When there’s no answer, I wait for a full three minutes. Maybe this is part of the test. She still doesn’t show, so I wander around and find her in the walk-in with Sue. “Chef?” I say, knocking on the steel door frame. “I’m done with that onion.”
She glances at me over her clipboard, like she’s forgotten I was there at all. “Your knife still has its fucking price sticker on it,” she says. “Don’t waste my time if you’re not gonna show up prepared. Go clean your knife, test it out. We’ll try again tomorrow.”
Shame creeps down my spine, and I practically scurry away from Chef toward my dish station. I peel the sticker away, roll it into a ball, throw it in the trash, even though there’s no satisfying way to chuck a tiny sticker when you’re pissed. I step over to the sink, wash the gyuto with searing water, set it to dry on a towel. My thoughts land on Emma and I instantly feel like my insides have been hollowed out.
It’s still three hours until the actual shifts start. At first I try to wait quietly, but the inactivity makes it feel like the world is pressing down on me. I can’t believe I forgot to take the fucking price sticker off. I can’t believe Chef will fire me if I just stay close to Emma. I can’t believe the quickness with which things go to shit.
I go outside and take a seat on the floor with my back against the wall. I look through my messages with Emma. In those messages, I sound like myself. Like the version of me from before Felix died. I sound like a normal person who does not see ghosts, does not flee his hometown in the pursuit of a meal. I have to close my eyes and take a few breaths to keep a sudden nausea at bay.
A few minutes later a pickup truck pulls up. Chef Elise comes out to greet the driver, holding a clipboard. I rise to my feet and offer to help. Chef barely acknowledges me until it’s time to haul in an entire pig for tomorrow’s special roast. Through my outrage, I manage to feel curiosity about how she’ll prepare it, an eagerness to see her mind at work. Food, my ultimate sedative.
Luckily, Chef has me hold the pig’s legs as she picks out all the ingredients that will go into the marinade. Apple cider vinegar, orange juice, lemons, onions, garlic, chili peppers, whole sprigs of thyme. Then, because of course he would, Felix turns the pig’s head to look at me. “Hey, man,” he says.
I roll my eyes, think, Unless you’ve got some brilliant pig-brining recipes, not now, man. If Chef is going to be picky about stickers, she certainly won’t take my talking to spirits in stride. I want his help, but it’s not the most convenient timing.
“You really think I would be here if you didn’t need me now?” Felix says as he gets lowered into the bin he’ll be brining in. He probably has a point. “So, what’s this about? What’s on your mind?”
I don’t want to say, but of course Felix is in my thoughts, so he knows right away. “You don’t want to do this without her.”
“Here, pour this,” Chef says, handing me a large bottle of orange juice. “Don’t splash. Make sure you don’t miss any spots.” She and Sue step out, leaving me alone with the pig.
I twist open the lid, checking to make sure no one’s around. I lean close as I pour the juice and whisper, “I don’t have anyone else here who gives a shit about me. Nothing else makes me happy.” I empty the bottle out slowly, letting the sound of the liquid sloshing into the bin drown out my voice. “Look, I know I didn’t come here for the girl. But she’s here, you know? I can’t just ignore that.”
Felix looks up at me, drops of juice clinging to his little pig eyelashes. “She’s leaving in the fall anyway, man. She doesn’t want to stay on this island, and you do. She’s into drunken makeouts, and you’re thinking about way more than that. It’s doomed. Why risk a chance like this over her?”
“Because it’s not meaningless,” I say. I don’t know why he’s so adamant about this, why he doesn’t get it. “I need someone other than you in my life.”
Felix blinks once, sighs and then turns his neck forward again, becomes dead again. I guess I won the argument?
When Chef returns and excuses me, I take the back door as if I’m leaving until shift starts, but I come back around and knock on the front door. Emma of course has no idea about my inner turmoil since last night. To her, nothing has changed. She greets me with a hug that makes me feel like going against Chef on the spot.
“Hey,” she says, her breath on my neck.
I end the hug quickly. “Hey.” I take a small step back, just in case Chef is watching.
She smiles, rests her elbows on the stand. “You should have come over last night. We would have made out a bunch.”
“I wish I would have,” I say. Behind me a middle-aged couple comes in, which is probably a good cue to leave. I smile at her, tell her I have to get to the sink. Halfway out the door, I look back at Emma, wondering if I should bring up what her mom said. But just thinking about it makes me mad, and I’d much rather focus on having her here in front of me.
The rest of the day goes by pretty quickly. For staff meal, I make tikka masala chicken tacos, topped off with a chai yogurt sauce. The masala sauce is way too watery, and the chai yogurt curdles, which I guess isn’t that bad because my grip slips and I end up spilling half the saucepan on the floor. Elias throws a dishrag toward me. “What’s with you, man?”
I shrug, kneel to sop up the mess. Felix’s face forms in the spill, and it’s the stupidest thing in the world that I can’t bring myself to wipe it away. I’m frozen there for a minute, holding the rag an inch above the floor while everyone’s legs maneuver around me. It’s like I’m suddenly afraid that wishing him away will finally work, now that I don’t really want it to anymore.
I finally muster the energy, clean up and then remake the sauce, serve a dish I am in no way proud of. People line up to eat and there is no joy on their faces. Drained, I take a break outside, wait for the island’s beauty to replenish me.
The beauty of Needle Eye feels muted, especially if I think about Chef keeping me away from Emma. A couple of minutes after I step outside, Elias comes out and asks me if I need a place to stay.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Well, with Boris gone, we’ve got a spare room at our place,” Elias says. “Easier you than some stranger. It’s yours if you want it.”
It’s like every time I think my stay here is done, something happens that insists I belong here. So, maybe Chef’s warning makes things a little murkier than they were yesterday. Maybe I’m not suddenly an incredible chef. But I don’t want this to be a temporary escape, some experiment in joy before returning to the life Dad wanted for me. I want to be here.