Page 29 of Roses in Summer

Lincoln

“Gem, I need to get into the restaurant.” I sigh, pinching my nose as my girlfriend continues to ramble about all the shit she wants us to do this weekend, all the places she wants to go, and the parties she wants to hit up. She’s social, an extrovert who, while exciting, can be exhausting.

“So, should I tell Fiona that we’ll be there on Wednesday night?”

“Who the hell is Fiona?” I ask, confused by the unfamiliar name. Gemma releases a shriek, and I have to pull the phone away from my ear from the volume. “Jesus, Gem. What was that for?”

“Just be a good boy and say yes for me, k? All those hours in the kitchen are scrambling your brain. I told you you need to quit and find a normal, nice job. One with benefits and maybe a 401(k). Or you could model, you know, like old times?”

Of all the unappetizing professions she could suggest, the one thing I would never do again is model, and Gemma knows that. I hated being in front of the camera, even if I got paid a fuck-ton of money to smile pretty and keep my mouth shut. I’m used to her disgust over my job, which is ironic since I met Gemma at the restaurant I’m about to walk into. We dated casually at first, a way to put other things—other people—from my mind before ending things when she left for her steady modeling gigs. When she came back two years ago, we started seeing each other again, and I’ve had a headache every day since. I sigh at her dig. “I love my job, Gemma. We’ll talk when I get home, okay?”

“I’ll let Fiona know we’re coming. Oh! And maybe we can do that cute little brunch place on Sunday morning. You know they make the best French Toast and—”

“Gemma,” I cut her off, my voice dripping with exasperation. “I can’t do this now; I have work. I’ll see you tonight.” I end the call, releasing a breath when her voice is cut off from my ears. “Fuck’s sake,” I breathe out, shaking my head as I replay the conversation in my head.

It’s easy to fall into Gemma’s plans, the constant “go, go, go” mentality that leaves no room for rest or contemplation or a fucking breath. When we first met, I had no desire to give in to the energetic model who was passing time as a hostess, but she was relentless. The back-and-forth of our relationship, the break-ups and make-ups, the moving out just to move back in, has been beyond tiring.

Gemma’s a complicated person, caring and beautiful, but also a little self-centered and easily bored. Despite what I said about talking when I get home, I know she won’t be there waiting for me. With Gemma, there’s no downtime or a quiet night in, so the fact that I’m working until ten tonight means that she’ll call up one of her girlfriends and go to dinner before heading over to a club or a bar.

I’m fucking exhausted trying to keep up with her and her ever-evolving schedule, and not for the first time in the last few months, I question why we’re together when all she seems to want to do is change me to fit the mold she so desperately wants.

Shaking my head, I yank open the side door and stride into the restaurant, immediately feeling calmer when my feet hit the distressed hardwood floor.

—

Zucchini, bell peppers, eggplant, onion.

Zucchini, bell peppers, eggplant, onion.

Zucchini, bell peppers, eggplant, onion.

I repeat the vegetables in my head as I rummage through the walk-in fridge, trying to find the shit I need before starting dinner prep. It’s useless, though, because one step into the nightmare that is the Garganello’svegetable fridge tells me whoever unloaded the nightly provisions left halfway through their task. Empty boxes mix with full ones, leaving little to no room in the already cramped space. I nearly trip over a basket of canned tomatoes, which definitely should not be in here.

“Shit, sorry, Chef.” A rushed exhale sounds behind me, and I almost feel sorry for the fear etched on the kitchen porter’s face. Narrowing my eyes, I see the tear marks on the kid’s face, the sweat beading on his hairline. I could be a dick right now, demand to know why the walk-in is a fucking disaster, and order him to clean shit up. But what will that accomplish? I decide to go easy on him, even though every instinct I have tells me to call this kid out on his incompetence.

Drawing in a deep breath, I swallow the words I want to say. “It’s fine. I need fifteen zucchini, bell peppers, eggplants, and onions. Where do I find them? The onions weren’t in the root vegetable closet.”

“I’ll bring them to your station, Chef; I’ll be right there. Just give me a minute to finish sorting these boxes, and I’ll get you your vegetables.”

Nodding, I turn, careful not to trip over the cans as I make my way back to my station. Surveying my space, I feel the same rush of pride as I do each night I come to Garganello’s. I’ve been here for four and a half years, working my way from a dishwasher to kitchen porter, commis chef, and now finally, entremetier, or vegetable chef. Dante may have gotten me the job, but I worked my ass off to get to the station.

While I wait for my vegetables, I set my station up, prepping my knives, cutting board, prep containers, and towels so that when the porter comes with my shit, I can start on the julienne. Fishing my phone out of my back pocket, I place it face down on the stainless-steel shelf in front of me, making sure that I can’t see the screen while I work.

As though someone knows I’m about to start my dinner prep, my phone starts vibrating, moving rapidly on the shelf to let me know someone is calling. I almost reach forward to answer the call when the porter arrives with a tray of my vegetables.

“Thanks, man. Set them down on the cart there.” I nod toward the rack beside me.

Following my directions, he places the oversized tray down, stepping back once it’s secure. “Anything else, Chef?”

“No, you’re good. Thanks again.” I dismiss him, grabbing the first of fifteen zucchinis I need to prepare.

Losing myself in the repetitious act, my mind travels back to the first time I stepped behind the station, eager and nervous as shit to prove myself to some of the titans in this industry.

I was a fucking asshole when Dante got me this job, all but demanding it as payment for a bet I didn’t actually win. I love bartering, wagering, and the high I get from winning a favor. It’s not money that thrills; my family has it in spades.

No, I like to be owed. I like knowing that I can collect on what I want—what I need—when the moment benefits me. I have no desire to risk a fortune in Atlantic City or play cards with the boys in Vegas. I’d rather bet on an outcome, a board game, or some other innocent shit that means nothing but gains me everything.

Slicing through the vegetables, I let my lips break out into a smirk, remembering how pissed D was when I told him he’d never have a shot with Celeste, the fiery redhead who had his dick in a twist from the moment he laid eyes on her. I even offered my car, Betty, my prized possession, as collateral because I was so goddamn sure he had no chance.

---