The Second Chance Year(65)
I get dressed, gulp down some coffee, and shuffle the eight blocks to Xavier’s. The kitchen is buzzing with sous chefs and servers prepping food and tableware for today’s dinner service, so I manage to slip in the back door without any dramatic confrontations or ingredients flying through the air. Right now, that’s all I can ask for.
Grabbing my apron, I tiptoe into the pantry, half expecting to find a pile of white powder and toppled containers strewn across the floor like an arctic crime scene. But the room is sparkling, the floor mopped, and the shelves wiped down. Maybe Xavier cleaned it up last night in an effort to pretend nothing happened today. Burying my head in the sanding sugar seems like an excellent coping strategy, so my plan is to get my work done and avoid any more scenes.
I grab the ingredients for a batch of chocolate icing and carry it to the prep table. Xavier flits in and out, barking orders, but I keep my head bent over my cakes. He doesn’t acknowledge me, and I don’t make eye contact.
About half an hour before the first reservations of the night, Xavier calls the staff into the kitchen for a meeting. The prix fixe menu is a departure from our usual service, so he probably wants to go over the details. He gathers everyone around, clapping his hands and speaking in a booming, overly jolly voice, as if Santa popped in to wish us a Merry Christmas. It’s so weirdly unlike him that I look up from my cakes and, from across the room, his gaze locks on mine. His eyes narrow for just a second, and despite the heat from the ovens, a shiver runs up my spine.
Xavier slowly turns back to the staff, clapping his hands. “Everyone, I have an announcement to make. As you know, Dennis will be leaving us soon, and I’m sure that you’ve all been eagerly waiting for me to name the new executive pastry chef.”
A murmur runs through the staff, and I wipe my sweaty hands on my chef’s coat.
“Well.” He pauses for effect, as if this is the Oscars and we’re waiting to hear who won the award for Best Pastry Chef. “I’m happy to announce that Charles Pascale will be coming to us from The May Fair in London, starting on January first.”
My body goes hot, and then cold, and my vision blurs. I grip the prep table in front of me for balance. Xavier didn’t hire Charles Pascale overnight. Which means that yesterday, when he was dangling the promotion and trying to make out with me against a shelf of canned goods, he knew Charles was coming. And he probably knew it for months.
Xavier never intended to give me that job. He’d been lying all along to keep me sucking up to him and pandering to his VIPs. Lying and waiting for just the right time to make a move on me. And somehow, I convinced myself that I was the problem. That I shouldn’t speak up, I shouldn’t choose my own feelings. That I should shut up and smile.
I spent the last year shaping myself into someone pleasant and agreeable, someone who went along, who didn’t rock the boat. And somewhere along the way, I threw the old Sadie overboard. The old Sadie who was strong, and confident, and who stood up for herself. The old Sadie who would have never taken this shit.
She’s somewhere out there. Adrift.
And I have no idea who the hell I am anymore.
I drop my icing bag, and slowly push away from the prep table, my movements slow and labored, as if I’m slogging through caramel sauce. And right there, in front of Xavier and the entire restaurant staff, I turn and walk out the door.
Chapter 33
My parents’ house is quiet when I let myself in, and I hope it’s because everyone is asleep. I deliberately put this off, waiting until the very last train was about to pull out of Penn Station before I got on. Once I hopped off in downtown New Brunswick, I decided to walk the two miles home rather than call my dad or an Uber to pick me up. I know I’m just prolonging the inevitable. The first thing my parents are going to ask me tomorrow morning is if I got the promotion.
I guess it wouldn’t be a Thatcher family gathering if I didn’t let my parents down. It turns out that massive disappointment pairs well with festive holiday beverages. Merry Christmas, your daughter is still a disaster. Eggnog, anyone?
No doubt, Owen will come home for the holidays having invented a robot that can cure cancer, casually announce that he’s been promoted to president of the world, or have accomplished something equally impressive that my parents can hold up as a shining example of how well it could have gone for me, if only I’d gotten a proper education.
Tiptoeing into the hallway, I hang my coat on a hook by the door. Then I turn around and—
“Jesus, Owen!” I spring backward.
My brother is standing there, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe to the living room.
“Quit lurking like that!” I whisper-yell.
“I’m not lurking, I’m calmly standing here.”
“You’re standing there in a lurking manner.”
Owen rolls his eyes. “You’re the one creeping around in the middle of the night.” He looks at me sideways. “And don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like you slept in an alley. Make that in a dumpster in an alley.”
“How could I possibly take that the wrong way, Owen?” I huff past him, but when I do, I catch a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror. And well, he’s not wrong. It’s impossible to miss the black mascara smears underlining my bloodshot eyes or the fact that my nose is still red and puffy from crying. Oh, and look, my shirt is on backward. I pull my arms through the armholes and spin it around.