5. Booth
CHAPTER FIVE
booth
The last thing I see is her wild mane of curls whipping in the wind before she disappears from view.
Should annoying her get me hard?
Patrick watches me with amusement.
“Who was that?” he asks, brow raised.
“No one.” Eyes lowered, I run my hand along the bar.
It was one of the first things installed and handcrafted by my father and George , who spent hours collecting and salvaging driftwood they found washed up on the shores of Piper Beach .
I was too young to remember it being built, but Patrick says he learned a lot of new swear words that year.
He considers me for a beat before his eyes pop out of his head and he bellows with laughter.
“ Holy shit. That’s the girl from the fair, isn’t it? I can’t wait to tell Graham . Booth with a crush. How fucking adorable.”
“It’s not a crush, you prick. I wanted to…ask her a question.” He sees right through my lie.
“Was the question ‘ Why don’t you like my dimples, wah wah ?’” Then , he gapes at me and gestures to my outfit.
“ Is this why you’re wearing this atrocious getup? ”
I avert my gaze.
“ I was gonna go for a ride.”
“Bullshit,” he hisses.
“ You’re trying to impress her with the bike shorts, aren’t you?”
I cough into my fist—barely muffling my “ Fuck off” — before storming away.
Statistics have proven that women like my bike shorts.
Did I put them on today in the hopes I’d bump into her?
Perhaps .
I’m headed toward the kitchen when Jules , our assistant manager, waves me down.
“Hey, do you know the woman who just left?” She points toward the table Silver vacated.
“Umm, yes?” Kinda .
“Great.” She shoves something into my chest. “ Give this back to her, would you? She must have left it in her rush to get out of here. Tell her we have her dry cleaning bill covered too.”
She disappears, leaving me to stare at the small wallet in my hand.
I continue to study it as I walk through the swinging doors, the aromas and heat hitting me all at once.
Simon nods at me before returning his attention to Kyle , our line cook and newest hire.
His skills aren’t where we need them to be and from the frustrated sigh Simon releases, he’s fed up already.
I’d be more patient if his attitude didn’t stink and he wasn’t continuously late.
I stand outside the large walk-in refrigerator, tossing the wallet up in the air.
Surely the waitstaff has to look at the ID whenever they’re handed a lost wallet or purse?
Slowly , I slide out a card until the edge of a driver’s license appears, and I pause.
I feel slimy.
With anyone else, this would be normal, but it feels invasive considering she wants nothing to do with me.
Deciding I have no other choice—and curiosity eats away at me— I reveal a New York driver’s license.
Then , her name.
Alessandra Argiros .
Of course her name is sexy.
I bet it would sound just as good coming from my mouth.
You look pretty today, Alessandra .
Why don’t you like my dimples, Alessandra ?
Get on your knees, Alessandra .
Yeah, it definitely has a ring to it.
I recall her comment about her stay here being short term.
How long is short? Long enough for me to get on her good side?
If I allowed myself to think rationally, I’d reason with myself that this is ridiculous.
That I’m wasting my time.
Suddenly a crash sounds from the front of the kitchen, followed by a flourish of “ Fucks .”
I peek my head around the corner to find Kyle surrounded by cooking oil.
I absolutely do not have the time.
But I’ve never been one to turn down a challenge.
“Phone Booth , your hair is way too lame for you to have so many styling products.”
“You fucking take that back.” My cry of protest meets my sister’s cackles.
“ And cut it out with that dumb nickname.”
Florence tagged along after I moved out of my mom’s this evening—something I now regret.
Sitting on the water’s edge, my little boathouse overlooks the bay, with the ocean breeze cutting through the air and whistling against the navy blue panels.
My grandfather left it to my dad, who then passed it to me and my siblings, and we all decided it was a good place for me to live after college.
It’s a stone’s throw away from the restaurant, rent-free, and personally, I think it has the best view in the whole town.
A “house” is being rather generous—it’s basically one big room, with a kitchen and tiny bathroom.
There’s enough space for a king-size bed, sofa, and an eighty-five-inch TV .
Rich mahogany floorboards and off-white paneled walls have spruced the small space up.
The lower, outside level is full of old fishing gear and our family’s fishing boat, while my level is elevated by reinforced stilts.
It’s cold as balls this time of year, even with the extra insulation Dex installed.
If the winters ever get too harsh, he lets me crash at one of his cabins or I stay with my family.
“Do you still wear your retainer?” Florence hollers from the bathroom.
“Get out of my things!”
She struts in, blonde bob bouncing with her steps.
“Ew.” Florence shudders.
“ Please take off those vile shorts.”
I glance down, frowning.
“ The ladies love it.”
Like me and my brothers, Florence is tall.
Once a gangly kid, she eventually grew into her long limbs.
A septum piercing decorates her nose, along with an array of necklaces and rings around her neck and fingers.
I finish putting away the groceries my mom shoved in my arms before I left and pull out two beers, offering one to Flo .
Twisting the caps off, we collapse onto the tan chesterfield.
“How long are you planning to stay with Mom ?” I ask before taking a long pull of beer.
She blows over the lip of her bottle, creating a tuneless melody.
“ How long is a piece of string? Too long and we butt heads. I need a job, though…”
“We have some casual shifts going at the restaurant?”
She grimaces, making me laugh.
“Front of house, don’t worry.”
When Florence was thirteen, she convinced our dad to let her do a shift as a dishwasher.
Safe to say she isn’t cut out for a culinary career.
My sister is less involved with Our Place —she prefers it that way—but we still like to run stuff by her and keep her informed.
She spent the last eighteen months traveling around South and Central America and wasn’t due home until the spring.
Mom’s accident apparently cut her trip short, though I sense there’s more to the story.
“A couple of shifts now and again won’t help me get an apartment.” Her hand swishes through the air.
“ Forget it. I’ll work something out. Have you pissed off the new owner much lately?”
“Meh. I never know if they’re actually angry because everything comes through Larry . I like to think they have a Voodoo doll of me by their bedside.” I lean in close, lowering my voice as if we’re not the only two people in my house, and whisper, “ I’m changing the menu.”
The liquid in her bottle sloshes as she dives forward, eyes wide.
“ Wait ? What ? How ?”
“The when is next week.” Florence’s mouth opens to say something, but I cut her off.
“ I know what you’re going to say. However , what they don’t know won’t kill them. It’s my kitchen. Our restaurant. And I’ve had it up to here”— I hold two fingers to my forehead—“with them bossing me around. Plus , the menu has needed a face-lift for years. It’s dated and I’m …”
Tired.
Bored .
Disheartened.
“ … done with them thinking they have a say.”
Her next words surprise me; mostly because Florence is the biggest troublemaker.
“ I don’t know, Booth . Do you really want to do that? It’s funny sending them sassy emails but going over their head? I don’t want us to be in a position like we were in February .”
Shit .
For my siblings and me, the restaurant is one of the last things we have left of our dad.
From her distressed expression, she’s worried.
She wasn’t here when we were told about the threat of being sold.
I was. The constant worry that memories of Dad could be snatched out from under us kept me up at night because I felt like I’d failed him.
We weren’t making money.
Competitors were outselling us.
Stock increased in price.
And we remained stagnant.
It was the reason I pushed to change the menu for months prior; confident it would help get new customers in and attract tourists from the larger neighboring towns.
Did anyone listen?
No.
Because no one took me seriously.
“It’ll be fine, Flo . Some harmless fun.” I clink my bottle with hers.
“ The restaurant is safe, don’t worry.”
The sigh she lets out isn’t reassuring.
Her eyes stay trained on the label she’s peeled to shreds.
“ Do you ever feel you don’t know where life is heading?”
All the fucking time, I’m tempted to say.
“ You’ve only been back a week. Cut yourself some slack. It’ll all fall into place.”
She nods slowly, the weight on her shoulders lifting slightly.
After she leaves, I grab a quick shower, throw on some thermals, and step out onto the short balcony framing the house.
There isn’t a star in sight.
Tiny snowflakes dance down from the sky to catch the light, glittering like fallen stars until they melt into the pitch-black waters.
Do you ever feel you don’t know where life is heading?
Closing my eyes, I imagine myself standing at a fork in the road.
The path on the left keeps my family’s business safe.
The other is one I forgot I’d mapped out, losing sight of it the day we lost Dad .
I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished, of the respect I’ve gained from my team, and the reputation I’ve built for myself.
Was working in a small-town restaurant always my dream ?
No.
The plan was to develop my skills, expand my knowledge, and push the limits of my capabilities.
Once I felt confident enough, I’d apply for jobs outside of my hometown.
I wasn’t aiming high, like LA or New York , but somewhere customers’ food palettes went beyond clam chowder and blueberry pie.
My dream was to curate taster menus, experiment with ingredients from all around the world, and shadow chefs who have worked in Europe , Asia , and Africa .
The number of people who know about this dream?
One .
Me.
My reason for changing the menu isn’t to piss the owner off—that’s a bonus—but to find an output for the creativity threatening to burst out of me like a volcano.
The last thing I want is to resent the place that was my first stepping-stone, where my feet have always landed safely, and laughter and happiness encompass me.
It’s easier if everyone thinks the reason for my insubordination is to cause trouble.
All they see is me smiling and cracking jokes.
When really, my legs are kicking below the surface, waiting for a break in the current.
If I don’t find it soon, I’m scared I’ll drown.