She, Myself & I (27 page)

“Just take a deep breath. I know it seems bad, but it will be okay, I promise,” Paige said, sitting down next to me and rubbing my back in a circular motion.

“Married? What . . . are . . . they . . . thinking?” I gasped. “And I have to live here this summer with Mom while she plans her fucking wedding? Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse.”

“Do you want to stay in my apartment?” Paige asked.

“You don’t have room for me,” I said, although spending two months sleeping on her sofa did sound better than staying here. I just didn’t want to impose on her and Zack, especially while they were in the midst of new-relationship flutterings and baby preparations.

“I won’t even be there. I’m moving into Zack’s new house on a trial basis. This would actually work out perfectly, because it would give me a good excuse not to give up my apartment,” Paige said. “Now that I’m starting my own firm, I’ve been having a hard time justifying the additional expense. But if you were there, I’d get to keep it. You’d be doing me a favor.”

“Why do you want to keep it? Don’t you think it’s going to work out with you guys?” I asked.

Paige sighed and rested her hands on her baby bump. “Some days I think yes, this is it, this relationship will last forever. And then other days . . . I don’t know. I don’t know how sure I’m supposed to feel,” she said. “But maybe it’s just my mood right now. Zack and I got into an argument on the way over here about which route to take. Honestly, it’s my mother’s house, does he really think I don’t know the best way?”

“That’s normal though. Soph and Aidan bicker all the time, and they have a strong marriage,” I said.

Paige didn’t comment on this. I had the distinct feeling that she knew something about Soph and Aidan that she wasn’t telling me.

“Oh God. Oh no. Don’t tell me they’re breaking up, too,” I said, and the world started to veer around again. I rested my head on my hands and stared down at the stone-paved path that connected the driveway to the front porch. One of the stones by my foot was loose, and I wedged my toe against it until it popped out of place.

“No, they’re fine. Really. They went through a rough patch this spring, but they’re doing better now,” Paige said.

“Yeah, I thought she seemed really happy tonight. She told me she and Aidan are going on a cruise in September. I think they’re leaving Ben with Mom. Or Mom, Dad, and me,” I said bleakly.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be long gone by then. When does med school start? Right around Labor Day weekend?” Paige asked.

“I guess.”

Oh shit. Medical school. I’d forgotten about that in the aftermath of our parents’ announcement. I could have kicked myself for not telling them the previous week, when everyone was up at Princeton for my graduation.

“And you can stay in my apartment until then.”

“Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“Of course not. I don’t want to sell it right away, not until I’m sure about Zack and me, and this way I have an excuse to hang on to it,” Paige said.

“Here you are. I was wondering where everyone ran off to,” Sophie said. She let the front door slam behind her. “So, what do you think about those crazy kids? Getting married and not a care in the world.”

“They certainly don’t seem to care what we think,” I said.

Sophie plopped down next to us.

“I think it’s sweet. And so romantic,” Sophie said.

I stared at her. Normally Sophie’s the one flying off into a tizzy about things.

“You can’t be serious,” I said.

She grinned and swatted me on the arm.

“Let’s just not make a big deal out of this, and see how it goes. Knowing them, they’ll probably end up getting into a huge fight and call it all off, so there’s no sense getting worked up about it,” Paige suggested. “And besides, we all have a lot on our plates right now. And . . . oh . . . um . . .”

“Actually, there’s something I have to tell you guys . . . ,” I began.

“Paige, are you okay?” Sophie interrupted me.

I looked at my older sister and saw that she was holding her head in her hands, swaying slightly from side to side.

“Kack,” Paige gagged.

“Are you feeling sick? Okay, come on, I’ll help you to the bathroom,” Sophie said. She grabbed Paige’s hand and hauled her up to her feet.

“Is she okay?” I asked, alarmed.

“Yeah, she’ll be fine. This is normal,” Sophie said.

“I thought morning sickness was supposed to go away once you get to the second trimester,” Paige groaned. Her face was pinched up and had turned a sickly shade of greenish white.

“Only if you’re very lucky,” Sophie said.

She held Paige’s elbow, as though our older sister was an elderly woman. I scrambled to my feet and held the door open for them as they hobbled slowly through.

I trailed behind my sisters and then turned into the dining room. On the table there was an enormous sheet cake that had “Congratulations Mickey!” scrawled across it in blue icing, and what I think was supposed to be a frosting-rendered stethoscope snaking around the “Mickey.” It was my favorite kind—chocolate with mocha butter cream frosting, the kind that’s so sugary it gives you the shivers. And after I ate two pieces, I felt a little better about things. But then, cake usually does help.

Chapter Thirty

“Thanks so much for helping me get this job,” I said, nervously running my hands down over my starched white apron, which, along with a white button-down shirt and black trousers, was the uniform for my new waitressing job at Versa.

“No problem, glad to help. Nervous?” Kevin asked.

Scott’s boyfriend wasn’t at all what I thought he’d be. I’d been expecting . . . well, I don’t know what I was expecting. I suppose a male version of Paige—type A personality, goal oriented, takes no shit from anyone, every last item of clothing ironed to perfection. But Kevin looked like he’d rolled out of a Seattle coffee shop circa 1991. He had longish scruffy brown hair, kind hazel brown eyes, and he’d forgotten to shave that morning. While we talked, he was pulling a denim blue chef’s coat on over a stained Nirvana T-shirt.

“No. Well. I wish they had some sort of a training program, because I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing,” I said.

“Yeah, it’s sort of sink-or-swim here. But I’m sure you’ll be fine. Scott told me you’re going to medical school this fall,” Kevin said.

“Um. Well. That remains to be seen,” I said.

I considered—and decided against—telling Kevin my supersecret plan: I was planning to enroll in culinary school. I’d taken a few off-campus gourmet cooking courses from a chef in Princeton—one in basic techniques, another in baking bread, and a third in sausage making—and had fallen in love with everything about the craft. It appealed to my chemistry background, just as medicine had, but it also allowed me to be creative and original. I knew it was crazy—the late nights, the silly hat, the dorky uniform—but the more I thought about it, the more I just knew this was what I was meant to be doing with my life. And so I made my decision. It was too late to register for fall courses, but I’d already talked to the admissions office at the Culinary Institute of America and was in the process of completing the paperwork to enroll there for the spring semester.

But if I told Kevin, he might tell Scott, who would tell Paige, and she’d almost certainly snitch me out to our parents. And I had to tell them myself, which I would do just as soon as I could stomach talking to them again.

Kevin looked at me quizzically, but then the head waiter, Adam—who was tall and gangly—called out for the waitstaff to gather round.

“Come on, guys, hurry up, don’t keep Chef waiting,” Adam now said, sighing with irritation.

“Does he mean you?” I asked Kevin.

Kevin shook his head. “I’m only the lowly pastry chef. The head chef is Oliver Klein.”

“Is he scary?”

“A little. He acts like a rock star,” Kevin said. “Before he came here, he worked in Miami and was starting to get semi-famous. There was even talk that he was going to star in a restaurant-based reality show.”

“That’s impressive,” I said, and was about to ask him how the chef had ended up in Austin, when Oliver Klein walked into the room.

There wasn’t any doubt about who he was, even if he was dressed only in white cotton pants and a white V-neck undershirt, with no sign of the Pillsbury Doughboy hat or traditional white coat. The entire kitchen reacted, everyone quieting down and turning toward him, faces expectant and eager. Kevin was right, it was just as though a rock star had rolled onto a stage. He even looked the part, with thick dark hair that curled down over his high forehead, brilliant blue eyes, a wide nose flattened across the tip, and a slightly lopsided mouth, so that when the full lips smiled—as they did now, at one of the waitresses who was laughing at him flirtatiously—they curled slightly, Billy Idol–style. He was lean but muscular, with the build of a runner.

“Wow,” I breathed softly.

Kevin looked at me, alarmed. “Oh no. Trust me—he is not someone you want to mess with,” he whispered.

“Why not?”

“He’s married. Well, at least he was. When he moved here, his wife and kid stayed in Miami, so they might be officially separated. I heard a rumor that he left Miami because a hostess at his restaurant was threatening a sexual harassment lawsuit against him. Of course, I also heard that their relationship was very consensual, and she was just mad because he dumped her. And I know for a fact he’s already slept with one of the waitresses here. I saw her coming out of his office the other day, crying,” Kevin said.

“How do you know they slept together?”

“Word gets around. You have to be careful. The restaurant business is like high school. Everyone knows everyone, and everyone gossips,” Kevin warned.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, and then edged closer to the rest of the waitstaff gathered around the stainless-steel-topped table.

With one hand resting on his hip, Oliver cleared his throat and began to speak.

“Here are tonight’s specials. Write them down, because I don’t plan on repeating myself. Appetizer: seared Hudson Valley foie gras, with a caramelized-apple sauce. Salad: jumbo lump crab with coriander and honey-cured carrots. Entrée: milk-fed veal served with crispy sweetbreads and a rosemary demi-glace. Dessert: espresso soufflé. Any questions? You, New Girl, did you get that?” he said. The words were firing out of his mouth so quickly, it took me a minute to realize he was speaking to me.

Everyone turned to look at me. I could feel my cheeks heating to a red stain.

“I . . . uh . . . I think so,” I said weakly.

“That’s not good enough. You have to know it, and know it cold. Tell me without looking down at your paper, what’s the entrée?” Oliver barked.

I stared at him and shook my head mutely.

“Sarah, tell her,” Oliver said.

Sarah—who, it turned out, was the coquette who’d been flirting with the chef—looked at me and said, “A milk-fed veal served with sweetbreads and rosemary demi-glace.”

I wondered if Sarah was the waitress who Kevin saw crying over Oliver. She had sallow skin, mean eyes, and her face was hard, but a lot of guys go for that type. I think it’s a regression, a feeling of inadequacy left over from high school when they were too intimidated to ask out the bad girls who wore too much black eyeliner and smoked cigarettes in the school parking lot. So maybe it was her. Or it could have been Caitlin, a short, chunky waitress with sexy blonde ringlets and enormous breasts, or Opal, a black woman with sharp, high cheekbones who walked like a ballerina, with her toes pointed out.

My cheeks burned, even as the mocking eyes of my new co-workers slid over me, obviously amused at seeing the new kid getting hazed. I scowled at Oliver, but he’d lost interest in me. He turned his back dismissively on the waitstaff and asked his sous-chef for an update on the dinner prep.

“Don’t worry. He picks on a different server every night,” a voice murmured in my ear. I looked up and saw that it was Opal, her eyes narrow and lips pursed. “I got it yesterday. Oliver’s an asshole. I’m thinking about quitting, I don’t need his shit.”

“Is he really that bad?” I asked. Unease snaked through me.

“He yelled at one of the girls the other day for mixing up an order. It shouldn’t have been a big deal, but he belittled her in front of the whole kitchen staff. She quit that night. I saw her coming out of his office in tears,” Opal murmured.

So maybe
she
was the crying waitress Kevin had seen. Maybe it had nothing to do with sex after all, and everything to do with Oliver’s nasty temperament.

He was still talking to his sous-chef—Ansel, I’d met him earlier, who had the long, stretched-out body of a basketball player—but his demeanor with the kitchen staff seemed much friendlier. Ansel continued to work while they talked, prepping for the shift ahead—setting out his knifes, checking on the levels of chopped garlic and minced shallots, dicing mushrooms into a neat, rounded pile, and occasionally barking out an instruction to one of his three underlings to fetch something from the cooler. I got tingly just watching him, knowing that’s where I wanted to be. Someday.