When I step through the doorway, I see Chef seated at his desk. He glances up at me over his reading glasses as Oren plops onto a chair, crossing his arms across his chest and staring at an invisible spot on the floor.
“Shut the door,” Chef says. With mounting dread, I pull the handle shut and slowly approach the desk. Chef leans back in his chair.
“A kitchen staff is a team,” he says quietly. “And a team can only succeed if every member pulls their weight. You’ve only been here a year, yet you’ve called out more than any other team member. And when you are here, you’re slow and inefficient, leaving everyone to pick up your slack.”
A torrent of panic whips through me. This can’t be happening.
“I know I’ve made mistakes, and I truly apologize,” I say imploringly. “My behavior has been unprofessional and damaging to the team. But I’ve made some changes to my life, and I promise, things are going to be different from here on out.”
Chef’s eyes bore into mine, and I know what’s coming next before the words even leave his mouth.
“This isn’t working out. We’re going to have to let you go.”
His words hit me with the force of a train. All the years of hard work and training, gone in an instant. I expect to start crying, but the release of tears never comes. Instead, I feel a hollow numbness mixed with something else. Something that feels suspiciously like relief.
Oren finally drags his eyes off the ground, his expression apologetic.
“I’m sorry, Berman,” he says softly. “I tried to warn you: relationships and chef life just don’t mix.”
He’s right, of course, but it’s a lesson I learned too late.
“I want to thank you both for the opportunity, for taking a chance on me.” I extend my hand forward and Oren’s mouth lifts in the corner as he shakes it.
“Good luck, kid,” he says. On the way out the back door, I peek my head into the kitchen. The only person who looks up from their station is Ethan. I can tell by the look on his face that he knows I’ve been let go, and though he’s still hurt, his face is sympathetic. He gives me a brisk nod and I lift my hand in a wave before slipping out through the service doors.
Dark clouds shroud the sky as I step outside. The door slams shut behind me, causing an unexpected gust of cold air that knocks the hard truth into me: for the first time in my life, I have no plan. I think about heading over to The Carlyle to see Ali, but then, as though through divine intervention, my phone buzzes in my handbag. When I see the name flash across the screen, I realize exactly where I need to be.
“Hey, Dad,” I say.
25
THE FIRST THING Inotice when I step through the automated doors of the Fort Lauderdale airport is the crushingly oppressive heat. Back in New York, the October air has begun to turn crisp. Down here, it feels like I’ve walked straight into Hadestown.
My armpits dampen instantly as I drag my rolling suitcase down the sidewalk. The minute I see my dad’s white Lexus swing around the traffic circle, my heart swells, and I know it’s not just from the thought of air-conditioning.
When I climb into the car, Bruce Springsteen is blasting through the speakers. Two Venti-sized Starbucks cups are jammed into the cupholders. Dad leans across the console and hugs me tight.
“Hey, Loo.”
My eyes tear up instantly at the sound of my childhood nickname. Before they can spill over, I press my face into his shirt and breathe in his smell, a mix of spearmint mouthwash and cigars. He smells like home. Despite my best efforts, a few tears escape, dampening the front of his shirt. He must notice, because when he pulls back, his clear blue eyes, a mirror image of my own, are filled with concern.
“Everything okay?” He runs his hand over my arm, and I nod, wiping my eyes with my knuckles.
“I’m fine. Just hot, that’s all,” I say. I turn my head to gaze out the window so I don’t have to look at him, because I know without a shadow of a doubt that one look at his worried expression will push me over the edge.
Dad makes a small noise to indicate he’s not convinced but decides not to push it. He carefully shifts the car into drive and weaves through the traffic circle, cursing under his breath as a car pulls out unexpectedly in front of him. I can’t help but smile at the juxtaposition of his heavy New York accent against the South Florida backdrop. Tension radiates off him as he maneuvers his way out. Even after years of living here, he’s still a New Yorker who isn’t quite comfortable behind the wheel of a car.
“So,” he ventures once we’re out on the highway. “Any special reason you decided to come visit your old dad?”
“I missed you. It’s been too long,” I reply, staring out the window at the flat, dry landscape.
“I missed you too,” Dad murmurs, and then turns his attention back to the road. He’s always been this way, quieter than Mom, more willing to listen than to be the first one to talk. Usually his technique works, and I feel compelled to fill gaps in conversation, confessing whatever’s on my mind. But right now, it’s all packed too tightly inside me to unravel. We spend the rest of the thirty-minute drive in comfortable silence, listening to the Boss as I keep my eyes peeled for rogue alligators.
When we pull into the driveway, the late afternoon sun is casting long shadows over the house’s pale stucco exterior. I climb out of the car and start up the porch steps as Dad grabs my suitcase out of the trunk. Pushing my way through the front door, I flick on the lights, glancing around the entryway. Everything is largely unchanged since the last time I was here three years ago; it’s all peach walls, peach upholstery, and peach decorative vases. Fran truly has the design aesthetic of a mid-90s grandma. Dad comes in behind me, propping my suitcase by the front door and heading into the kitchen.
“Fran is at Panera playing mah-jongg. It’s just us,” he says. He pulls out a kitchen chair, gesturing for me to sit. Removing his phone from his back pocket, he holds it up questioningly. “Should I call for Chinese?”
I nod happily. It’s my favorite type of comfort food, what we always ordered when I felt down as a kid, and a wave of tranquility washes over me. Jake’s mom’s voice echoes in my head.Food is love.
