Page 9 of Sizzle

“Yeah, but you ain’t started yet,” he said. “Plus, you said you were going to work nights.”

“I’m going to work when they need me to work,” I tell him gently. “We’re a bit past the point of being choosy.”

He doesn’t like the reminder that his payout from the lawsuit is running out but we’re beyond that point, too, and he knows it. Money’s getting tighter by the minute and he’s going to need his physical therapy for at least another year, maybe longer. Physical therapists don’t work for free.

That means I need every extra penny I can get. The blog gets enough traffic to keep food on the table but if I want to get into a real kitchen, I need culinary school. And if I want to get into the only culinary school within two hundred miles, I need to show I have work experience in a kitchen that isn’t my own.

“What if I need something while you’re gone?”

“Then you can text me, or call and leave a voicemail,” I say, straightening the coverlet on the back of our old sofa. I make a mental note to dig out the last of the leather cleaner. “Or Jim or Jessica can help you if there’s something you need done around the house.”

“Those two,” he huffs but he doesn’t object again. We’ve had this argument so many times. Just when I think he must be bored by it and ready to talk about something else, it comes right back around.

I don’t begrudge my dad. He needs my help, and I’m happy to give it. Of course I am—he’s my dad. I love him. It’s certainly the least I can do since he raised me alone after Mom ditched us. I try my best to show him that not everybody is chickenshit like she was, that he raised me better than that.

I guess I still blame her for leaving us. And why shouldn’t I? It wasn’t even a year after his accident when she took off, and after twenty years of marriage the best she could do was a note that said, “I can’t handle it. I’m sorry.”

He still has it, that stupid note. Dad doesn’t know that I know but I found it cleaning one day, tucked in the old family Bible in his room.

My hands are shaking, so I scoop up the mess I’ve collected and haul it to the kitchen to throw away.

“What about lunch?” Dad hollers, as though I can’t hear him from fifteen feet away.

“You already had lunch today.”

“I mean tomorrow,” he says. “You won’t be back before lunch.”

I brace my hands against the counter and close my eyes.

“I’ll make sure to fix you a plate before I catch the bus.” I wince at my own words. Taking the bus means more time away from the house. I’ll have to leave at least an hour early, which means Dad will be here alone half the day.

I can hear him grumbling in the next room, which means that’s likely just occurred to him, too.

But what can I do? He’ll want the car in case something happens and he needs to get himself to the doctor. God knows he’d never call 911, and any friends he had when I was a teenager stopped coming around long ago.

I wish he had more good days, but despite what his doctors and therapists tell him, Dad seems to be getting worse. His body is stronger than it’s been since before the accident, and yet his moods get darker every day. He doesn’t even bother trying to read anymore. Just sits in front of the TV when he’s not working on his PT exercises. Even those go by the wayside unless his team is here.

I’ve learned not to mention it. I’ve learned not to mention a lot of things in the last couple of years.

But it doesn’t matter because I have a plan. I’ll use this meeting with Elliot James to convince him to give me a job in his kitchen. All I need is six months of experience and that’ll be enough to get me into school. If I get really lucky, I’ll be able to keep working around my classes.

Haven’t talked about that with Dad yet, but surely he’ll understand my being gone. Somebody has to support us.

I head back to check on Dad, but he’s already tuned out to his game show so I go to my room to plan.

First things first. Time to research Duckbill and Elliot James.

And holy hot damn on a pogo stick. Mr. Sex Voice must have made himself a deal with the devil to get that face. Mother of God.

I grab a magazine off the shelf next to my desk, fanning my face.

Right, this isn’t a problem. So my new boss is attractive. Big deal. Plenty of people are.

I mean, not the people I’ve spent time with lately. I don’t spend a lot of time around other people, period. Certainly I don’t date. Which means my reaction is completely normal. And it’s probably just a really flattering photo.

I click over to the restaurant’s website and pull up their current menu.

Jeez.

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