Scott looked over to the empty locker but made no other moves. Clearing my throat, I stepped into the room and started working on my lock. It took me a few tries to get it open. I blamed it on the fact that I could feel Scott’s eyes on me. He was a nice enough guy. I didn’t know him very well. I interacted with Alex and Russ more than him, because he mainly stuck to himself. Unless Chef Kolby was yelling at him.
“You doing okay?” he asked, his voice quiet.
I put away my things and checked my ponytail in the small mirror I’d haphazardly taped to the inside of my locker. “Not really.” I closed the door and leaned against it, putting my hands into my pockets. “Cooking helps,” I added as he continued to stare at me.
“Yeah?”
I nodded, a tiny smile toying at my lips. “Yeah, when I’m in the kitchen, I can shut my brain off for a while.”
“Damn. That sounds nice.”
“It isn’t like that for you?”
Scott pursed his lips, shaking his head. “Just a job.”
It was then I realized I didn’t know much about him. “Didn’t you go to culinary school in Texas?”
He grinned, and there was something about it that had a chill slithering down my spine. “Who told you that?”
I blew out a breath, suddenly uncomfortable. “I heard it from someone,” I answered, waving my hand around. “Maybe Alex or Monty.”
“Oh. Yeah, no. I didn’t go to school for this. This is just a place I wound up in, you know?”
Alex called me from the kitchen. “Yo! Angel! These rolls aren’t rising!”
“Duty calls.” I sighed, pushing off the lockers. “Are you staying for the event?”
He grunted. “No. I have some errands to run tonight.” He looked me up and down. “Hey, aren’t you from Texas?”
My blood went cold. “Excuse me?”
With a quick brush of his nose, his demeanor shifted. “I hear a twang in your accent,” he said, tapping his ear with a smirk. “I’ve always wondered.”
“I’m not from the south,” I lied.
“Oh.” He clicked his tongue and walked past me. “My hearing must be off then, huh?”
“Must be.”
“Angel!” Alex yelled again.
Scott moved out of the way and gestured for me to go ahead of him. “The dead never sleep and the work never ends, am I right, Chef?” he asked.
I flinched, remembering that phrase from somewhere. “Hey.” I turned, but he was walking into Margie’s office. “What the fuck?” I muttered, putting my hand to my stomach, suddenly queasy.
Twenty minutes later, there was a new batch of rolls rising, and Monty came into the kitchen, rolling his neck. “Good morning, everyone,” he greeted with a yawn.
Alex, Russ, and I shared a confused look. Scott was at his prep station, facing the wall and chopping herbs, his earbuds blasting rock music. “It’s two in the afternoon,” Alex deadpanned.
“Yes, but after the funeral—sorry, celebration of life—I took a nap. Therefore, it’s morning to me,” he said, moving to the center of the kitchen. He plucked a blueberry out of my bowl, popping it into his mouth. “Do you think I have time to run down to Rossy’s? I need a fucking coffee before tonight.”
“If you’re tired, you don’t have to stay, Monty,” I said, pouring sugar into a bowl of melted butter. “Tonight, no one is getting paid. It’s not a requirement for you to be here.”
He shrugged and took a second blueberry. “I want to be here. For Chef Kolby. Though he scared the shit out of me most nights, he was a cool dude.”
“Fuck,” Russ clipped, dropping his knife. He pressed the balls of his hands into his eye sockets for a moment, and everyone remained quiet. He dropped his hands with a loud groan, slamming them down onto the steel table. As the harsh sound echoed through the space, he clipped, “All right, can we just promise each other something? Right here and now?”
Alex shifted closer to me, and Monty tilted his head to the side. Scott paid no attention to us.
