Page 5 of Give My Everything
The only thing Idon’tknow in this moment is if I’m willing to let her go during her probationary period because of this, or if I’m going to hold on to her because I’m shorthanded.
That’s the thing about owning a beachside restaurant, no matter how successful it is: there is always a summer rush and a need for more staff. Once August rolls around, though, employees start putting in their notice as they make plans for the off season.
Two of my regular servers are heading back to college in September.
Another is leaving to work as a manager at her mother’s store.
I have a handful of bartenders who were hired to deal with the influx of summer tourists, who will be leaving soon for whatever else is on the horizon.
A sous chef is moving a few hours away to start a job as a head chef at a new restaurant.
And even though all my temporary workers have end dates on September 1st, that’s never what ends up happening. They start dropping like flies weeks before then, and my manager and I are left scrambling to hire additional people to cover the load.
We are just creeping into August, and I’m already starting to feel the effects of it.
Which brings me to Ingrid.
I hired her because she had waitressing experience on her resume, four years of working at a beachside hot spot in San Diego.
Too bad it was apparent on her first day that she hadn’t been completely honest. Most of her waitressing knowledge is probably from YouTube or TikTok or whatever young people are using these days.
“Good,” I finally say, accepting the fact that I need Ingrid, at least for a little bit longer. “If it does, you’ll likely find yourself out of a job, got it?”
Ingrid nods, smiles, and then spins on her heels, heading out of my office and through the kitchen, back out to the main floor to continue terrorizing customers.
I rest my head in my hands, wishing I’d done something different with my life. Never in my wildest dreams did I anticipate that owning a business would be like this.
Scratch that—owning arestaurant.
Customer service jobs are all the same. You bend over backward to give someone what they want or need so they return to you. I knew that going into this industry.
The problem is that I never pictured myself in a role like this one. I was never supposed to stay here. I was supposed to hire a manager, get things settled, and then move on to build my next restaurant. I planned to take the subsequent steps toward creating the culinary empire I’ve been planning and plotting for the past decade.
There’s some famous quote about making plans, right? Woody Allen or something. If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.
That’s why my life is a joke right now.
I had plans—strong ones, a thought-out and well-designed vision for my future.
Until my father decided to stab me in the back.
Now, I’ve committed to staying here until I can finish the war he started, even if it means delaying my professional goals longer than I intended.
Which is why this wildcard with Remmy is so essential.
It has the potential to turn things around and get them back on course. Get me moving in the direction I want to go instead of where I currently sit, floundering and waiting for what’s next.
“Got a second?”
The sweet voice has me lifting my head and turning to the door, where my younger brother Wyatt’s girlfriend stands with a big smile on her face.
“Hey, Hannah,” I say, letting out a sigh and waving her in to take a seat. “What do you need?”
She maintains the smile, and I instantly know this is a request I’ll probably grant for her, even though I would tell anyone else to take a hike.
“Well, I wanted to ask you a favor, and I totally understand if you say no.”
I wave her concern away. “What is it?”
