Page 6 of Best I Never Had

“He can talk to me when I call Mom,” I add for good measure.

“Hey,” he yields, avoiding taking sides, “I’m just the messenger. I already get heat for hiring my favorite nephew.”

I shake my head with a quick eye roll, knowing that I’m hisonlynephew. “I’m going to get back into the kitchen.” I tap two fingers on the tabletop, a dull, rhythmic thud signaling the end of our conversation.

“Yep,” he answers with a gruff nod.

I sigh, the frustration blowing out through my exhale as I realize that this, my strained relationship with my dad, isn’t my uncle’s fault. He and my mom are the ones who are caught in the middle, trying to mediate a rift that started with a blowout. One that ended with my dad accidentally flinging candied yams onto my mom’s holiday-themed tablecloth trimmed with fall leaves, right next to the uncarved turkey and steaming pile of stuffing. Uncle Pat was there to witness the whole argument. Right up until I stormed out and my dad stood with his fist pounded into the dining table.

I wish things were easier. I wish my entire past didn’t revolve around my dad’s idea of what my future should look like. I felt ashamed for choosing to go against the grain, opting for a career he once called “home economics” instead of becoming this idea of the perfect son along with the profession he deemed appropriate. Something that forced me into a straitjacket of a suit every day while surrounded by men in the same attire, all proving themselves through power struggles and measuring sticks.

I let out a deep sigh as I stalk toward the kitchen, walking through the almost empty dining room, and get hit in the face with heavy steam and the hot sizzle of oil hitting pans. I ready myself for our dinner rush, positioning a worn washcloth at my waist and washing my hands, just as the lingering thoughts of my dad and my career choices that drew the rift between us are interrupted by the clanging of plate to metal.

“Who left the lamb out?!”

Every movement in the kitchen stops. Spoons stirring in pots, knives hitting plastic board surfaces. Even the in and out of traffic between the swinging doors all comes to a halt. Everything is at a standstill as our head chef, Augustus DuPont, demands answers.

“I asked who left out thefuckinglamb!”

With every member of the kitchen staff frozen in place, Pat rushes in to handle yet another anger-filled blowout from Chef DuPont.

“Chef, what’s going on?”

“I asked who the fuck left the lamb out when it was supposed to be put in the walk-in right off the truck.”

Pat sighs. His hands come up in an attempt to calm Chef DuPont. “It’s fine. I’ll get someone to move it.”

Chef DuPont turns to Pat, his face coming inches away from him as his finger points at Pat’s chest. “I can’t work with an incompetent team like this. I’m tired of it!”

I watch from the assembly line, stacking a pile of clean plates, as Chef DuPont’s face grows redder and redder.

“Gus, it’s not a big deal,” Pat explains, attempting to smooth down his anger. “The delivery came in less than twenty minutes ago. I know because I signed for it. The meat hasn’t gone bad.”

Chef DuPont throws his towel against Pat’s chest and storms off. He purposely knocks over a saucepan sitting on the corner of the countertop as he rounds toward the back exit. Pat turns to the rest of the kitchen staff that seems to breathe a sigh of relief with Chef DuPont’s exit.

“Okay, people. Let’s keep things going. We have a busy dinner ahead of us,” he calls over the length of the kitchen. He then turns to me. “Hayden, can you take this to the walk-in? And make sure there isn’t anything else that was missed from the delivery?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks.” Pat sighs as he walks away, his shoulders hunched with stress and worry.

I pick up the plastic crates carrying the slabs of lamb chops, all neatly stacked with times and dates stamped along the cellophane covering, and walk them toward the walk-in on the other side of the kitchen. I avoid Chef DuPont as he stalks back into the kitchen. He mutters profanities under his breath as he works his way through the sous vide station to package and seal filets of monkfish for their water bath.

I spend the rest of my shift watchful of Chef DuPont’s whereabouts, trying to minimize contact with him while working through our nightly dinner rush. I plate dishes carefully and sear the prepared lamb chops to perfection, despite Chef DuPont’s rage over proper oil temperatures, until my shift is over late into the night.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Pat.” I peer into Pat’s office as he waves at me without looking up from his desk. I wave a quick goodbye to a couple of servers at the hostess station before I walk out the door. Once outside in the early fall air, I look down at my phone to a new message from Natalia.

Natalia: We moved the party to 11 but feel free to show up whenever.

Her message is followed by her address, along with a reminder that I don’t have to bring any “cute friends” as Lucy requested.

Me: Sounds good. I’ll see you later.

There are a few memories that I’ve held on to since my time at Coolidge View High. Football practice and our homecoming games usually take front and center. Spending my lunch trying to stuff as much as I could into my Subway sandwich with disgusting junk food choices like Cheetos, ramen noodles, and gummy worms comes in a close second. But another constant memory I have is the fifty-five minutes I spent in AP Bio with Natalia Marquez as my lab partner senior year. Before that class, we’d never spoken a word to each other. We were just two fish in the sea of Coolidge View High students.But in the small bubble that formed around our lab table surrounded by the pungent odor of formalin and fragile beakers, we were two ends of a magnet, the opposite poles coming together for a single hour to talk about everything and nothing.

Natalia, much like all the minute details of high school, unexpectedly made an imprint on me. When I think of her, I think of home. Like what it felt like to stop by the local Wendy’s for a Frosty on Thursdays after school. Or the comfort I had going to Five Guys to stuff my face with burgers and shelled peanuts with the rest of the football team. It also reminds me that during one of the last years of our adolescence, before the both of us entered adulthood, Natalia was the most constant and real presence in my life. Someone who I had a hard time saying goodbye to when the last days of school finally approached.

When I walk through the front door of my apartment, I find my roommate, Dexter, sprawled along the couch with his phone held in the air.

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