Chapter 24
24
Hayden
senior year
“I heard Ben brought some weed! He’s passing it around in the parking lot!” Jenny calls over the blaring music. My gaze shifts across the banquet hall at the Dayton Country Club, the twinkling lights and bluish hue painted across the room looking so typically fitting for our 2014 Starry Night prom theme.
I look down at Jenny, her hand linked through my arm as she smiles up at me, her dark makeup smeared across her lids with lips painted in a deep maroon color. I nod when she continues to look at me, waiting for an answer. Just as we continue our steps into the banquet hall, we’re interrupted by Tina approaching Jenny, tugging at her arm and pulling her toward the direction we came in from.
“Come on!” she calls to me, her smile stretching across her face as she follows Tina willingly.
Just as I turn to go with her, I catch a glimpse of someone I’ve been eager to see since I stepped into my rented tux. “You guys go ahead,” I call over the music. “I’ll catch up with you guys in a bit.”
Jenny giggles, already running after Tina as they disappear into the parking lot, toward a night that requires fewer brain cells and a collective trip to Taco Bell.
I turn back to see Natalia standing in the middle of the dance floor, smiling and laughing, surrounded by her friends, with Alex close by. I take a moment to watch her and laugh when she starts to flail her arms in the air in beat with the music. She’s singing along to whatever’s playing over the sound system, clutching her chest and pointing to her friends dancing with her in equal zeal. Her lavender dress, glittering in silk and subtle rhinestones, swishes around her while her dark hair weaves in a tumble of curls down her back, a halo of baby’s breath neatly tucked into the braid wrapped around her crown. I stand back as Alex leans down to say something close to her ear and walks away before she turns her attention back to her friends. Without Alex by her side, this is my chance.
I want to be near her. I want to say hello, tell her how beautiful she looks with the subtle flowers in her hair and soft makeup that makes her features that much sweeter. I want her to look and smile at me the way she is right now, so bright and radiant.
I walk toward the dance floor, my strides deliberate and calculated, and I stop right when the song transitions into something less upbeat and more measured with the strides of a slow strumming guitar and unhurried piano keys. Natalia stops dancing and instead begins searching the room.
“Looking for a dance partner, Marquez?” I say low into Natalia’s ear as I come to a stop behind her.
She turns slowly to look at me, her smile dropping as she sees my face. “Hayden.”
“Expecting someone else?” I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her close to me, more than ready to swoop in the place of her prom date.
She relaxes in my arms. One of her hands moves up to gently rest on the collar of my shirt while the other lightly grips my bicep. “I was holding out for Prince Charming, but I guess you’ll do.”
“I’m just here for that dance you promised.”
We sway lightly as I move her closer toward the middle of the dance floor where the crowd is thicker.
“So where’s Spencer?” I ask. “He ditch you already?”
Her lips purse as her eyes roll into her signature expression, somehow smiling even though she wants to tell me how annoying I am. “He went outside with Tyler and Ben.”
I nod. “Leaving his date to get high. So honorable.”
She smacks my arm. “He’s not getting high.”
I shrug, not bothering to correct her. Our bodies continue to move under the scattered spotlight glittering over us, the twinkling disco ball reflecting dim flickers of light that seem to make Natalia’s face glow even brighter.
“I’m going to miss you, Marshall,” she quips with a shy smile. “You actually made AP Bio kinda fun.” Her delicate fingers start toying with my boutonniere, the soft petals brushing against the pads of her fingers.
“You aren’t getting rid of me just yet,” I answer. “We still have five weeks left of the school year.” I’m grinning like a damn fool from the pride bursting through me. She’s going to miss me.
Her smile fades, a misty wave of nostalgia passing through her as her brow furrows.
“And then we’re real adults,” she says, her voice carrying the undertones of worry and apprehension.
One of the loose curls from her hair falls from the braided crown. When I see it kiss her temple, I brush it out of her face. She sighs against my touch as my thumb runs across her soft cheek.
It feels as if time is warping all around us. People are still chatting and dancing and laughing, but we’re moving in slow motion. The music is still playing, but it’s become hushed and muted, almost as if that too has warped into a completely different tempo. Without a second thought, I lean down and let my lips hover close to hers. Her warm breath skirts across my lips as we share the air between us. And I feel like I imagine it, but her chin tilts toward me, as if encouraging me to move even closer.
I kiss her, turning everything wrong in my life right side up so it no longer feels blundering or reckless. As if holding Natalia in my arms and realizing that I want more than a few shared laughs and playful shoves makes me feel like I can finally breathe.
Natalia pushes back, her hands bracing my arms, now rigid and trembling. Her eyes turn into saucers, and I can see her breathing kick up.
“Hayden,” she gasps. “We can’t—I mean, you’re with Jenny and…”
“Nat,” I start to say.
Her hands start to push mine off her and for a second, I don’t want to let go, even though she’s giving me no choice.
“I–I have to go find Alex.” She takes off, her heels clicking against the hard floor, and she disappears into the crowd.
present
When I walk into work Monday afternoon, I’m greeted by Hailey at the hostess counter. I’m still coming off the high of the wedding. Romantic lights, festive music, good food, and the chocolatey red velvet cake that Ashton wouldn’t stop raving about. And Natalia. We dropped Natalia off, her feet bare and her heels hooked on her fingers as she walked the quick trek from the car to her apartment. I watched as she waved goodbye, her small hand coming up as she wiggled her fingers at me. She disappeared, taking away every resurfaced feeling that I buried deep, making me realize how little had changed in the eight years since I said goodbye to her.
“Boss is waiting for you in his office.” Hailey points a thumb behind her toward the back of the kitchen where Pat’s office sits. I nod, ready to spend the day busying myself in the kitchen and distracting my thoughts from what all of these reverted feelings mean, and stalk past her.
I rap lightly on the door sitting ajar as I peek inside and see Pat hunched over his desk, his reading glasses on and forehead creased.
“Come in,” he calls without looking up from his desk. He looks up as I step through the threshold, and he gestures for me to have a seat.
“You wanted to talk to me, Pat?”
“Yes.” He closes the binder he was flipping through, removing his glasses and placing them gently on his desk. “Have a seat.”
I eye him. He’s never spoken to me like this, all formal and businesslike. Putting aside the uncle-nephew relationship and putting in place the employee-employer one. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” he answers. His voice is hoarse and tired. He clears his throat. “I just wanted to talk to you about some changes I want to make around here.”
“Oh,” I say, finally understanding. “Is Chef going to be here too then?”
He shakes his head, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “Listen, you know it’s been a little tough with Chef and his ego. ”
I scoff. To say I understand the wrath of Chef DuPont would be an understatement. I live under his constant scrutiny and his anger toward me, claiming I only got the sous chef position through the small push of nepotism. I’ve never told Pat this, but I would have been long gone had it not been Pat who hired me.
“I want him to resign,” Pat finally says.
I push my face toward him, angling my head to the side with a twisted face of confusion to make sure I’ve heard him correctly. “So you won’t have a head chef?”
He clears his throat again. “I was thinking you could take over.”
“Me?” I squeak.
“You’re the only one I know who’s qualified.”
“Pat, I–I don’t know…I mean…” I stutter. “You don’t want to hire someone new? Someone with more experience?”
“You’ve had plenty back in Chicago,” he argues. “It’s time you run your own kitchen.”
Head chef. It’s a position I’ve dreamed of stepping into since I returned stateside from France. A medium before I eventually have the courage and experience to open my own restaurant like I’ve always wanted. It’s one more milestone closer to having my name on the building as people seek out my food.
But it’s a huge responsibility. One small mistake, and the whole restaurant is at stake. I don’t want to let Pat down. I don’t want to let the whole restaurant down.
I shift in my seat, the air suddenly feeling too hot and stuffy. “Can I think about it?”
“Of course.” His voice is calm and understanding. I nod, leaving Pat’s office while muddling over this offer.
I spend the rest of the day in the busy kitchen. Chef DuPont comes, makes his rounds, and continues his wrath while stalking the kitchen floor, keeping the rest of the staff on their toes. We have one incident of him reducing our saucier to tears and almost firing a busboy when he nearly walks into Chef DuPont, carrying a tray full of dirty dishes. It’s actually a good day considering the last time Chef DuPont completely lost his temper, one of our newly hired waitresses got caught in the crossfire between him and a plate he threw against the wall. Pat had no choice but to send her home after she spent a good hour trembling in the service area.
I can’t help asking myself, will that be me? Angry with anyone trying to do their job and fearing me in the process. Hurting people just so that I can prove myself. I don’t want to be that person. But what if Chef DuPont was a kind, timid sous chef like me at some point? And over the years, he became this ball of anger out of necessity rather than by choice. As badly as I want to be a head chef, I don’t know if I’m ready to take on that role and not turn into an asshole in an attempt to prove myself.
But now, watching every integral member of this team, I see how they respect me. They don’t fear me or turn the other way with resentment for making their lives hell. They come to me for help or advice. They share their thoughts so that our kitchen and this restaurant can be successful. We all manage to turn the gears in unison and keep them grinding despite Chef DuPont’s glaring presence.
I work through the rest of the dinner rush, Chef DuPont’s early departure a godsend after he saw that the dinner service was moving along without a hitch, something he does quite frequently now as he relinquishes some of his control to me. I fall into a comfortable routine, one that allows me to imagine how it would feel if I didn’t have Chef DuPont breathing down my back. All of the doubt and insecurities fogging my judgment disperse, like a sea of hesitance that parts, creating a path that I finally feel confident I can take. I see a future where I’ll be running my own kitchen. One that I want to embrace .
With the kitchen scrubbed and cleaned, the stainless-steel countertops shining against the dimmed fluorescent lights that veil over the now empty kitchen, I walk into the dining area.
“Hey, Pat?”
He’s lining up wineglasses behind the bar, carefully inspecting them for chips, scrapes, and water spots. He looks up when I call him, an expectant look on his face as a warm smile spreads.
“I’ll take it,” I say, my voice still wavering between confidence and doubt. “The job. I’ll take it.”
His smile widens, his teeth exposed as he grins ear to ear. “You’re going to be a great boss, kid,” he says, extending his hand toward me.
I take his offering, gripping firmly as we seal the deal.
“Your parents are going to be proud of you.”
I nod, my throat tightening at the mention of my parents. “Thanks for the opportunity, Pat.”
I wish what he said were true. That my parents, especially my dad, would be happy to know that my aching decision to choose my own path in life turned out to be the best decision I ever made. I wish this was enough for him, whatever was enough for me. And maybe it’s the idea of holding on to the false hope that I can eventually repair the broken relationship I have with my dad, but I continue to tell myself it’s all worth it. To come to this exact moment and work for a dream I never realized I wanted until I discovered something my hands already knew. Something that lay hidden under the dim lights on the granite countertops in my mom’s kitchen or the low whirring of the bright red mixer I learned to use on my own. And it all started with the warm scent of home that gradually shifted into a reminiscent memory I hid for eight years.
Beer, South Park reruns, and pork rinds are my vices. I give into them when I feel like I’ve earned it. And today, it feels like I have. I walked out of Pour Toujours last week with a lightness in my step, knowing that my life wasn’t as dead-ended as I thought. So I settle into my couch tonight after a day of going over managerial logistics with Pat, like when I would be taking Chef DuPont’s place and how the transition of my position would happen. As expected, Chef DuPont’s rage flooded through the entire kitchen when Pat delivered the news, claiming the restaurant would burn to the ground without him. It was the stubborn Band-Aid that Pat had to finally rip off. And with Chef DuPont’s final anger-filled threat to sue Pat and every busboy, server, and/or bartender that ever crossed his path at Pour Toujours, Pat was able to finally let the entire staff know how things would shift now that I would be head chef. All of it was welcomed with cheers and relieved smiles.
I’ve stripped down to my boxers and an undershirt, lazing into my vices. In the middle of Kenny’s muffled voice responding to yet another vulgar statement made by Cartman, my phone rings. I smile when I see Natalia’s name on the screen.
I just saw her today when she visited my restaurant, bringing José with her during their lunch hour, the two laughing and chatting animatedly in our crowded dining room while I watched from afar. Watching her like that, when she didn’t think anyone was looking, it caused a twinge to twist in my chest as I realized the things I felt about her. Feelings I couldn’t believe were consuming my mind.
I haven’t yet told her about my promotion. I want to blame it on the fact that I haven’t had a chance but in reality, every time I want to tell her, my feelings overshadow the words caught in my throat. I need to keep things light, surface deep and casual. Telling her something that she’ll undoubtedly be ecstatic for me about feels like peeling back more layers of me, forcing me to expose my feelings for her when I should be hiding them.
“You better not be hassling me for more pastries, Marquez,” I tease through the phone.
“And if I am?”
“I would have to tell you that the whole tri-state area has run out of sugar and can no longer fulfill your incessant demands.”
She giggles.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” I ask.
“I, uh…”
Somewhere deep within my gut, during the moment her giggles dissolve and a cheesy smile creeps up on my face, I stagger toward her. My entire body leans toward the sound of her careful voice, wanting to envelope myself in everything about her. And that staggering, that hitch in my heartbeat, makes me realize what this feeling is.
I miss her. I miss her as if I haven’t seen her for days, weeks, or even months.
But then she stays quiet, causing me to tuck away that staggering flop of my heart as she clears her throat, her silence shifting into unease.
“Nat?”
“Um,” she continues, the hesitancy felt even through the phone. “So I know it’s not technically the holidays yet, but I was wondering if you wanted to come over this Saturday and watch holiday movies with me and eat a bunch of junk food.”
My brow furrows. Her hesitation confuses me. It doesn’t sound like something she should feel reluctant to ask me, but she does. For some reason, it feels like she’s worried I’ll say no .
When I don’t answer, she sighs. “You know,” she says softly. “In case I might feel lonely.”
“Uh, yeah. That actually sounds like fun.”
“Yeah?” she says in an eagerly sweet voice that causes me to picture the smile on her face. “You aren’t working?”
“It must be your lucky day because the restaurant has a special event that day,” I explain. “I think a bridal shower or something in the evening. It’s mainly catered stuff that I’ll take care of pretty early, and the staff will manage the rest during the party. So I should be free from the kitchen after that’s done.”
She lets out a small sigh before whispering a defeated, “Okay.”
“Okay,” I answer back, sounding more resolute than her.
“I’ll see you then,” she calls quietly.
We hang up, and I can’t help but think whether or not there’s an underlying reason for Natalia calling me. We agreed that we would call each other if either one feels lonely, but it feels like this loneliness she’s anticipating is more than just a simple bout of melancholy.
My phone rings again and I smile, expecting it to be Natalia and hoping I can cheer her up after her voice sounded so somber. I prepare myself for some quipped remark, something to change the subject and veer her mind off whatever is withering away at her heart, when I pick up the phone without even checking to see who’s calling.
“I don’t know what your movie choices are, but I think I’m going to have to throw The Santa Clause in there. It’s a classic.”
But instead of Natalia’s soft voice, I hear a throat clear on the other side, rough and low. “Uh, it’s Dad.”
I sit up straighter, fumbling with the beer bottle in my hand to place it on the coffee table.
“Dad.” It doesn’t sound like a question or even a statement. More like an acknowledgment, as if I’m answering a yes or no question .
“Hi, Hayden.”
There’s a long stretch of silence after he says my name. As if he hasn’t said it in so long that it feels foreign to him and he has to readjust to the feeling of it rolling off his tongue. I don’t say anything else but keep the silence ringing loud and clear between us. What am I supposed to say? Tell him that I’m sorry? That I made the wrong choices and I should have been seeking his approval this whole time? Is that what he wants to hear after all this time?
“I…” His voice sounds stiff, like he’s trying to find the right words even though it was he who called me. “I talked to Pat. He said you’re doing some great things over there.”
“Oh,” I answer.
“I just called to say that…we’re proud of you. Your mom and I.”
I hear shuffling on the other end, muffled voices and whispers that sound like my mom encouraging him to say more.
“I know I haven’t been supportive of your choices in the past,” he continues. “But I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry. Pat seems to think that, anyway. That I was wrong. And that I was being an asshole father.” His words come out stuttered and rushed as if to fill the awkwardness with words.
“Uh…” I finally say after I’m left speechless. Utterly speechless. I’ve thought about this moment for years. My dad, finally realizing that his support is all I need. And that resentment, that built-up anger toward everything wrong in my life, starts to dissolve. Those layers of hurt and shame start to peel back, and I feel this weight of relief replace the guilt on my shoulders. “Thanks, Dad. It means a lot to hear you say that. Not that you’re an asshole dad, but that you’re proud of me.”
He chuckles. “Anyway, the holidays are coming up. We’d be really happy if you could visit. I know you’re going to be pretty busy with this new promotion and all, but Pat said he would give you some time off for Thanksgiving.”
His voice trails with the last word as if remembering the last Thanksgiving I was back home. “Sure, Dad. I’ll be there.”
“Okay,” he huffs, his voice lighter than the start of the conversation. “We’ll talk again soon.”
“Yeah,” I answer, my own voice mirroring his as the weight of worry lifts off of it. “We’ll talk soon.”