29
I count off ten seconds in my favorite Mississippi intervals before I put my trusty tube of matte pink lipstick and my compact away.
“Babe, are you paying attention to me?”
I don’t say anything, I just raise my eyebrows at him. Would I be paying attention to anyone else?
“As I was saying, I just think it’s amazing that we’re on our way to the James Beard Awards. I mean, not me, necessarily, I would be going regardless considering my contribution to this industry. But you. You totally don’t belong here.”
“Are you—” I start, practically choking on my rage. “Are you serious right now?”
“Deadly. I mean, the fact that you’re attending this awards show with such a stud? Come on. Who deserves this? Look at this tux. Paid extra for the piping.”
Mimicking Vanna White in the back of an Uber, he points out the silk black detailing around his lapels and pocket.
Raised eyebrows transition to rolled eyes and he can’t hold back his laughter for another single second.
When Jared laughs, it’s like the universe stops to listen to the joke. You can’t help being drawn in—at least I can’t.
“So you look like James Bond and I look like a sack of potatoes, right?” I adjust his bow tie for good measure.
“Well, actually, I have seen quite a few sacks of potatoes in my day, and you’ve got much nicer curves. Prettier hair, too.”
“Gee, thanks,” I say, about to give him shit about how he’s the one with the real catch on his arm when our Uber slows to the curb of the Civic Opera House, the site of the James Beard Awards this year. My excitement nose-dives into a swirl of emotions that clog my throat. Jared immediately takes my hands.
“What is it, Al?”
“It’s just...it—we—could have gone a different way, you know?” I let my voice get quiet so I’m less at risk for melting into a puddle of tears and ruining my makeup. “And if that happened, I wouldn’t be here...in this dress...around these people...with a speech in my pocket just in case. I couldn’t do this without you.”
He plants a soft kiss on my mouth. I linger on his lips for a moment and soak him in. My nerves unplug for the time being as I breathe in my boyfriend’s cologne.
How we managed to get to this place of peace is beyond me, and I try not to overthink it but I do like to relive it.
The day after I showed up at his warehouse, we were due for our next Marcel & Sons delivery. I figured he’d send Roberto to make the drop and avoid me that morning, but sure enough, Jared stuck with the route.
He didn’t say anything to me as he and Hector unloaded the truck. I quietly supervised, carefully trying to sneak a smile in at any ounce of eye contact he’d give me. Just when I figured this was going to be our new normal, he came out with one final box. The one from Molly’s Cupcakes.
“If I wait until a socially acceptable hour to eat this cupcake, it’ll be dry. So, right here, right now...split it with me.”
We took a seat next to each other in the bed of his truck and dangled our feet off the end. The cupcake was sickeningly sweet for 7:00 a.m. and crumbs found their familiar spot on my lap within seconds. But the sheer fact we were enjoying the moment in a dark, smelly alley superseded all the shortcomings.
“I’m not a jealous guy,” he said. “And I don’t like insecurity. And I felt both of those things back-to-back yesterday. Sucked the air right out of my lungs. And it scared me to think that some girl had that kind of hold on me. So I wanted to run. But I knew I couldn’t so I just tried to push you away instead. Be short. Cold. Keep myself shut off from you. That didn’t work either. Because I realized a girl with that kind of hold on me is the girl I want to be with. Allie, I believe you—what you said about Benji being in the past. But I need to know you want to be with me. All in. Officially.”
“Am I being girlfriend-proposed to?” I asked.
“Two rings in two days is out of the question, Simon. But I’d still like an answer. Would you be my girlfriend?”
I kissed him and tasted just a hint of the famous frosting we both loved.
“So is that a yes?” he asked.
“It’s a yes,” I said. “Hi, boyfriend.”
That was three months ago. And now we’re here, about to exit the limo in front of the auditorium and enter what looks like a scene from the Oscars. Everyone is in evening wear, trying to smoke their last few cigs before having to find their seats on the other side of the baroque doors.
I don’t recognize as many people as I thought I would, but that could just be because we all look equally incognito in our far-from-kitchen-appropriate attire. That said, all six feet four inches of Anthony Bourdain is unmissable out of the corner of my eye—as is the friendly wave from Hal Huckby, who’s got a lady on his arm as he walks inside. I briefly wonder if she’s the one who got away.
Jared squeezes my hand as we make our way in. “You okay?” he whispers in my ear.
I smile and nod, starstruck and terrified of snagging my beaded black dress on the heels of my three-inch pumps. It’s the first time I’ve worn shoes like this since being shredded in the blogs for my footwear, and I’m a little rusty.
* * *
“You did great, Allie! Just broadcasted that whole thing live on Facebook from our page. 5,600 people tuned in!” Tabitha says as I take my seat back at our booth.
“And I just FaceTimed your entire acceptance speech to Craig,” Angela adds. “Think he teared up a bit.”
That makes two of us—three if I’m right about what Jared’s wiped away from the corners of his eyes with his napkin.
It’s unreal that we’ve just won the award for Best New Restaurant in our region. Technically, as chef de cuisine, Tabitha should have been the one to accept it, but she has a crippling fear of public speaking and, as Angela likes to remind me, I’m (still) “the draw.”
It’s crazy to think that there was a time I doubted we’d even be able to hire a chef, yet here we are basking in a round of applause that’s already gone on longer than it should specifically dedicated to Here’s greatness.
Jared pulls me in and kisses the top of my head. I fall into his embrace and slide the ribbon Angela and Tabitha’s way for their chance to touch the elusive award.
“Is Craig proud?” I ask her.
“He is. Wants to know how we plan on displaying the ribbon.”
Leave it to our too-busy-vacationing-in-the-British-Virgin-Islands-to-show-up-tonight investor to fixate on the logistical difficulties of winning a JBF Award.
“Jesus. Tell him we just won a freakin’ James Beard and we’ll get a task force going on Monday when our champagne hangovers have a chance to settle down,” a ’tudey Tabitha says.
“Hey, I’ll cheers to that,” I say, clinking my glass against hers and chugging the rest of my bubbly.
I’ve had six drinks so far. The first two were to take the edge off. The second two were with dinner. And the last two were to celebrate the fresh win. I imagine that’ll be reason for the next two as well. On that note, I need to use the bathroom.
Wandering through the lobby, I spy a familiar face that immediately sobers me up.
Though I haven’t seen him in the three months since he slithered into Here, Benji’s just outside the front doors, smoking a cigarette with a few local bartenders. He’s in a suit, not a tux. I can’t get a good enough look into his eyes to tell if he’s been drinking. Why is he here? He wasn’t nominated for shit, which means his general admission ticket was a cool $550. I can’t imagine the cook job at the halfway house pays all that well, so I wonder what hopeless hanger-on dipped into her savings to take her adorably damaged new boyfriend on a field trip.
I duck into the bathroom before he has a chance to catch me staring.
But then it dawns on me that he’s already seen me. I just fucking accepted the award for Here ten minutes ago onstage for crying out loud. Everyone’s seen me.
I pull out my phone and, against all that is holy, I check Twitter for his reaction.
@BJZane: Coulda. Woulda. Shoulda. Tweeted five minutes ago.
It’s vague and I have no proof it’s in reference to having a drink at the open bar, sticking with Here or not blowing a future with me. For all I know, it’s a compliment...or maybe it’s a slight dig? Either way, the beauty is I don’t dissect this kind of stuff anymore. Because I don’t have to.
“Pardon me,” a lady says, trying to dry her hands under the blower.
“Oh. Holy shit. You’re Candice Allegro,” I say with my typical eloquence. Standing before me, hands dripping, is the president of the James Beard Foundation.
“That I am. Allie Simon, right? Congratulations. Your restaurant is truly outstanding.”
“Oh my gosh, seriously? Thank you so much. That means a lot. Like, a lot a lot,” I say, sidestepping to give her access to the dryer. My brain keeps flitting between exclamations of This is the Meryl Streep of food!!!!! and You sound like a teenager, Simon. I feel myself break out in a cold sweat. What is my life?
In what seems like a nod to my fangirl status, Candice says, “Well, since you have your phone out, should we take a photo, no?”
I press the pause button on reality to let it sink in that Candice Allegro has in fact asked me to take a bathroom selfie. The lighting is surprisingly flattering as we get into position and smile for the camera.
“Tweet that to me, will you?” Candice asks as she pulls open the heavy swinging door and saunters back toward the auditorium. Now that’s a chick who can walk in heels.
After I take a moment to make sure my eyeliner is still where it’s supposed to be, I, too, depart the ladies’ room. Outside the door, Jared is waiting for me.
“An elbow for the big winner?” he asks, offering to usher me back into the auditorium. I can’t help but notice that Benji is back from his smoke break and in the middle of the grand foyer. The hungry media have tape recorders jammed in his face as he gives his two cents on what I can only imagine is the biggest win of the night so far.
“Well, that’s kind of you,” I say back. He’s of course being a gentleman, but he’s also protecting (read: distracting) me from the Benji Show everyone’s suddenly tuned into.
“Please, this has nothing to do with you. Or him. This is about my ego. I absolutely must be seen with the most beautiful person in this place, who also happens to be a winner, and my girlfriend.” He manages to make me forget about the circus in the lobby as we make our way back in.
It turns out the celebration doesn’t end at the awards show. At an after-party at Acadia, a Michelin-starred restaurant in the South Loop, the chef there orders the somm to get the Veuve flowing and the next thing I know, I’m on the bar dancing to Journey with my ribbon around my neck. At least Angela and Tabitha are both there to sing backup, and Jared manages to make it look like we’ve choreographed the moment when he catches me as I stumble on my unfamiliar shoes.
When it’s time to go home, Jared calls an Uber for all of us and we carpool it back to Here.
“Have I ever told you how great you are?” says a drunken Tabitha. “Like, you don’t even get it. I’m living the fucking dream and it’s all because of YOU. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“Yeah, same,” says a sloshed Angela. “You’re the fucking best, Simon.”
“Wait, can I get in on this?” Jared asks. “I think you’re pretty great, too.”
“KISS HER! KISS HER! KISS HER!” Angela and Tabitha chant. And when he does, the crowd goes wild. Our Uber driver can’t kick us out fast enough, but to his disappointment, only the two of them get out at 900 W. Randolph. Jared and I stay in the car and head back to his apartment, our final stop for the evening.
When I wake up the next morning in the comfort of Jared’s bed, he brings me a water and three extra-strength Advil. I don’t remember much of what happened between the time I gave my acceptance speech to the time Jared and I had the most incredible sex to date, but thankfully Twitter and the hashtag #JBFChicago help me relive the magic.
As I scroll the posts, all I can think is, Christ, Simon, you are one hot mess.
But among the pics of debauchery, one tweet stands out. It’s from @CandiceAllegro and it’s been retweeted 2,500 times. A photo op with big winner @AllieSimon? #YesPlease #JBFChicago #BestNewResto.
* * *
“Why don’t we have it matted and framed or something? We can put it up in the entryway and take it down when it feels gimmicky,” Tabitha suggests.
“It’s a ribbon. With a man’s face on it. It’s never not gimmicky,” says Angela.
“It’d be one thing if Beard was hot,” I add. “Then we could make it into a print and wallpaper the women’s bathroom with it.”
“That’s not LGBT-friendly,” Tab chides me.
“Yeah, and not sure Craig would go for us objectifying a founding father of food. Also, you know the two of us are meeting with him in, like, twenty, right?” Angela says.
“That’s my cue to chop onions,” Tabitha says before exiting the scene of the back office.
“I know, I know,” I say. “And I’ll put lipstick on when he valets. For now, I’m going to sit back, read the paper and enjoy feeling sober for the first time in three days.”
“You do that. Because these press releases just happen to send themselves.” She flings herself around in her chair and starts typing loudly on her computer to up the guilt factor.
“Oh my god, Angela. HO-LY SHIT. Look at this!”
She rolls over to me with a noted lack of hustle and looks down over my shoulder at the paper.
“‘Congratulations to our friends & client, Here Restaurant, on their James Beard Award. Yours truly, Marcel & Sons,’” she reads slowly.
We lock our surprised eyes and let our smiles crack slowly across our faces.
“Okay. First question,” she says. “You know that’s a full-page ad, right? In the Trib.”
I flash to the front of the paper to make sure I’m not seeing things.
“Second question: What is with guys marking their territory with you in the media?”
“Oh my god, I know, right?”
“Well, shit. Text him.”
“Text him? It’s a full-page ad. Shouldn’t I call?”
“I have no idea. This is why I don’t date and just stick with the one thing that never lets me down: seared foie gras. Either way, you need to thank his ass. Right now.”
I pull out my phone and queue up a text. U R unreal is all I can muster. The butterflies in my stomach somehow paralyze my fingers and, apparently, my brain.
UR not freaked out, R U? Jared texts back.
No way. FLATTERED. And... I’m falling. I can’t help it. I’m alluding strongly to the L-word. I have felt it for him for a while, I just haven’t said it. Neither of us have. I blame it on the fact my life has been a roller coaster since he’s known me, but for what it’s worth, our relationship has been steady—and the best thing I’ve ever experienced. Now I only hope I didn’t just freak him out.
A few seconds go by. It feels like an hour.
The single-word reply comes through and I feel my heart leave my body and float skyward. Fallen.
“Can you pause this particular episode of Days of Allie’s Life?” Angela says, snapping her fingers in my face and pulling my phone out of my hands. “I just saw on the cameras, Craig is here. Get your lipstick on and your feet off the desk, please and thank you.”
I give myself a five-second primp, fixing my hair with my fingers and rubbing my lips together to smooth out my lipstick. I’m already smiling a mile wide, which, of course, has nothing to do with Craig and everything to do with the man who is in love (!!!!) with me, but the warmth of Craig’s greeting when he sees me lets me know he thinks it’s all for him.
“Ladies, how are you?” he says as he sweeps into the back office, giving both of us a kiss on the cheek.
We shoot the shit for about ten minutes, not really addressing anything particularly regarding Here. The longer we chitchat, the more I realize I’m not entirely sure what the purpose of today’s meeting is other than to talk about how nice the people are in the British Virgin Islands. I figure—hope—it will eventually have something to do with congratulating us on our big JBF win.
“So, Allie,” Craig says, spinning his chair to face me directly.
“Yessir,” I respond.
“How closely did you read your contract when you signed on to be a part of this restaurant deal?” The joviality in his voice is gone. If we weren’t stuck in the back office of an urban restaurant, dark clouds would be rolling in on the horizon.
My stomach drops immediately and my palms begin to sweat. “I mean, it was all very quick. I think I just signed on a few lines and pulled funds from the bank, to be honest.”
“Hmm. Interesting,” Craig says. “You didn’t have a lawyer or anyone look over the documents?” He makes a rolling gesture with his hand and organizes his face in faux concern, like he’s talking to a child.
He’s insulting my intelligence and I don’t like it. Not one bit.
“You guys all rushed me so much, it’s not like I had a choice,” I say, not bothering to hide my defensiveness. “Besides, I never planned to be the manager or anything. I didn’t realize there might have been some fine print I missed.”
The room goes silent.
“Angela, should we fill Allie in on what she missed when she so nonchalantly put her name on a dotted line?”
Angela refuses to make eye contact with me and keeps her gaze fixed on the ground.
“Yeah, I suppose it’s probably time,” she mumbles.
“What the fuck is going on here, guys?” I say with zero regard for office-appropriate language.
“Well, there was a tiny little clause in there,” Craig starts. “And it said that if you earn a Michelin star or a James Beard Award within the first year, and pull a profit of thirty percent or higher three earnings reports in a row...”
“Yeah?”
“You and Angela both take home a hundred-thousand-dollar bonus to be awarded on the one-year anniversary of our opening.”
My jaw practically unhinges as my mouth drops open in shock. I feel myself turn in slow motion to look at Angela, who is red-faced and practically bug-eyed trying to hold back her laughter.
“Did you know about this?” I blurt out in her general direction.
She squints her eyes shut, determined to contain her hysteria, and nods vigorously.
“I should have figured you had that contract memorized like the Bible. Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” I can’t contain my shock and awe and start slapping her with the rolled-up newspaper. She and Craig high-five as happy tears well up in my eyes. “You motherfuckers,” I mumble to the both of them.
In the past fifteen minutes, I’ve gone from high to higher to low to highest without so much as a hair out of place.
I’m in love with a man who loves me in return.
My nest egg is back, and it’s on steroids. It feels like the shackles have been unlocked and I am free.
I am free.
“I knew it’d trip you up,” Angela explains. “You’d focus on the money so hard, you’d forget to do your job and we’d slip. I’d never forgive myself for letting that happen simply because I couldn’t keep a secret for a few more weeks. I mean, I know you have a copy of that contract somewhere in that unholy mess you call an apartment. You couldn’t have read it on your own sometime before you depleted your life savings?”
“Right, because when I get home all I want to do is read more about the worst decision of my life,” I say in jest. “And I’d like to see how clean your place is, please and thank you.”
“Well, you ladies earned it,” Craig says, bringing us back to center. “Fair and square.”
“Wait,” I say, remembering the way I like to run my restaurant. “What about Tabitha? We wouldn’t be here without her.”
“Christ, you really didn’t read the contract, did you? Chef de cuisine gets a separate bonus. We were smart enough not to name anyone by name—if you know what I mean—in the fine print in that section, but don’t worry, she’ll be taken care of, too. All checks will be cut at the end of the summer. Keep doing what you’re doing. Michelin’s next, right?”
I’m speechless. I look from Angela to Craig and back again. Words just won’t come.
“Yes, Michelin is next,” Angela says, stepping in and speaking for both of us. I just twine my hand in hers and hold on tight as Craig takes his leave.
* * *
“Are you sure he didn’t mean ten thousand?” I ask Angela, keeping my voice down. It’s just the two of us again, but some of the servers have started to dribble in, dropping their purses and coats in the lockers beside us.
“I’m positive.”
“I just don’t understand how someone like that has so much cash to throw around.”
“Because when we won our star at Florette back in the day, he tripled his initial investment in six months alone. The amount of people a nod like a Beard Award or a star brings in is insane. You’ll see. We won’t be closed on Mondays much longer. There’s going to be way too much demand, way too much money to make.”
I expect her to go on about all the extra hours we’ll have to put in, what additions we’ll have to make on staff to accommodate the extra volume, but instead the enthusiasm drains out of her body all at once. I watch her deflate like a tired balloon as she hunches forward, resting her elbows on her knees.
“Allie, we need to talk. Like manager-to-manager, serious talk.”
“Look, if this is about the pictures that popped up on Instagram from the after-party, just know I’ve been detagging myself steadily all weekend. I shouldn’t have gotten so wasted. I honestly have no recollection of doing that body shot off Jared and I definitely didn’t know anyone was snapping pics.” Poor conduct at an industry event is a fireable offense in the employee handbook I helped write.
“There’s a photo of you doing a body shot off your boyfriend?”
“Off of his neck, actually. It’s not something I’m proud of.” I can feel my tail coiling between my legs.
“A, That’s amazing, and B, I’d like it to be my new screen saver. But sadly, that’s not what I want to chat about.”
“Oh, thank god. What’s up, then?”
I can practically feel Angela tamping down her nerves, girding herself to ask whatever it is she’s got on her mind. “What do you think about...me buying you out?”
“Buying me out of...”
“The restaurant,” she says, the sureness back in her voice.
“Come on. You serious? What are you talking about?”
“I know it seems out of nowhere, but I’ve been thinking about this since before we even opened,” she says. “Knowing the bonuses were coming made me realize I could feasibly do it. I could offer to buy you out.”
I pause and look away, not sure if I should be offended, flattered or something else.
“Why didn’t you ever bring it up before?” I ask quietly.
“Well, for one, I didn’t want you to freak out. It’s a shitload of money and after the year you’ve had, I didn’t want you to just take it and run if that’s not what you really want.”
“I mean, a Lexus and a Rolex sound good right about now, but I see your point. It’ll be weird to have more than a crumpled five-dollar bill in my wallet at any given time.”
“And then, also, I didn’t want you to take it personally. Like that I want you out or something. Because I don’t. I love you and I love working with you. I’m just open to the idea of being the sole captain of this ship if that helps you...I dunno, buy your own boat or whatever.”
“Very poetic.”
“I try.”
“Well, it’s not like you’d be firing me.”
“No, of course not, Allie. But you know what I mean. I don’t want you to think I used you for a means to an end. Like I needed you so badly and now I don’t—that type of thing.”
“I don’t see it like that,” I assure her. “You’re not Benji.”
“You’re goddamn right I’m not. Look, consider it your way out. A chance to get back to the life you thought you’d be living,” Angela says, placing her hand on my knee.
It hits me then that I’ve never shared my epiphany with Angela—the one Jared inspired when he talked some sense into me months ago.
The truth is, I love Here. I love everything about it and everyone who’s part of it. The notion that Angela has been coming to work every day to team up with a partner she thinks wants nothing to do with the place breaks my heart a little. How could I have not clued her in to the fact that I’m finally okay with things? That my whole heart is in it now? How did I manage to push her into thinking she needed to give up her hard-earned cash to stop my emotional hemorrhage?
“It’s a lot to take in,” I say, unsure of whether she’s expecting an answer right at this exact moment.
“I get it. So just take your time and think about it. We’ve got to get out on the floor anyway for preshift. Can we shoot for an answer by Friday? I’d love to have our lawyers drum up the paperwork and give Accounting a heads-up so they can manage the financials one way or another.”
The thought of Angela offering to buy me out of the restaurant with her $100,000 bonus is nothing short of blindsiding. But it’s also enticing, no doubt about that. And not just for the dollar signs either. She’s right: her offer is my exit ramp. Hell, with that kind of money, I could rent a bigger apartment. I could buy a bigger apartment. I could finally take my mom to Paris.
I can’t tell if having an extra two hundred thousand dollars sitting in the bank is a problem or a solution, but I do know having the option to choose my own path for the foreseeable future is a luxury I’d be foolish to pass up.
Is quitting a successful operation worth having the chance to figure out the life I’m meant to live? I mean, in spite of winning awards and making bank, Here is still nothing but an accident at the end of the day, something I was never meant to touch.
On the other hand, Here has become just that for me. A place that gives me purpose. The cliché makes me cringe, but it’s the truth. I’ve learned the ropes in the last year and discovered what some might even consider a talent for restaurant operations and management. And this talent has given rise to passion. My passion.
The fact that I’m doing what I want to do and making a neat profit at the same time? It’s a rare thing.
I try to imagine my life without Here. My mind buzzes through a half-dozen fanciful ideas that the business-minded part of me dismisses almost instantaneously. Sure, a bigger apartment would be nice, but I have all the space I need. Yes, Paris would be nice but how much does it really cost to visit for a week or two? And sure, a new business venture would keep me entertained for a few months and busy for a few years, but there’s no family meal at a social media agency. There are no VIPs or ingredient trends or logistical fires to put out on a nightly basis. By 7:00 p.m. every day I’d be home with Jared—which is both a beautiful and terrifying notion.
I hear Angela’s “please and thank you” float back to me from the dining room and can practically see our servers scurrying to do her bidding. Hospitality runs through that woman’s veins. Here means something much different for her, something more than recouping a loss or sticking it to a crazy ex-boyfriend. She would never sit on the fence, not even for a second, if faced with the same choice she presented me with. She would say screw the money and she would stay. She would push Here forward, take it as far as she could, come rain, shine, stars or ribbons.
But I am not Angela, so maybe I just need to get out of her way.
Co-owning Here with Craig and Craig alone would mean Angela is one step away from eventually becoming the sole owner. And given her tenure with Craig, that would likely happen sooner rather than later. I admire what she’s doing to make a dream come true, to make a particular situation come full circle for her. She’s willing to part with a ton of cash and risk her relationship with me to achieve her long-term goals. She’s focused, determined.
She’s Angela.
I want to poll the audience, but I know they would all put this back on me.
“You have to do what feels right to you,” they’ll tell me. “It’s no one’s choice but your own.”
* * *
Jared picks me up around midnight after all sidework is complete. We’re spending the night at his place again. I’m still reeling from the fact that we did $38,538.14 in sales tonight. That’s our second highest night ever behind New Year’s Eve. And it’s Tuesday. Just a random Tuesday! I’m starting to see what Angela and Craig meant about the “JBF effect.”
“Sorry, you can just move those to the back,” he says, waving away a stack of books sitting on the passenger’s seat.
“Doing a little light reading?” I joke, heaving the thick tower of textbooks onto the floor behind him. I plant a kiss on his cheek and strap on my seat belt.
“Just a tad. I’m actually taking a history class at DePaul starting next week. Just one night a week.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I know. I’m going to be the old dude in the room, but it’s something I’ve been wanting to do. You know I’m a history nerd and we’ve got some extra hands at the warehouse, so I can take a couple nights off now without the place burning down. I’m thinking I’ll get bored if I don’t plan something other than eating cupcakes with you.”
“I love that idea,” I say. “Best of both worlds.”
As we take the highway up to Jared’s place in Wicker Park, I gaze out the window at our twinkling city. I used to wonder if any other people zipping down the road were going through the same shitty times I was, but now that seems like a thought from someone else’s life. Now I’m holding my boyfriend’s hand, fresh off the second-best shift of my life.
I realize I’m in a position to have it all, in part because I only need a few things.
* * *
“Morning, pookie,” Angela says as she files away a yellow request-off form from a server.
“Hi. I’ve made up my mind,” I say, no hesitation in my voice.
She turns around to face me.
“Oh. Shit. Okay. And?”
For a second I think about drawing this out, making her wait for my answer. But I see the anxious questions in her eyes and I know this isn’t a time for games. It’s time for business.
“Buy me out for what I put in, thirty thousand dollars, and release me from anything binding in my contract as far as the financials and ownership are concerned. Just let me keep my job as AGM. I don’t need to be the owner. I just want to stay the manager until either I quit or you fire me because more unladylike photos surface on the internet—whichever comes first.”
Tears well up in Angela’s eyes. I can tell that up until this moment, she suffered from her biggest fear: tunnel vision. She failed to see there was a chance for her to have the best of both worlds: Here can be hers someday, and we don’t have to jeopardize what we both know is a once-in-a-lifetime friendship.
“Deal,” she says, throwing her arms around me.
We both dab at our makeup, and the tension runs out of Angela like the yolks from a perfectly poached egg. The sound of shattering porcelain from the dishwashing station snaps our attention back to the present moment.
It’s time to get to work.
* * * * *