Chapter 164
“You know,” I chuckle, wiping the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand, “when I first went to
culinary school, I thought I would be facing all of these obstacles. Older men not taking me seriously,
financial issues, critics.”
“And you have faced all of that and then some,” John teases.
I nod. “Yes. But now, it’s…”
“Truffles.”
Another chuckle escapes my lips. “Yep. Truffles.”
…
The sizzle of the grill, the clinking of sses from the bar, and the incessant ring of the phone in the
background merge into one big cacophony, making my head spin.
I’m metaphorically knee-deep in murky water, mentally ticking off a never-ending list of things that need
to get done, and Karl is nowhere to be found.
“Abby, the Rosé keg just tapped out,” shouts Ethan from the front, his soft voice barely audible over the
din.
“Dammit,” I mutter, throwing down my order pad and darting behind the bar to switch the kegs. Chloe
would’ve handled this if she hadn’t walked out on me. So much for that.
As I’m securing the new keg, my phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s a text from the front-of-house staff:
“Table 5 is demanding to see the manager. Again.”
“Great. Just great,” I grumble as I wash my hands and hustle over to Table 5. I paste on my most
customer-service-friendly smile. “Is everything all right here?”
“Not really,” says a middle-aged woman, ring at her pasta as if it had personally insulted her. “This is
the worst linguine I’ve ever had. It’s dry and there’s too muchtro.”
I take a deep breath. “I’m so sorry you''re not enjoying your meal. Can I offer you something else?”
The woman huffs. “I want this taken off the bill.”
“Of course,” I reply through clenched teeth. “Again, I apologize for the inconvenience.”
I rush back to the kitchen, my patience wearing thin. “John, we need to remake a linguine. Customer
John rolls his eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Where the hell is Karl, anyway? I need help.”
I nce at the clock. It’s nearing the end of the dinner rush, and I still haven’t heard from Karl. I pull out
my phone and dial his number for the umpteenth time today.
Straight to voicemail. Again.
He was supposed to show up today, but he bailed. No call, no show. Just an empty spot where he
belongs, and the rest of us are scrambling to make it work, on a Friday night no less.
“Here, John,” I say, throwing my apron on and washing my hands. “I’ll help.”
Each hour that John and I work together on the line seems to stretch on for an eternity. All the while,
my own managerial duties pull at me from every angle, like one of those Medieval torture devices that
stretches your limbs. I feel caught in the middle, like an unsuspecting peasant who got caught stealing
a loaf of bread.
When thest patron finally leaves and the door locks behind them, a heavy sigh escapes my lips and
my shoulders visibly slump.
John looks at me sympathetically. “Thanks for the help, Abby. I appreciate it.”
“It was nothing,” I reply, trying to muster a smile. “Go home, John. Good work today.”
After John leaves, I start the lonely task of cleaning the kitchen. My body screams for rest, my feet
aching in rebellion. The mop feels like it weighs a ton as I push it across the tile floor.
But all the while, I can’t help but think about Karl. How could he just not show up? How could he be so
selfish, so unreliable? Chloe was right. He’s never going to change. And once again, I’m the fool.
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I’m rubbing my eyes, desperately trying to refocus, when suddenly, the kitchen door bursts open. I
jump, my heart leaping into my throat, and the mop tters to the floor.
I whip around, ready to give whoever it is a piece of my mind for scaring the life out of me. And there he
is—Karl, standing in the doorway, drenched in water from head to toe and panting for breath, as if he’s
been running for miles.
My mouth opens, but no wordse out. For the first time all day, I’m truly speechless.