“Felix!”
Both of our heads snapped up to find Marg waving her notebook in the air. “What’s the plan for the steak? I need to know,” she huffed. “I know you're still working on the main courses for Friday and Saturday, but what about the steak, Chef? The steak!”
“She doesn’t need to know; she’s just nosy,” he muttered to me, winking.
“I heard that!”
“Dammit all to hell, then, Chef Margie,” he replied, walking toward her, allowing me to get lost in my work.
When I finally came up for air, the pies were cooling and Margo had already stopped by to grab the cookies. Before she ran out the door, she tried and failed to pay Margie for the oven time. Then Margie dragged me to the bench in the corner of the kitchen for a blood sugar check and snack break.
Ten hours later, my sore feet carried me out into the parking lot as Felix went off on one of the waiters. It was a typical Tuesday evening. Though no matter how often Chef yelled, I hadn’t gotten used to it.
“You don’t get to be in charge of the food!”
“Is he always this intense?” Jace, another waiter, asked me, keeping my pace. He was new, and had just started working hereabout three weeks ago. His boyfriend was a fisherman. They met online, and Jace fell in love, took the leap, and moved here.
I shrugged. “He’s just Felix,” I answered, fishing for my keys, the sound of the sea sloshing against the docks. The seagulls had disappeared from the sky, tucked away somewhere warm and safe for the night. “I wouldn’t worry about it too much; he has yelled at me more times than I can count.”
When we were both standing at the hood of our cars, he turned and leaned against his. “You want a cig?”
I shook my head. “No, I’m all right. Thank you, though.”
He flicked his lighter, a fresh cigarette between his lips. I watched as it illuminated his face, highlighting his strong features. “Have you ever considered modeling?” I found myself asking.
He chuckled smoothly before he inhaled, letting the smoke sit inside him. When he blew it out a few seconds later, he gave me another chuckle. “Not ambitious enough for that, Angel.”
“Right. Well, I have to get going.”
I had to do my evening rituals, and according to the time, I was already five minutes behind my usual schedule.
“See you on Sunday.”
My footsteps halted, his words registering. “You leave tomorrow, yes?”
He nodded, looking up at the stars. “Gotta make an appearance at my brother’s wedding or he’ll kill me.”
“Is your boyfriend attending as well?” I asked, opening my passenger door and dumping my things in the seat.
“Yeah, he’s nervous as hell to meet my parents.”
I had the sudden urge to assure him everything would be okay, that his parents were going to love his boyfriend because he was a good person who loved their son. However, then I thought about the possibility of me being wrong and Jace coming back to Astoria, blaming me for instilling false hope in him.
Therefore, I just gave him a kind smile and said, “Safe travels. I’ll see you when you get back.”
My oven timer dinged just as I was putting on my facial moisturizer. “Shoot,” I muttered, my hands working faster against my cheeks. I looked back into the foggy mirror, studying the woman with golden eyes and scars that were buried deep underneath my skin. My skin still felt prickly about the near slip-up with Jace. He was new to town, and the last thing I wanted to do was make him feel bad.
Truth be told, I hated making anyone feel bad.
My therapist said I have some issues establishing healthy boundaries—with other people and myself. I reached for my under-eye cream and dotted my index and middle finger with it. I applied it quicker than normal and bypassed my nightly lip scrub altogether. Not bothering to turn off the bathroom light, I hurried through the house, my night gown scuttling behind me as I went. I padded along the hundred-year-old hard wood floors, comforted by the creaking and popping as the smell of my dinner hit me.
As I reached the kitchen, I regrettably turned on the overhead light, dreading how it drenched my cozy space in a stale hospital-like glow. My stomach rumbled as I pulled out the full pan of roasted veggies, and as I set to blending them for my soup, the worries from earlier faded away.
The noise in my brain never stood a chance when I was in the kitchen, creating something wonderful. My hands worked on autopilot, slicing the sourdough I’d made over the weekend. I slapped a small amount of butter on a slice and toasted underneath the broiler to brown. A faint but familiar smile stretched across my lips as I scooped out a serving of soup from the pot, a soft jazz melody floating in from my living room. I dressed the dish as I would at work, giving myself a romantic presentation before migrating to my cream couch. Steam from the soup traveled up to my face in delicate waves as I hit the resume button on my remote. Mr. Darcy was greeting Elizabeth as I took my first bite, but the tension in my shoulders didn’t leave until I was finished with my meal, dishes on the coffee table by my magazines.
I hated getting off my routine.
I hated how much it bothered me.
