“Not to mention the hundred or so pissed off customers we’re going to have to deal with,” Mallory mumbles.
And I actually growl.
“Sorry,” she squeaks.
It actually makes me laugh, despite myself, because I’ve never seen Mallory afraid of me. With a weak smile, she skitters off to do as she’s told, and I get back to work.
I finish fixing the salmon with Rodrigo just in time for opening. I’m frantically helping plate the first round of tables when Scott comes in.
“How do we find more Albas?” he demands with no preamble.
I snort. “On Thanksgiving Day in the middle of lunch? We don’t,” I reply simply as I continue working.
Scott scowls. “You do realize that half of the owner’s family is having that dish this afternoon? That they’re the only reason it’s even on the menu? If we don’t deliver, Ivy will almost certainly lose her job. Is that what you really want?”
“What, you want me to magically pull some rare fungi out of my ass?” I ask sarcastically, shaking my head as I wipe the plate in front of me and put it on the pass. “Even if I had the time to worry about that kind of shit, I wouldn’t know who to begin to ask, given the circumstances.”
“Ask for what?” a voice pipes up from the other side of the pass. I lean back to peer through to see Anna looking inquisitively into the kitchen.
“Don’t you have something to do?” I ask, looking pointedly at the plates between us while I use my arm to wipe the sweat that’s already forming on my forehead. It’s gonna be a fucking day.
Anna puts her hands on her hips. “Then you better tell me fast,” she replies stubbornly.
I roll my eyes. “Albas. White truffles. Very expensive, very rare. So unless you’re hiding some in that tight little skirt that I know you wore just for tips today, better get back to work,” I snipe at her.
“Are they refrigerated?” she asks curiously.
My brows scrunch together for the moment it takes me to realize she isn’t talking about her skirt.
“Yes,” I reply slowly. “Why?”
She smiles widely. “Be right back.”
She grabs the plates and whips through the doors so fast, I barely have time to register the strange encounter.
I turn back to Scott.
“Look. I need to get through this first wave. Then I’ll make some calls, but I can’t promise anything. Better start preparing everyone for whatever shitstorm is coming. I’m going to serve the dish as is when we run out of what we’ve got in about five minutes, so you sort out the pricing and menus, okay?” My tone suggests I don’t want an answer. It’s a dismissal, really.
Yet Scott continues to stand there like his presence will pressure me into somehow producing what he wants, so I just ignore him. Every second makes me more pissed off. He finally takes the hint, but not before heaving a big sigh as he leaves. I smirk, then realize I’m already low on one of the garnishes, but as I turn back to yell into the kitchen, Anna appears next to me holding a box.
“I was supposed to wait until you explicitly asked for this, but I figured close enough,” she says with a mischievous smile.
I raise an eyebrow. “Thanks?” I start to take the box from her, even though I’m dumbfounded as to why Anna is handing me it … until I remember what CJ said last week. “Oh fuck.” I freeze, the box halfway in my hands. But Anna shoves it at me.
“Open it,” she urges. “I have to get back to work, but I’m dying to know what’s inside.”
I set it down on the pass, shaking my head resolutely. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Boys,” she says, her voice dripping with disdain. “So stubborn.” She reaches over and pops the lid off.
Albas.
A fuckload of them.
More than we need, actually.
My throat goes dry.
“Where did you get these?” I ask hoarsely, unable to take my eyes off the truffles.
Anna shoves something at me, but it takes me a minute to break my gaze away to the folded piece of paper in her hand.
“She said to give you this if you opened it,” she says with a smirk, clearly aware that CJ has gotten the drop on me based on my reaction, because after I take it she turns and goes back to work, her curiosity satisfied.
I stare at the note in my hand, my brain still struggling to catch up with what I’m seeing. Maybe “she” isn’t CJ. Maybe this is a coincidence. Yes, Anna was probably talking about Ivy and this was totally happenstance. I open the note, hoping I’m right. Until five words written in CJ’s handwriting bring the delusion crashing down on me.
Do you believe me now?
It’s not until I’m home that night, after two a.m., that I stop suppressing what happened. Until I face reality.
CJ knew we were going to run out of Albas. I sit for hours, unable to sleep despite one of my most exhausting days on record, trying to come up with a justification for how she could have possibly known that. Even we didn’t know that. Not me, not Mallory, not Ivy, not Scott. None of the people involved in ordering. And our supplier list is a secret from other employees, so it’s not like CJ could have somehow known where they were coming from and tampered with the delivery.
My last-ditch attempt at writing it off was to ask Anna during a slight lull when CJ gave her the box. She told me it was last Saturday. And I shoved that down right alongside everything else, because now that I’m thinking more about it, it just makes this worse. The place we order from picks them Sundays prior to delivery for peak freshness. She knew before then.
It makes it seem like CJ is telling the truth.
But she can’t be. Nobody can see the future.
Right?
So now I’m googling Are there really people who can see the future? Mistake. Everything I find simply proves that, well, you can prove anything on the internet. I google Is the sky really green? just to convince myself that theory is true. Turns out, the sky can be green, since apparently the right wavelengths are present and sometimes combine with other things like a storm or something so we can actually see the green. Cute.
With a frustrated growl, I slam my laptop closed, not exactly thrilled with proving my idea.
I pace Ken’s living room floor, thankful that he works during the day so my little freak-out won’t be witnessed by anyone.
Eventually, I collapse back onto the couch, also known as my bed, totally worn out. So worn out that my eyes are stinging. What the fuck? Am I actually about to cry?
Yes, yes, I am, I realize as a few tears spill out onto the carpet.
If I admit to myself that CJ isn’t lying about being able to see the future, the other logical conclusion is that she wasn’t lying about Nick. That she really isn’t sleeping with him. Shouldn’t I be happy that’s the case?
I want to be. But it also means I overreacted. And acted like a complete ass toward her.
Oh, and then there’s that other thing I’d have to take at face value. The part where I die.
There’s only one thing to do, and I don’t think I’m going to get any sleep before I do it. But I do shower and choke down some food, just to make sure I’m not a total mess before I head to CJ’s. Honestly, I’m not even sure if she’ll be there since it is the day after Thanksgiving and she might be visiting family. But I don’t want to text or call. She needs to see how sorry I am. And I need to see her.