I go over to the knives, wondering why I don’t know more about picking them out. There’s a whole row of stainless-steel chef’s knives, and I pick out one called a gyuto, just because I think I’ve heard the name before. It’s a stupid purchase considering how much money I’ve run through already, but I leave the store feeling like I’m King Arthur with Excalibur in my hand.
As I make my way back to Provecho to wait for Emma, I can picture her walking with her earphones in, kicking pebbles, taking shortcuts only she knows through the woods, secret pathways that part just for her. It’s like I can feel her the closer she gets, a warmth emanating from her that could reach me from halfway across the island. When I see her turn onto Main Street I feel like my skin is actually glowing with joy.
She breaks out into a smile when she sees me, and I have to play it cool to keep myself from running through the crowd and into her arms.
“Hey,” she says.
I want to tell her the news right away, but instead I take her by the hand to the back of the restaurant, and I kiss her the way I’ve been wanting to all day. What a world, I think, slipping my fingers through her hair.
Even the slamming of the side door does little to interrupt that thought, until it’s followed by a throat clearing. Emma and I pull away from each other, and I see Emma’s cheeks redden and her glasses fully cloud. It makes me want to kiss her again, but something in her expression makes me turn around.
Chef’s got a full garbage bag dangling at her side, stone-faced.
“Hi, Mom,” Emma says, pulling her glasses off to wipe them clean.
Chef nods a hello, and I realize this is awkward, but it does nothing to beat away the joy pumping through my veins. Behind Chef, low, fast-moving clouds blow by, clearing the horizon for an upcoming sunset as if by design.
“Carlos, I forgot to tell you something,” Chef says. “Follow me.” She chucks the trash bag into the Dumpster and then disappears back inside the restaurant.
Confused, I look back at Emma, who’s cleaning her glasses with the hem of her shirt. She smiles at me, tells me she’ll call when she gets off work.
Chef is waiting for me in her office, leaning back against her desk with her arms crossed in front of her chest. “If you want to stay at this restaurant and work your way up, you stop seeing her.”
The lights dim; the temperature drops.
“Emma?” I ask, stupidly, once I make sense of what she’s said.
“You can’t have both,” Chef says. She doesn’t sound angry, only like she’s delivering very specific instructions, like this is just a meeting with the waitstaff about how to explain a new dish. “I’m not going to prohibit you from seeing her, because she gets to decide for herself who she dates. But if you choose to continue to see her, you can’t work here.”
I’m frozen in the doorway. I can hear that magical clatter of the kitchen prepping for service, people getting fired up for another night booked solid. But it feels like white noise right now. Like all the sounds are getting sucked up by the induction hood.
I want Chef to explain further, want her to provide some sort of logic that will make this easier to understand. She uncrosses her arms and then grabs the apron that’s hanging from a hook behind the door, tying it around her back. “Did I make myself clear?”
I have no idea what I want to say, dozens of questions and complaints are on the tip of my tongue, but instead I stammer out another “Yes, Chef.”
“If I see you still chasing after her, you’re out,” Chef says and then leaves without another word.
I exit the restaurant in a daze. I amble through downtown and the boardwalk, getting in people’s way. I cross streets without looking and hear honks for the first time since I got to the island. Wind rustles the trees wherever I go, and once I get to the more isolated sections of Needle Eye, I can hear Felix in the swishing of the leaves.
I let my brother whistle to himself for a while. I desperately want to regain the bliss I felt outside the restaurant, right before Chef decided to blow it all to hell.
Night falls late in this part of the world, but it happens at the exact wrong time, when I’m snaking my way through the woods, trying to find the places Emma has taken me to. I struggle through non-existent paths, brambles clawing at my arms. The moon disappears behind sudden clouds, and though the typical night chill has swept in, I sweat myself into a stupor trying to find the hill that looks out at the island. I use my phone’s flashlight, keeping my eye on the battery draining away a percentage point at a time, struggling to get a signal. I keep imagining it buzzing in my hand, messages from Emma that I won’t know how to answer.
Eventually, just by heading up any slope I see, I do make it to the top of that hill. Provecho’s white light stands out against the other shops in the tiny Main Street stretch. All over the island I can see the tiny flares of backyard campfires, people enjoying the night, the company of others. Devoid of the moon’s glow, the lake looks like a pit of darkness.
“Why are you getting so flustered?” Felix says, using the wind and the leaves to speak.
I find a big rock to sit down on. I wipe the sweat from my forehead, check my phone again to see if Emma’s called or texted yet. “You know why,” I say after a while.
The wind dies down a little, so Felix quits the charades and shows up as himself. He scoots me over a little and takes a seat next to me. He takes a deep breath, which kind of pisses me off, because what reason does a ghost have to sigh?
“Okay, I get it,” Felix says. “It sucks. Emma’s a cool girl. But these things don’t always last. She’s leaving anyway. This makes things less complicated, no?”
I pick up a pebble, chuck it in the direction of the lake. There’s no way it hits anything but the side of the hill below, but I swear I hear a splash. “I’ve never had anything like this before, Felix.”
“I understand.”
“And don’t give me any of that pseudo-inspirational bullshit.”
Felix actually laughs. “Me? What would I say?”
“‘Don’t be sad it’s over. Be glad it happened.’ That kind of thing.”
Felix stands up, reaching down for some pebbles. He chuckles again. “Just ’cause it’s trite doesn’t mean it’s bad advice.” He throws all the pebbles at once, and a few moments later I clearly hear them splash, each carrying a different tone.
“It’s stupid,” I say. “I don’t want it to be over.” I check the time, imagine what’s going on in the restaurant. The last few tables are being seated right around now, which means Emma’s shift will be over in a bit. The sink is probably buried right now, the steam from hot water making the station feel muggier than a swamp.