Page 8 of Chef's Kiss

The death certificate said it was prostate cancer, but I really think it was a broken heart. My mom ran off with some truck driver never to be seen again when I was three. I thought dad’s were the ones who did that kind of thing? Again, women are the new men I guess.

Dad did everything he could to make my life the best that he could. But with limited skills and job opportunities I knew Santa would be flying right past our house each and every year.

I turned lemons into lemonade, learning how to mix and match fifty cent pieces of clothing from thrift stores, Goodwill, and the Salvation Army. It’s amazing how many color combinations navy blue, white, and gray can form on a blonde haired girl.

Lemons into lemonade see.

But I’m not used to getting the lemonade just given to me, which is why this whole thing with Christian is so strange to me. I feel like there needs to be some sort of suffering before a guy like that even talks to me, or feels sorry enough for me just to wish me a good day.

It’s not that I feel sorry for myself, it’s just that…well, I guess a psychiatrist could tell me if I could ever squeeze my last two pennies together to be able to afford one.

Dad was as close to a sounding board as I had, so I don’t have anyone to bounce ideas off of anymore. And if I don’t pay the rent on our studio this month, I’ll be bounced out on the street. Now how do I come up with a way to ask for my paycheck a couple days early, especially considering the world works on direct deposit these days.

I squeeze my eyes shut realizing what that means. It will probably take a pay period just to get it set up. My stomach tightens and the anxiety sets in immediately as I feel like I’ve been hit between the eyes with a hammer.

On the street with one duffel bag containing all my possessions, and that bag not even being full, is definitely not a good way to go through life. But I’ll figure it out. I always do.

“You’re early,” Chester, my boss says as I approach the door.

“Good morning,” I say, perking up. “I didn’t want to be late.”

“Well you may be a lot of things, but late isn’t one of them.”

What’s that supposed to mean?

I watch as he slides the key into the lock, noticing his fingernails have a bit of dirt underneath and his hand is shaking slightly. It’s only when he holds the door open for me and I pass by do I smell the alcohol on his breath and notice his blood shot eyes.

He hasn’t been home yet.

I know I can’t clock in yet, but I get started on stocking right away, not even remembering to take off my jacket.

“Charlotte, Charlotte, Charlotte,” he says. “Relax. Just because the boss is here doesn’t mean you have to freak out.”

“I’m not freaking out. I just figure it’s better to get started than to sit around until some arbitrary time on a clock.”

“We can’t pay you for this,” he looks at his watch, “extra twenty-five minutes.”

“It’s okay. I like to keep busy. It keeps my mind…focused,” I say, swallowing my tongue when I meant to say something else.

Not a minute goes by and he pipes up again. “Why don’t you come back here and we can talk about how your first day went. Do you take your coffee with cream or sugar?”

I freeze, and my decision making skills kick into overdrive. How do I play this? If the boss doesn’t like me then he could give me closing shifts, even though he promised me he wouldn’t when I started. There’s no bus that late and I wouldn’t be able to get home without walking through some really sketchy parts of L.A. Then again, I wasn’t supposed to work the register, but Alexa was all about me learning how yesterday, and she gets her orders from Chester.

“With lots of cream and even more sugar,” I say. “I’ll be right there.”

I walk up to the front door and open it quietly, sliding a brick in place so technically anyone could walk in…which I could use as an excuse if for any reason I need to end our “coffee break.” The coffee break before we even start working that is. So it’s not even a break, but a get to know how my first day went.

Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe I’ve watched too many of those To Catch A Predator type shows, while I spent hours by my dad’s bedside holding his hand while he slept.

And maybe I’m not just some naive nineteen-year-old virgin, but in reality I’ve read enough books to know how this story could turn out, even though I hope and doubt it will.

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