The older gentleman is speaking, but I hear my father’s words in my head. You do not need to go to culinary school to find a husband, Eve. Your aunties can teach you to cook good food for your man.
My entire life has been preparation for finding a husband. The validity of every hobby is judged by whether it will fetch me a suitor or not. My father wants me to be happy, but he mostly wants me to be married. Single, I’m a disappointment. Married, I’m a vessel for future Furino mafia members.
Years of anger and resentment begin to bubble and hiss inside of me until I’m boiling. My hands are shaking, and I can feel adrenaline pulsing through me, lighting every inch of me on fire. This time, I don’t bite my tongue.
“I’d rather die alone than spent another minute near a man like you,” I spit, stepping forward and laying my palms flat on the table. “The fact that you ate all of the food you apparently hated shows you are a pig in more ways than one.”
In the back of my mind, I recognize that my voice is echoing around the restaurant and the chatter in the rest of the room has gone quiet, but blood is whirring in my ears, and I can’t stop. I’ve stayed quiet and docile for too long. Now, it is my turn to speak my mind.
“You and your friends may be wealthy and respected, but I see you for what you are—spineless, cowardly assholes who are so insecure they have to take their rage out on everybody else.”
I want to spin on my heel and storm away, making a grand exit, but in classic Eve fashion, my heel catches on the tablecloth, and I nearly trip. I fall sideways and throw an arm out to catch myself, knocking a nearly full bottle of wine on the table over. The glass shatters and red wine splashes across the tablecloth and onto the guests in the booth like a river of blood.
I pause long enough to note the old Russian man’s shirt is splattered like he has been shot before I continue my exit and head straight for the doors.
I suck in the night air. The evening is warm and humid, summer strangling the city in its hold, and I want to rip off my clothes for some relief. I feel like I’m being strangled. Like there is a hand around my neck, squeezing the life out of me.
Breathing in and out slowly helps, but as the physical panic begins to ebb away, emotional panic flows in.
What have I done? Cal Higgs is going to find out about the altercation any minute, and then what? Will he fire me? And if he does, will I ever be able to get another chef position? I was only offered this position because of my father, and I doubt he will help me earn another kitchen position, especially since I’m no closer to finding a boyfriend (or husband) since I left for culinary school.
Despite it all, I want to call my dad. He has always made it clear he will move heaven and earth to take care of me, to make sure no one is mean to me, and I want his support right now. But the support he offered me when a girl tripped me during soccer practice and made me miss the net won’t apply here. He will tell me to come home. To put down my apron and knife and focus on more meaningful pursuits. And that is the last thing I want to hear right now.
I pull out my phone and scroll through my contacts list, hoping to see a spark of hope amidst the names, but there is nothing. I’ve lost touch with everyone since I started culinary school. There hasn’t been time for friends.
This is probably the kind of situation where most girls would turn to their moms, but she hasn’t been in the picture since I was six years old. Even if I had her number, I wouldn’t call her. Dad hasn’t always been perfect, but at least he was there. At least he cared enough to stay.
I untie my apron and pull it over my head, leaning back against the brick side of the restaurant.
“Take it off, baby!”
I look up and see a man on a motorcycle with his hair in a bun parked along the curb. He is waggling his eyebrows at me like I’m supposed to fall in love with him for harassing me on the street, and the fire that filled my veins inside hasn’t died out yet. The embers are still there, burning under the skin, and I step towards him, lips pulled back in a smile.
He looks surprised, and I’m sure he is. That move has probably never worked for him before. He smiles back at me, his tongue darting out to lick his lower lip.
“Is that your bike?” I purr.
He nods. “Want a ride?”
My voice is still sticky sweet as I respond, “So sweet of you to offer. I’d rather choke and die on that grease ball you call a man bun, but thanks anyway, hon.”
It takes him a second to realize my words don’t match the tone. When it hits him, he snarls, “Bitch.”
“Asshole.” I flip him the bird over my shoulder and start the long walk home.