“You said you used to be a sous-chef, so why’d you leave all that behind to bartend in this shitty tavern in this fucked-up town?”
She tweaks her left ear, biting into her bottom lip. “It’s complicated.”
“Complicated how?”
“I was months away from a promotion. About to be a seniorsous-chef.” Her hands spread out like she’s imagining it on a billboard. “It was everything I’d worked for, and then it wasn’t.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. One day I was there and the next I was fired. I tried to get another job anywhere in Boston, but…” She clears her throat. “Art asked me to move here, and I thought fuck it, you know? Love over ambition, which is supposed to be romantic or whatever.”
“Is it?”
“No.” She laughs. “It’s just…smaller. Everything feels smaller here.”
It feels like she’s cracked open my chest and shined a flashlight inside.
“What was it called?” I ask.
“What waswhatcalled?”
“The restaurant.”
She hesitates, her fingers tangling in the rag. “Cameliard. You’ve probably never heard of it.”
I nod, my mind flipping through memories of when I used to go to Boston with Bevie—Cassandra—on weekends as a kid. “I’ve heard of it.”
“You have?”
“Yeah, my old nanny grew up in Boston. She used to take us for weekend getaways when I was a kid.” I shrug like the thought of her doesn’t hurt. “The food was good.”
Her face softens. “Yeah. It was.”
“So you gave all that up for a guy?”
“Something like that.”
A soft breeze blows across her face, whipping strands of her hair against her cheeks. My fingers twitch.
“He offered to give me the kitchen here, did you know that? But it hurts too much now. And that pisses me off, because cooking is my thing.”
I study her. She’s stubborn even when she’s being vulnerable. The same way I’d guess people see me.
“What do you miss the most?”
She blinks. “About Cameliard?”
“About cooking. Being a chef. Whatever.”
She stares at the brick behind my head, her forehead scrunching, and for some reason, I can’t look away.
“The sound,” she says. “During service, when everything’s moving right, there’s this rhythm. Pans hitting burners, knives on cutting boards, the sizzle of something hitting hot oil.” A small smile tugs at her mouth. “It’s chaos, but it’s organized chaos. Like a symphony, almost. And when you’re in the middle of it, when you’re plating something perfect and the tickets are flying out and everything just works… Nothing else feels like that.”
Her face fills with joy, and it’s the first time I’ve ever seen it on her.
“Bartending’s fine, though. Just different.”
“Different meaning worse.”
