited my organizational skills as one of my greatest assets during my interview.What happened to me?I wonder, prompting a voice in the back of my mind to reply,It’s not a what, but a who.
“BERMAN? GET IN HERE.”I’ve just packed up when Oren calls me from his office. Poking my head through the doorway, I see him pinching a slip of yellow paper between his fingers. My most recent request-for-leave form.
“What’s this?”
“I need next Sunday off so I can go with Jake to the VMAs. Last year they were at Barclays Center, which would have beensomuch easier. At first I thought I could fly out after brunch service, but I figure with the time difference, I—”
“Sorry, Berman, but it’s not gonna happen. You’ve used up all your leave time,” he interjects.
“I…allof it?” Panic washes over me.That’s not possible, is it?
Oren nods, confirming it.
“But… it’s the VMAs. He’s nominated in two categories.”
Oren picks up the half-wrapped bagel sitting on the corner of his desk and takes a large bite.
“And that’s very exciting for him. Butyoustill have a job, and I’ve been as lenient as I can. In three months, you’ve already used up a whole year’s worth of leave. You’ve been out way more than any other member of the team. And don’t think they haven’t noticed either.”
Anxious thoughts storm my brain. Have the other team members really been discussing my time off? I hate the idea that the staff is questioning my work ethic.
I spend the next hour contemplating how I’m going to tell Jake I can’t go to LA with him, and the longer I mull it over, the angrier I become. I’m not sure what bothers me most: the fact I can’t be there for him; that being a chef means I never have time to do anything but work; or that I’m in this position at all, forced to choose between a relationship and my career.
It’s times like this when I desperately wish I could talk things out with my mother. I try to imagine what advice she’d give right now. Knowing her, she’d probably remind me about the importance of commitment.
When I was nine, I begged her to let me sign up for ballet lessons. I loved every minute of it, until I realized Katie Steinberg’s birthday party at Dylan’s Candy Bar was scheduled for the same time as my Saturday class and begged her to let me skip a week.
“But Mom! Everyone will be there but me!” I’d pleaded when she refused.
She was firm, though, shaking her head with her arms across her chest.
“You made a commitment, and you’re going to stick to it.”
At the time, I was furious, but the lesson stuck with me ever since. Following through on commitments is firmly rooted in my sense of work ethic; I’m not a quitter and I never have been. Deep down, I know exactly what my mom would have advised. What I’m less sure about is what she would have thought of Jake. I can’t help but wonder if she wouldn’t have adjusted her rules for him.
“What’s your deal today?” Mia looks me up and down curiously. “Did the Lady Killer dump you or something?”
“Uh, no.”
Grabbing a knife, I start working on my potato galettes. At this point, I have them down to a science, and can prepare them toChef’s ideal level of crispness with my eyes closed. I’m grateful for the distraction, but I’m not interested in talking about this with Mia, regardless of how much our relationship has improved lately.
Mia shrugs her shoulders when I fail to elaborate.
“Well, you can take your bad mood out on the dishes. Luis’s out with the flu so we’re understaffed over there. And guess who’s next on the totem pole?”
Ugh. I was really hoping to get out of here early. Jake and I need to talk about the VMAs. But now there’s not a chance in hell I’ll be out of here before midnight.
Sure enough, it’s quarter to one in the morning when I finally stumble through my front door, half asleep and reeking of dish soap, my hands red and raw. I expect Jake to be passed out, but he’s sitting on the sofa, nursing a bottle of beer when I walk through the door.
“Hey,” he says, his voice full of enthusiasm. “How was your day?”
I slip off my clogs and place them neatly by the door. My legs are aching, my temples throbbing. The last thing I feel like doing right now is having this conversation.
Jake soldiers on, oblivious to my dark mood. “You’re home later than usual. Did everyone want to go out for a celebratory drink?”
