Chapter 14: : Part 2 – Chapter 14

Brant, age 22

“You worried about the new boss?”

Alfie expedites orders for me, making conversation as I carefully slice my signature Beef Wellington, quirking a smile at the brilliant ruby color of the meat.

Nailed it.

We’re the only restaurant in a fifty-mile radius that serves Beef Wellington, and that’s because it’s a bitch to make. It took me two solid years to perfect, but it’s our top-seller, and the reason I was promoted to head chef last month after only three years of kitchen experience as an assistant cook. Cooks generally need five years and a degree for such an esteemed title, but our old manager, Davis, promoted me anyway.

Swiping the sheen of sweat from my forehead with a dish towel, I glance up at Alfie, then start cleaning the plate. “Not really. Can’t be worse than Davis and his cringey jokes that teetered the line of sexual harassment.”

“Yeah, well, at least Davis was fuckin’ funny. Heard this guy is a real jackhole.” Alfie snatches two tickets, then reads them off to me. “Another Wellington, medium rare, and a mushroom risotto.”

I nod my head at Santiago, who’s on the fish station, and pull him over to start the risotto since Lawson is behind. Again.

The restaurant I work at was recently bought out by Pauly Marino, a big wig in the culinary industry, owning multiple Michelin-star restaurants in Chicago, Vegas, Seattle, and New York City. It was renamed to Bistro Marino, and buzz surrounding the new ownership has circulated throughout our north shore suburbs, exciting many, but terrifying some—mainly, the staff.

Alfie reads me another ticket, then sighs. “Last time some executive prick took over a kitchen, I got the axe.” He slides two fingers across his neck. “I got too many high-limit credit cards I’m hiding from the wife to get cut from the payroll, man. My side piece appreciates the finer things, you know?”

I ignore him, drizzling hollandaise sauce over asparagus, then sending over the two plates for table twenty. Washing my hands, I gear up for a new round of orders while simultaneously checking on my line cooks and various stations.

The kitchen doors slap open, pulling my attention to a blue-blooded looking man strolling in, smartly dressed in a pristine, heather-gray suit, slicked-back, inky hair, and a shadowing of dark stubble framing his jaw. Bronzed skin showcases his Italian descent, and while his belly is round and swollen behind the suit jacket, his eyes are razor-sharp.

Pauly Marino.

My new boss.

Smoky tobacco and bergamot overpower the aroma of sautéing garlic when he sidles up beside me, hands linked behind his back. “Name,” he deadpans.

I flip the egg that I’m frying for a burger, offering him a tight smile. “Brant Elliott, Chef.”

His coal-like eyes narrow as he looks me up and down. Intimidation emanates from him, and I’m pretty sure I should be pissing myself like Lawson to my right, but I stay focused, sliding the perfectly fried egg onto the beef patty.

Pauly makes a sighing sound that reeks of condescendence, leaning over to inspect my handiwork. “Those your Beef Wellington dishes my customers were eating?”

He poses the question in a way that makes me want to deny all responsibility, but I nod as I garnish the burger. “Yes, Chef.”

“That is interesting.” Lips pursing with thought, he arches an eyebrow and saunters behind me, presumably off to unnerve another victim. “That is very interesting.”

Interesting sounds almost identical to “you’re fired,” but since Pauly doesn’t actually say those words, I keep working.

I work my ass off all night, delivering, what I believe to be, fifty-seven damn good Beef Wellington dishes while overseeing the rest of our menu cuisines, and trying to decipher Pauly’s assortment of long, drawn-out sighs that Alfie dubbed, “the sighs of death.” I’ve always been pretty good at reading the room, but hell, I can’t figure this guy out.

When the kitchen finally closes and cleaning commences, I pull off my white jacket and join the rest of my staff and coworkers in the main dining area for an impromptu meeting with Pauly before we all clock out for the evening.

“Line up,” he orders, sitting in a half-circle booth and sipping an amber liquid over ice. His top three shirt buttons are unclipped, revealing a sprinkling of dark chest hair. Pauly skims his fingers over his jaw, eyeing us as we dutifully obey his command like toy soldiers. “I would like to formally introduce myself to all of you. My name is Pauly Marino, and I am your former boss.”

My heart stutters.

Uhh… former?

“While I appreciate your dedicated service to previous owner, Mark Davis, I am a very particular bastard who prefers to handpick and train each member of my team. I wish you all the best of luck in your future endeavors, and hope you will come visit me and my restaurant again soon.” Pauly gives us a curt nod, then flicks his wrist as if shooing us away. “Discard your aprons by the hostess desk, please. I will have your final paychecks mailed to you.”

I exhale a hard breath while my coworkers begin to disperse, mumbling their profanities and disbelief. Alfie slides two fingers across his neck again, mouthing, “Told you.”

Shit. I guess this means I’m unemployed.

June is going to be crushed. She was beyond excited for my promotion, and even ordered me a custom-made ‘head chef’ t-shirt with the money she’s been earning from working part time as an assistant dance coach for the little local girls. The odds of me scoring another position like this one, with the awesome salary to boot, are slim to none.

As I rub at the nape of my neck, still processing the news, I pivot to exit the dining area. That’s when I’m stopped.

“Except for you, Mr. Elliott.”

I freeze, then spin back around. “Come again?”

“You will stay.”

“I will?”

Pauly sips delicately on his liquor, rising from the booth with a heavy sigh. “Yes. You will.” He sweeps past me, leaving me considerably slack-jawed in the cloud of his bergamot cologne, only to pause before he reaches the kitchen doors. He looks over his shoulder, his charcoal eyes scoping me from head to toe. “In my entire career, I have yet to see so many consistently flawless plates of Beef Wellington served to a busy dinner crowd. You carry the skill and finesse of a seasoned executive chef, yet you hardly look old enough to have earned the title of head chef.”

I swallow, staring at him in stunned silence.

A tight smile crosses his lips as he finishes, “I look forward to seeing if this was simply a lucky night for you, Mr. Elliott, or if I have stumbled upon someone with the talent and tenacity to become a culinary legend.”

My hands feel like they’re shaking, so I wring them together in front of me, palms sweaty. I’m tongue-tied, my mouth dryer than the rack of lamb Lawson tried to serve to table number eight. “Um, thank you, Chef. I appreciate—”

“Goodnight. You will return on Monday at three P.M. sharp.”

He disappears into the kitchen, the doors swinging closed behind him.

And I just stand there.

I stand there until my heartbeats return to normal and his words fully register.

I stand there until a smile stretches across my face.

I stand there, confounded and giddy, gazing up at the ceiling, and whispering softly, “I’ll do you proud, Mom.”

When I pull into the driveway the following day, after spending two grueling hours at the gym, an all-too-familiar red Ford Focus is parked in front of the house.

Great. This is exactly what I wanted to do on the first day off I’ve had in over a week—deal with my ex.

Wendy jumps out of her vehicle at the same time I do. It’s been three weeks since I broke up with her, and needless to say, she hasn’t taken the news very well.

“Not today, Wendy,” I mutter, refusing to spare her a glance as I stuff my keys into my back pocket. “I’m tired.”

“Can we just talk about this?”

I hear her sandals stomping through the grass, the scent of her blackberry body mist floating into my personal space as she comes up behind me. Slowing my steps, my shoulders sag with submission. My chin dips to my chest as I say, “It’s over. There’s nothing to talk about.”

“We’re just in a rut. You know what they say about the “seven year itch”—it makes sense, Brant. This is just a blip. We’ll get through it.” Wendy moves into my view, her cinnamon swirl irises shimmering with desperation. She has dark circles under her eyes, and her hair hardly looks washed, let alone combed. “I love you.”

The forsaken look on her face softens me, just a little. I can’t pretend I’m a stone cold monster or anything. It doesn’t bring me any sort of joy to see Wendy so dejected and worn down, begging me for another chance in my front yard, looking like she hasn’t slept a wink since I spontaneously showed up at her apartment and said we were done. We were together for almost eight years—I cared about her deeply. I still do.

But we’re not right for each other, and even in the beginning, I never felt that raw, passionate flame that burns and flickers when two people come together who are right for each other.

And, well… I also won’t pretend like I know what that feels like. The truth is, I’ve only ever been with Wendy; she was my first and only kiss, my first and only sexual partner. She was my first and only experience with romance and relationships, entirely.

So, no, I don’t exactly know what “right” feels like, but I’m pretty damn sure I know what “wrong” feels like.

I drag my hand down my face, forehead to chin. “Wendy, I’m sorry. I hate to see you like this, but I can’t keep doing this with you.”

She chews on her nail. “It’s because of Wyatt, isn’t it?”

“No. I don’t like the guy, but he has nothing to do with us.”

“So…” She licks her lips, a hopeful gesture, and reaches for my hand. “There’s an… us?”

Pulling back, I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling out of my element. It doesn’t feel good to break someone’s heart once, and doing it over and over again is damn near torture. “That’s not what I meant at all. Listen—”

The screen door claps shut behind me, but before I can spin around, two hands wrap around my face, stealing my vision. “Guess who,” says a sweet, feminine voice.

It’s a voice that has the power to turn my anxiety into tranquility in the blink of an eye. My skin hums with comfort and familiarity. With purpose.

Junebug.

Apparently, I say her name out loud, because she whips her hands away and jumps onto my back, whispering against my ear, “Good guess.”

I make a huffing sound when June hops on, her arms curling around my neck, legs winding around my torso. Lilac hair and citrus skin infiltrate the blackberry smog that is Wendy.

Wendy’s reddish eyebrows lift with curious regard as she skates her gaze to June. Clearing her throat, she acknowledges, “Hi, June.”

“Hey, Wendy.”

June gives my upper arm a pinch, and I can’t hold back a laugh. I clasp her ankles, crossed in front of me, tickling up her calf until she giggles and starts kicking my abdomen with her heel. “Ow.”

We’re lost in our own little world when Wendy makes a pronounced coughing sound, reminding us of her presence. She tucks a loose strand of auburn hair behind her ear, and her eyes roll back to mine, flickering with something I can’t quite pinpoint. She’s silent for a beat, studying us. “All right, then. I suppose I’ll go. Maybe we can…”

Resituating June by popping her up my back, I give Wendy a nod. “Yeah. I’ll see you around.” Then I spin toward the front porch, not allowing her to finish her final plea, and not bothering to watch her retreat. June’s chin is propped up on my shoulder, bouncing as I pace forward. “You’re getting heavy, Junebug,” I mutter, trying to keep my grip on her. “I can hardly carry you.”

She pinches me again. “Rude, Brant. You can’t say stuff like that to a girl—it’ll give her a complex.” June finally slides down my back when we reach the door, and she skips up beside me, smoothing out her sky-blue dress that matches her eyes. It bewitches me for a moment, the striking color parallel, until June jabs me in the chest with her finger. “Besides, you were just at the gym. You should be more than strong enough to carry little ol’ me.”

I shake my head, reaching for the doorknob. “How do you know I was at the gym?”

“Because you smell like sweaty gym shoes.”

“Awesome. Thanks.”

“No problem. You might want to hop in the shower before you head out back to the barbecue.”

Oh, yeah. The barbecue.

The Baileys always host an end-of-summer shindig on Labor Day weekend. I was so distracted by Wendy’s car, I hadn’t even noticed the slew of other vehicles lined up along the quiet street.

Traipsing in through the foyer, the patio door across the way is cracked open, a warm breeze causing the curtains to dance. Chatter and music float in from the patio, while the smell of Andrew’s renowned barbecue chicken wafts around me, causing my stomach to sing.

“Dad’s on grill duty. Mom was hoping you’d make your epic potato salad, but I said you were too busy working on these guns of yours.” June reaches out to squeeze my bicep, bare to her touch from my sleeveless tank. Her gaze floats up to me for a moment before she drops her hand. “You’re single, now. Gotta impress the ladies, huh?”

She smiles a little, then looks away. I chuckle under my breath. “I think I’m good being single for a while. I’m in no hurry to jump back into anything.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I—”

“Yo, Luigi! Make me some potato salad.” Theo pokes his head through the back door, waggling his eyebrows in my direction. “But first, come meet my lady friend. And my partner, Kip.”

It’s refreshing to see Theo.

He moved out a few months after getting a position at the Gurnee police department, finally able to afford his own place. He works crazy hours, so the occasional family get together, lunch date, or “Operation: Save June” are the only times I really see him.

June trails my heels as I make my way to the back of the house and step out onto the patio. It’s swarming with guests, most of them friends of the Baileys, but June has two classmates hanging out on the trampoline; Celeste, and a raven-haired girl I’m not familiar with.

Theo has his legs propped up on a wicker ottoman with Yoshi in his lap, his sunglasses hiding his slate blue eyes. There are unfamiliar faces on either side of him—on his left is a man with light brown hair, a little darker than Theo’s, but cut in a similar short-cropped military style. He lifts his beer to me in greeting, his cheeks slightly concave, his jaw square.

“Hey, I’m Kip. Nice to meet you.”

“Brant,” I introduce, shaking the hand he extends.

Theo then pops his thumb to his right, where a tall, long-legged blonde sits in a folding chair. Her hair is bleached, shoulder-length with crimpy curls, her skin is tanned, and her eyes shine emerald and amiable. “The good-looking one is Veronica. We got a place together last week.”

“Wow, that’s awesome.” I shake Veronica’s hand. Theo really seems to have his shit together, and I couldn’t be happier for him. A new career as a dedicated police officer, new coworkers, and a new girlfriend, who already appears to be ten times more stable than Monica. Pulling my attention back to Theo, I excuse myself for a quick shower, then promise to make a batch of potato salad when I’m done. “Be back in a few. Nice to meet you guys.”

They send me off with smiles, and when I turn to head back inside, I realize June has vanished, along with Celeste and the mystery friend. They must be partaking in girly gossip inside.

After saying my hellos to Samantha and Andrew, I stroll back into the house and make my way to the upstairs bathroom to freshen up.

“You cannot keep this from us, June. You simply cannot. It goes against every best friend code in the rule book.”

June’s bedroom door is cracked open as I reach the top of the staircase, and Celeste’s voice carries over to me, piquing my curiosity.

Don’t eavesdrop, Brant. Keep walking. Leave it be.

I’m going to obey my noble inner voice, but then June replies. “It’s so awkward to talk about…” She sighs, then giggles nervously. “Gah, fine, okay… it was… good.”

I falter.

“Good? Like, how good?”

“Really good, I think.”

“Yeah? Did you… you know?”

The dark-haired girl speaks up. “We need details, June. Juicy, scandalous details.”

“I don’t think I… you know,” June says with ominous inflection. “But he did.”

“Did your mom put you on the pill?”

“Yes.”

Holy shit.

No.

God, no.

My stomach pitches, my heart withering with a sickly feeling I’ve never felt before. I feel winded even though I’m not moving. I feel strangled even though I’m breathing fast and furious.

I feel like I’m dying even though my heartbeats threaten to detonate inside my chest.

“Did it hurt?” Celeste asks.

Go, Brant. Stop listening. Get the fuck out of here.

June squeaks out a tiny, “Not really.”

“Girl, it hurt so bad my first time, I even cried. Totally embarrassing.”

I hurt.

This hurts me.

And I don’t know why.

Decay slithers through my veins, polluting my blood with rot.

Why does this hurt so much? Why the hell does this hurt?

June laughs lightly, her voice shaky as she finishes, “It was good for my first time. I’m lucky, I guess.”

“I bet you can’t wait to do it again, yeah?”

“Definitely.”

I force my pathetic, useless feet to move. Swallowing down a mouthful of bile, I stumble toward the bathroom and shove my way inside, taking a moment to catch my breath before turning on the shower until the water is heated to scorching.

I need to burn away this feeling. Singe it off my skin, then peel away every sullied layer.

Stripping down to bare bones, I step into the tub, planting both hands against the tile wall and letting the jets pelt me until my skin turns crimson. I think of June. I think of June, so innocent and good, twisted and tangled with some dumb kid who never cared about her heart, only cared about her body—only cared about bragging rights and a new notch on his belt.

She’s too young. Too sweet, too perfect.

It’s too soon.

Goddammit.

I shouldn’t care this much.

This was inevitable. I can’t protect her from sex. I can’t protect her from curious hormones or horny boys. I can’t hold her back from experiencing the bad and ugly parts of life, like crying her eyes out when she wakes up next to some guy one day, only to realize that he had no intention of giving her the whole world.

And I think…

I think that’s exactly why it hurts.

I never confronted June about what I heard that day.

Instead, I let it eat me up inside like battery acid, eroding my skin and gnawing at my bones. It felt like a disease. A cancer, rotting me from the inside out.

But I never let her know.

I couldn’t let her see.

I never scolded her, or demanded to know his name, or asked to a see a picture, just so I could envision the son-of-a-bitch who took something so precious from the girl I cared for so spectacularly.

She never, ever knew.

And I know, now, the real reason it hurt so goddamn bad—the painful, deep-seated reason that changed the course of my entire life.

Yeah… I know, now.

But I didn’t know it then, and I’m glad I didn’t.

It was for the best.

Because the moment it hit me, one year later, I wished I had never figured it out…