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.
My brother squints at me. “Seriously, what’s the matter?”
I shrug, looking over his shoulder at the family photos lining the wall that my mom used to insist we take every year. I’ll never tell anyone what really happened at Xavier’s. It’s the most mortifying thing that’s ever happened to me, and I’d love to erase the memory from my own head. What a complete idiot I was, staying late, cheerfully organizing ingredients in the pantry, and making an extra-special effort to earn a promotion Xavier never intended to give me.
I really was nothing but a nice face and a perky pair of tits after all.
“I didn’t get the promotion.” I try it out on Owen, practicing for my parents tomorrow.
“Shit. I’m sorry. What happened?”
Maybe I’m just being sensitive, maybe it’s my parents’ voices humming in my head, accompanied by a rousing chorus of my own insecurities, but what I hear is: What did you do?
“I don’t know. He just gave the promotion to someone else.” I move into the living room and flop onto the couch.
Owen follows, sitting on the chair opposite of me. “I really thought you had it.”
I did, too. But looking back, Xavier never said the job was mine. He said he had his eye on me, that I’d be happy with his choice, and I was doing a great job. But it was how he said those things. I know I didn’t read into them.
Did I?
Somehow, Xavier is still gaslighting me, and he’s not even here.
“Well, you deserved that fucking job,” Owen says, and I feel bad for all my unkind thoughts about him earlier.
“Well, now I have to tell Mom and Dad.” I prop my feet up on the coffee table and accidently kick over a pile of books. Sophocles and Euripides tumble to the floor, but I don’t have the energy to rescue them. “And they’re already devastated that I turned down Alex’s proposal, so they can add this to the list of ways I disappointed them.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard.”
“What is?”
“That not agreeing to spend the rest of your life with someone who was incredibly wrong for you means you’re disappointing Mom and Dad.”
I look up. “Alex was incredibly wrong for me?”
“Yes? Obviously? I mean—” He holds up a hand like he’s about to count off the ways on his fingers, but then he hesitates. “Wait a minute.”
“What?”
“Well, are you one hundred percent sure you’re done with him?” He leans forward in his chair. “I’m only asking because I don’t want to shit-talk him and then have you turn around and get back with him later. That never ends well.”
I wave my hand in a have-at-it gesture. “Shit-talk away.”
Owen opens his mouth and then closes it. He frowns. “Well, now that I know I’m allowed, I don’t really feel like it. I mean, he was incredibly wrong for you, but he was an okay dude.”
I sit up straight. “If you thought he was wrong for me, why didn’t you say something when we were dating?”
“Seriously?” Owen shakes his head. “Please refer back to it never ends well.”
“Well, you’re right. Alex was incredibly wrong for me.” I slump back against the couch cushions. “But Mom and Dad are still devastated.”
“Are you devastated? What do you care if they are?”
I raise my eyebrows. “Says the son who literally never devastates them.”
He gets up out of his chair and goes into the kitchen. I hear the refrigerator door open and glass clinking around. A minute later, Owen is back holding two bottles of beer. He hands me one and takes a long swig of the other.