Page 18 of All We Need

“Front of house, don’t worry.”

WhenFlorencewas thirteen, she convinced our dad to lether do a shift as a dishwasher.Safeto say she isn’t cut out for a culinary career.Mysister is less involved withOurPlace—she prefers it that way—but we still like to run stuff by her and keep her informed.Shespent the last eighteen months traveling aroundSouthandCentralAmericaand wasn’t due home until the spring.Mom’saccident apparently cut her trip short, thoughIsense there’s more to the story.

“A couple of shifts now and again won’t help me get an apartment.”Herhand swishes through the air. “Forgetit.I’llwork something out.Haveyou pissed off the new owner much lately?”

“Meh.Inever know if they’re actually angry because everything comes throughLarry.Ilike to think they have aVoodoodoll of me by their bedside.”Ilean in close, lowering my voice as if we’re not the only two people in my house, and whisper, “I’mchanging the menu.”

The liquid in her bottle sloshes as she dives forward, eyes wide. “Wait?What?How?”

“Thewhenis next week.”Florence’smouth opens to say something, butIcut her off. “Iknow what you’re going to say.However, what they don’t know won’t kill them.It’smy kitchen.Ourrestaurant.AndI’vehad it up to here”—Ihold two fingers to my forehead—“with them bossing me around.Plus, the menu has needed a face-lift for years.It’sdated andI’m…”

Tired.

Bored.

Disheartened.

“…done with them thinking they have a say.”

Her next words surprise me; mostly becauseFlorenceis the biggest troublemaker. “Idon’t know,Booth.Doyou really want to do that?It’sfunny sending them sassy emails but going over their head?Idon’t want us to be in a position like we were inFebruary.”

Shit.

For my siblings and me, the restaurant is one of the last things we have left of our dad.Fromher distressed expression, she’s worried.Shewasn’t here when we were told about the threat of being sold.Iwas.Theconstant worry that memories ofDadcould be snatched out from under us kept me up at night becauseIfelt likeI’dfailed him.

We weren’t making money.Competitorswere outselling us.Stockincreased in price.Andwe remained stagnant.

It was the reasonIpushed to change the menu for months prior; confident it would help get new customers in and attract tourists from the larger neighboring towns.Didanyone listen?

No.Becauseno one took me seriously.

“It’ll be fine,Flo.Someharmless fun.”Iclink my bottle with hers. “Therestaurant is safe, don’t worry.”

The sigh she lets out isn’t reassuring.Hereyes stay trained on the label she’s peeled to shreds. “Doyou ever feel you don’t know where life is heading?”

All the fucking time,I’mtempted to say. “You’veonly been back a week.Cutyourself some slack.It’llall fall into place.”

She nods slowly, the weight on her shoulders lifting slightly.

After she leaves,Igrab a quick shower, throw on some thermals, and step out onto the short balcony framing the house.Thereisn’t a star in sight.Tinysnowflakes dance down from the sky to catch the light, glittering like fallen stars until they melt into the pitch-black waters.

Do you ever feel you don’t know where life is heading?

Closing my eyes,Iimagine myself standing at a fork in the road.Thepath on the left keeps my family’s business safe.Theother is oneIforgotI’dmapped out, losing sight of it the day we lostDad.

I’m proud of whatI’veaccomplished, of the respectI’vegained from my team, and the reputationI’vebuilt for myself.Wasworking in a small-town restaurant always my dream?

No.

The plan was to develop my skills, expand my knowledge, and push the limits of my capabilities.OnceIfelt confident enough,I’dapply for jobs outside of my hometown.Iwasn’t aiming high, likeLAorNewYork, but somewhere customers’ food palettes went beyond clam chowder and blueberry pie.

My dream was to curate taster menus, experiment with ingredients from all around the world, and shadow chefs who have worked inEurope,Asia, andAfrica.

The number of people who know about this dream?One.

Me.

My reason for changing the menu isn’t to piss the owner off—that’s a bonus—but to find an output for the creativity threatening to burst out of me like a volcano.Thelast thingIwant is to resent the place that was my first stepping-stone, where my feet have always landed safely, and laughter and happiness encompass me.

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