Ever

It’s a job night and everything has been royally fucked from the word go.

There are several drawbacks to hiring students to walk around and offer hors d’oeuvres to guests. They court drama among themselves, they’re always cranky and they’re flakier than cereal. No matter how effusive they are about their work ethic and punctuality, it takes almost nothing to make them call in sick. A light drizzle, a fight with their significant other, a Netflix binge they didn’t see coming. They never cancel in a timely manner, either. They wait until oven buzzers are going off and the pinchy-featured woman who hired you is checking her watch.

Problem is, Nina and I haven’t established ourselves enough yet to hire a full-time staff. We don’t have enough capital to pay waiters until we get paid. God forbid something goes wrong and people are shortchanged. So on a job night—like tonight—we often squint one eye and wait to take a punch.

This evening, Hot Damn Caterers has been hired by the Women’s Art League of New York—and that is no small potatoes. There was a small write up recently about Nina taking over the family donut shop in Brooklyn and starting her own catering company in the space. Apparently, it had caught the right eye, because the Art League had contacted us directly, interested in using the services of a female-run company.

We’ve been testing recipes and fine-tuning the menu for a month. Fois gras crème brȗlée, spiced lamb meatball and tuna tartar appetizers. Sangria-marinated filet mignon, pesto-pistachio gnocchi and pancetta-wrapped pork tenderloin entrées. Yeah, we’ve pulled out all the stops on this one. No way we’re going to let them down, knowing how much business a successful event could lead to. Of course, when we’d stressed the importance of this event to our college crew, it had gone in one ear and out the other.

We are short a waiter, which doesn’t seem like a huge deal. But it is. Catering companies with more financial security always play it safe and book extra help. Hot Damn doesn’t have that kind of bankroll yet. Maybe we should have tapped another waiter despite the cost, though, because now we’re stuck.

“Maybe I can multitask,” I mumble to Nina out of the side of my mouth, conscious of the nervous Art League chairwoman pacing the kitchen, going over notecards. “Stock trays and plate food, then do a pass with it . . . lather, rinse, repeat.” In front of me on the stove, four pans sizzle with different sauces and a huge pot of boiling pasta. We spent most of the afternoon prepping the food off-site in Williamsburg, but the Art League hasn’t paid through the nose for trays of ziti on chafing racks. They expect gourmet, and they expect it hot and fresh, which is why we’ve been busting ass in the Art League basement for four hours without a break. The event begins in half an hour.

“No, we need you down here.” Nina chews on the thumbnail of her free hand, the other holding a cell phone to her ear. “Damn. No one is answering. That’s the fifth voicemail I’ve gotten.”

“College students with plans on a Saturday night.” I sample the sauce and decide more fresh ground pepper is needed. “Never would have guessed.”

When Nina would usually toss back a smart-alec response, she laughs and pats me on the back. “Good one.” Such compliments have been the theme of the week. Maybe her heart isn’t in our ongoing battle of wits right now because she’d ended things with her boyfriend? Whatever the reason, I hope she gets back on the insult horse soon—there’s only so much positivity I can take.

“Crap,” Nina grounds out. “Crap. Six voicemails. That’s it. Wad blown.”

“Damn.” Now I’m nervous. I was able to hold off the anxiety until the final safety was pulled on our parachute, but now the deficit is real. This is a huge opportunity for us, and we’re missing a vital player. “Um . . . do we know anyone—”

“No. Jeremy’s sister could have done in a pinch, but . . .” Nina shrugs off the mention of her ex-boyfriend’s sister, her eyes clouding over.

I turn and plop a kiss on her shoulder. “Look, we’ll just send up more trays with each pass and set them out, instead of walking through. If the food can’t go to the guests, the guests must go to the food.”

Nina throws a look over her shoulder and winces. “That’s going to go down like a wet fart in a church.”

“Nina.” I muffle a laugh with the back of my wrist. “Maybe we should tell our not-so-calm-and-collected client now and limit the fallout.”

“I already know what’s going to happen,” Nina whispers, massaging her forehead. “We’re not going to get paid in full and we’ll lose money, Ever. We really can’t afford that right now. We’re going to be paupers bathing in city fountains.”

My pulse drums hard on either side of my throat. Times like this, I’m tempted to fall into the trap of uncertainty. Was I crazy to think I could just morph into a businesswoman, like my mother? What do I know about running a company? I’m learning as I go, taking it one day at a time. But this is a now problem, so I battle the urge to buckle and breathe through my nose. Thinking . . . thinking . . .

Later tonight, I will look back at this moment and wonder if some sort of voodoo had come into play. Inside the pocket of my apron, my cell phone buzzes and I fumble my spoon into its holder so I can grab it.

Charlie, says the screen.

For a full month, Charlie contacted me for one reason only. Sex. So it’s little wonder that seeing his name on my cell phone screen makes my vaginal muscles clench like I’m trying to crack a coconut. Charlie Burns: a walking, talking reminder to do your Kegels.

Only, we’re friends now. Not hookup buddies. Three days ago, we shook hands over beer and everything. When he walked me to the train, he kept his paws and mouth to himself, which had to mean he was serious, right? When three days passed without so much as a text, I started to doubt. But it’s possible I’ve been too rash. Ninety percent of the afternoons we were together, he wore his uniform. Maybe the academy really does keep him too busy for a relationship, just as I suspected when I first laid eyes on him. When he claims to have no time, maybe it’s the truth, plain and simple.

“Charlie?”

“Ever.” His voice slides into my ear and the bubbling sauces on the stove fade out, but continue to warm my arms. “What are you up to?”

“Working a job.” I notice Nina watching me closely. Motioning for her to keep stirring, I take a few steps away. “You?”

“Watching the game with Jack. Or I was, before he passed out.” A pause, wherein I can almost feel him kissing my neck, simply because that’s what usually happens when small talk is out of the way. “I was going to see if we could hang out. Like friends do.”

“Like friends do,” I say back, catching my reflection in the stainless-steel refrigerator. I’m twisting side to side at the waist like a middle-schooler talking to a boy on the phone for the first time. Really, it’s heinous. “Maybe a different night.”

There is a picture of Charlie beside the word persistent in the dictionary, so I’m not surprised when he doesn’t take no for an answer. “Not even for a drink afterward? What neighborhood are you in? I can come meet you.”

“Believe me, a drink will be necessary, but I think it’ll be a bottle of red wine passed between me and Nina in bed.” I look back anxiously at my friend, who in turn stares at the pacing Art League chairwoman. “We’ve had a pretty big setback tonight, so we’ll be licking our wounds.” When he doesn’t speak for a moment, I nudge him. “Charlie?”

His sigh is almost wistful. “Sorry, I got stuck on the part about you drinking wine in bed with another woman.”

“Lecherous man.”

“You brought it up.” His smile beams through the phone, reminding me of the hug he gave me in the bar. How he’d smelled. How he’d seemed invincible, those steady breaths lifting his chest beneath my cheek. “What kind of setback?”

“One of our waiters cancelled—” I cut myself off as a thought occurs to me. Call me a skeptic, a realist or both. I’m not one hundred percent sure if Charlie really wants to only be my friend. Heck, I’m not sure if women and men can be friends at all without one of them wanting to knock boots, let alone when they’ve been at it for a month. Why not find out if he can put his money where his mouth is? “How are you with a tray? Think you could walk, smile and carry one at the same time?”

I hear a creak and envision him standing up from a chair. “You’re really asking about my multitasking skills, Ever? Remember when my fingers were—”

“If you’re about to reference something sexual,” I interrupt, a hot flush engulfing me. “I remind you, Charlie, you promised you wouldn’t bring up our past . . . endeavors.”

His groan is pure male frustration. “Fair enough. But I insist on a caveat. Don’t refer to our past endeavors with the name of a space shuttle.”

My lips twitch. “Well, you did blast off.”

“Oh, now who’s bringing it up?”

When our laughs collide into the buzzing static, I realize hearing his voice has almost made me forget about the problem at hand. He has blanked my mind before, but not unless we were in the same room. Naked. “So, about that multitasking thing—”

“I’m in. Text me the address.”

A flutter begins a few inches south of my throat. “Just like that?”

“Yeah, Ever.” His voice could melt butter. “You’re in trouble so I’m coming. I want to help. Are you going to feed me for my trouble?”

Excitement blows through me at the idea of him finally trying my food. I never really expected it to happen. If possible, I’m more nervous about Charlie trying my meatballs than tonight’s guests. “I’m going to stuff you like a turkey.”

“Again, with the sex talk. You need an intervention.”

“You—”

My comeback is sliced in two when the chairwoman growls behind me. Loud enough to send me toward the ceiling. “The harpist cancelled.” She turns in a circle. “This isn’t happening.”

“I don’t suppose you can sing, too,” I whisper into the phone.

“I know a magician,” Charlie offers, obviously having heard the chairwoman’s meltdown. “And I use that term loosely. His show stealer trick is making a woman’s panties disappear.”

“You’re the magician?”

“No, but I appreciate the compliment. I think.” An exasperated sigh, followed by the clanking of glass. Bottles? “Jack, get up. Time to break a leg.”

“Sure, baby,” comes the muffled reply. “Just let me rest another minute, and we’ll go again.”

“Jesus,” Charlie says. “We’ll be there as soon as we can. Hang tight.”

This is going to be a triumph or a tragedy.

“Thanks, Charlie.”

“Any time, Ever.” More clanking bottles. “I mean it.”

I hang up and text Charlie the location, smiling like an idiot. Having him as a friend might be more black and white than I thought. Ignoring that ripple in my bones every time he’s around will get easier, won’t it? Especially when I find somewhere to focus my romantic energy. Right? A new start is the remedy for what Charlie makes me feel. I’m still a tiny bit . . . stuck on him at the moment. It’ll pass.

My voice sounds a touch scratchy when I call to Nina. “Problem solved.”