“Give it time as well,” I add, hating that she’s still sad. “It will get better. Don’t worry about me. I couldn’t be happier that you and Alex are raising Hope. I know you will do an amazing job. I definitely made the right choice. I just need to mourn the loss of being her father.”
“Jace,” June gasps. “You will always be her father.”
Funny thing, I really won’t be. I’ll be her birth father. There’s a difference.
After some quick and rather uncomfortable goodbyes, I hang up the phone, emotionally exhausted.
Grieve. That’s what I’m supposed to be doing right now. I feel like I went through the five stages of grief in the short amount of time it took to talk to June. The only stage left: depression.
Is that what Dear Life wants? For us to grieve through the five stages? If so, this is some convoluted program because I feel like total and utter shit.
Yup, not one ounce of me feels remotely better. If that’s what’s supposed to happen, then mission accomplished.
CARTER
“What the hell are you doing back here?” I ask Hollyn, who has a smarmy look on her face.
Without a word, she plops a plate in front of me from the dining room. “Steak isn’t well done.”
“That’s because steak should never be well done.”
“Funny thing is,” Hollyn places a thoughtful finger to her chin, “the customer couldn’t care less about how you prefer steak to be prepared. They asked for it well done, not a, what did they say?” She thinks for a second and then says, “Ah yes, they didn’t ask for a bleeding heart on their plate.”
“Bleeding heart?” Flipping a fork in my hand and grabbing a knife, I examine the steak that barely has any pink in the center. “They’re calling this a bleeding heart? I can show them a bleeding heart if that’s what they really want.” I wipe my hands on the rag attached to my hip and make my way away from the grill, soft threats at the tip of my tongue.
“Fix the steak,” my uncle’s voice booms in the kitchen, his eyes glaring at me.
“There’s nothing wrong with the steak. It’s actually overdone,” I argue. Gesturing a hand toward the dining room, I ask, “Do you really want customers thinking you’re handing out lumps of charcoal on plates instead of steak?”
“Fix the steak,” he repeats, with malice.
“What the fuck ever.” I give up, grab the steak off the plate and set it on the grill.
Who orders a well done steak? What’s the point? Why even have steak if you’re not going to eat it medium well. I bet Bobby Flay doesn’t have to deal with this shit. If someone asks for well done, he probably demands they leave his restaurant.
Not my uncle. It’s all about the customer and not the food. Which of course burns my already bitter soul. I went to school to learn how to appreciate the subtle combinations of foods and the bold flavors you can pull from them. I learned to masterfully create meals that are not only appealing to the eye, but burst with flavor on your tongue.
Think my uncle would allow me to put any of my knowledge to practice? No. He thinks serving the same Italian shit he’s been serving for the past twenty years is okay.
Who wants to be just okay?
I sure as hell don’t. I want to be extraordinary. I want to be known for thinking outside the box, for challenging people’s taste buds, for pushing their limits and comfort zones. Think of Remy from Ratatouille, how he immediately falls in love with the perfect, fresh ingredients and the plethora of combinations you can make. That’s me. Now if only I could break free of these shackles, to escape the debt looming over me.
And I was so damn close.
Until life kicked me on the tip of my dick, laughed, and then walloped me in the balls just to make sure I was paying attention to my misfortune, filling me with so much goddamn anger, I can barely breathe.
“Any day now would be great, Carter,” Hollyn speaks over the warming lamps.
And if my misfortune wasn’t bad enough, now for some reason, my uncle thought it would be a good idea to pair Hollyn and me on some of our shifts. My guess, because we’re taking the same shitty, my-life-sucks-so-help-me program. As if spending an unnecessary amount of time sitting in a circle, holding hands, and talking about our problems wasn’t enough time with the woman, yes, let’s add some shifts as well.
Picking up the steak with my tongs, I plop it on its original plate and say, “There, the moo-er should be dead now. If they send it back again, I’m pube-ing the shit out of the thing.”
“Mature,” Hollyn scoffs at me, flipping her hair and walking away, plate held high.
God, I can’t stand her.
“You two seem to get along,” Marcus, my fellow line cook, says as he flips a few steaks on the stained grill. Can you guess what the special was for tonight? Steak. Uncle Chuck got a deal on some steaks, decided to pair it with mashed potatoes and broccoli . . . at an Italian restaurant. There is nothing Italian about that. Might as well go to Red Lobster and order chicken.
Not even bothering to look over at Marcus, I say, “Can’t stand her.”
“Because she made you go to that weird program?”
Of course Marcus would find out. Nothing is a secret around here.
“Who did you hear that from?”
“Hollyn. She was telling everyone about how you were sulking the whole time at the meeting.”
“Yeah?” I ask, my anger starting to boil over. The faint sound of my teeth grinding together fills my ears, drowning out any sense of reasoning.
“Yeah. Seems like you’re really getting a chance to reach deep down and express your feelings.” The laugh that follows his statement ticks off any last hold I have on reining myself in.
Getting in his face, I ask, “What’s wrong with a man expressing his feelings? I bet a sensitive man gets way more pussy than some closed-off, video-game-playing deadbeat like you.”
“Get the fuck out of my face,” Marcus replies, shoving me with his meaty hand.
“Make me.” Pushing my luck, I bump him with my chest, egging the fucker on, begging and praying for a brawl. I would give anything to lay this dickhead out, anything to ease the tension coiling rapidly inside me. But before Marcus can reciprocate, Uncle Chuck rips me back by the shoulder, sending me into the counter behind me.
With a beet-red face, he snaps at me, “Office, now.”
“Not unless you make her go too,” I say, my uncle knowing exactly who I’m talking about. This isn’t just my battle, it’s Hollyn’s too.
Looking me in the eyes, he says, “Ashley, cover for Hollyn for a few minutes and send her back to my office, now.” Raising a brown eyebrow at me, he says, “Move.”
Even though Uncle Chuck doesn’t particularly scare me, I move toward his office, flipping my tongs onto the counter because his face looks almost purple from anger, and I don’t want to be the reason he has a heart attack.