He stopped by that Saturday night to add ketchup to my aioli, and I quote, “Because nobody ever expects ketchup.” Then he showed me how to bake the biscuits halfway so they didn’t get mushy and squeeze the excess juice from the sauerkraut—something I had known how to do once upon a time. But let’s be honest, I didn’t work with sauerkraut a whole bunch. I was bound to forget something every once in a while.
This weekend I’d picked chili dogs to feature, and I was keeping those pretty straightforward only because my chili kicked ass. My butcher had gotten me a sweet deal on spicy kosher hot dogs, and they had a fair amount of heat to them. I’d pickled my pickles two months ago and then quartered them for the hot dogs. They were the perfect blend of spicy and sweet, crunchy and soft.
When Killian sent back his criticism, I was beyond being surprised by his notes or him as a human. I’d accepted this as my new reality. Yes, I owned a business, set my own hours and made whatever I wanted! Yes, I also had to deal with Killian Quinn every day—my punishment for living the dream.
I could never catch who took him my food. To be honest, I didn’t try that hard. Whoever they were always paid, so at least there was that. I had my suspicions, but there were close to two hundred customers nightly, and I only recognized a couple of people from Lilou, specifically. Regardless of who took Killian my food, Wyatt was always the one that brought the note back.
I glared at him as he walked up to the truck, shoulders slumped in acceptance. I couldn’t help needling him. “The messenger I’m dying to shoot.”
He pouted. “I miss eating here.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve been banned.” I reached out of the order window and tapped the siding next to the chalkboard menu. I’d made Molly hand draw wanted posters of Wyatt and Killian. Although they were a little worse for wear since they’d been taped outside for three weeks. I probably should have laminated them.
Wyatt frowned at his faded, windblown picture. “If it makes you feel any better, tonight he chewed my ass on three separate occasions. Once he even threatened to call animal control.”
I suppressed a laugh. “On you?”
He nodded, resigned. “On me.”
“Oh, poor Wyatt. We don’t think you’re an animal. You should quit Lilou and come hang out with us. We’re way more fun!”
Molly leaned over, “We also have a two ass-chewing maximum. So the most you ever get your ass chewed is twice per night.”
His head tipped back, and he closed his eyes. “That shouldn’t sound amazing, but it does.” Meeting my eyes once again, he looked like he was considering it. “What do you pay?”
I opened my mouth to speak, but Molly cut me off. “I can answer that since I’m her highest paid employee.” She leaned back on the stool, resting the book she’d been reading between customers on her lap with her finger in place to hold the page. “Nothing. She pays us nothing.”
Wyatt grinned at her. “Slave labor? I like the way you roll, Vera.”
“Like it enough to become a minion? The position also comes with hugs!”
“I’d love to defect and join the resistance,” he told us seriously. “But I need dental.”
Molly perked up. “You have insurance?”
He leaned in conspiratorially, “And mental health days.”
Molly stared dreamily across the street as if she were the one considering defection. I cocked my head back and glared at my delusional best friend. “Molly, you have health insurance. And mental health days. At your real job. Remember the fancy marketing firm you work at every day?”
She picked up her book again. “Oh, right. Sorry. Sometimes I get so sucked into the drama here, I can’t remember what’s real and what’s foreplay between two insane chefs.”
Wyatt barked a laugh, his entire body rocking with the force of it. She smirked, proud of herself. And I contemplated creating a Tinder profile for her. Because revenge.
“Anyway. Why are you here, Wyatt?”
He held up a folded over piece of printer paper. “Same old.”
I snatched it from him and waved it at Molly. “This isn’t foreplay. This is motive. Which is a pity since pale people shouldn’t be forced to wear orange.”
Molly rolled her eyes, but she set her book down again. “This is like… if I had a favorite daytime soap. Wyatt, we’re going to need popcorn and Twizzlers.”
Ignoring them both, I opened the note. Congratulations on the least original food truck idea ever. If you’re hard up for inspiration, you can always ask me for help. Just when I thought he’d leave the salt out of it, he added a quickly scrawled, Be real, is salt holding you at gunpoint right now?
I lifted my head, “Huh.”
Wyatt cringed. “What does it say?”
Molly gaped at him. “You mean you don’t read them?”
He stared back at him. “He trusts me. At least with this.”
“You’re a better person than me,” she told him. “I’m too nosy.”
Wyatt turned back to me, apparently just as meddlesome as Molly after all. “Care to share?”
“I feel weird saying this, but I think he liked it tonight.” I read the note again, waiting for the missing soul-crushing put down, but I couldn’t find it. I mean, it wasn’t like the nicest thing I’d ever read, but it lacked Killian’s flare for sending me to therapy. He’d even offered to help me.
Wyatt snorted. “He likes everything you make.”
I tore my eyes from the note and gave Wyatt a look that questioned his sanity. “Obviously, he loves everything I make. Which is why he’s always insulting me. I’m sure it’s just how his tiny, cold heart shows affection.”
“Vera, seriously. Last month he fired a dishwasher because they turned the kitchen radio station to country during clean-up. He doesn’t tolerate bullshit.”
“He didn’t really fire someone for liking country music.”
Wyatt’s lips twitched. “Okay true. He was constantly late and had three noshows. He might have had it coming. But the country station thing was the last straw.”
I considered my revenge for a long time before settling with something as equally anticlimactic as Killian’s had been. Turning the paper over, I scrawled back a response. It would have been better if I could have written it in magazine cutouts, but there was no time, man!
Salt wants me to say that I’m not being held against my will.
I mean, I love being held against my will.
I mean, I love salt.
I think it’s Stockholm Syndrome.
Send help.
I passed the note back to Wyatt and capped my pen before sticking it somewhere in the dangerous abyss of my hair.
He looked at the note, then at me. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“No diabolical present? No maniacal threat? No trip to the feed store?”
“Go away, Wyatt.”
He touched the corner of the folded note to his temple and meandered back across the street to his side of the fence.
We watched Wyatt disappear through the side door of Lilou in silence. As soon as the door slammed shut behind him, Molly asked, “Really, what did the note say?”
I turned around to stir my chili. “He called me unoriginal and made a lame joke about salt.”
“Huh.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“So do you think he’ll stop by later?” she asked quietly since a few customers had stepped up to the menu board.
“Yeah.”
Her feet hit the ground emphatically. “You do?”
“He’s stopped by before,” I reminded her.
“You sound super sure tonight. Did you invite him over?”