Chapter 31 – Beau
BEAU
O f course, today’s the day the building gym is closed for maintenance.
The day I most need to disappear from the world, my escape route is blocked by a team of contractors replacing the floor.
I stare at them through the glass doors, laying down pieces of vulcanized rubber while my soul drains out of my body.
I’ve been fully cut off. The guy group chat is completely dead.
No messages. No poker night invites. No casual check-ins.
It’s like I’ve been surgically removed from the daily rhythm of the family I chose for myself.
Suddenly, I feel eight years old again, and my parents are dragging me to yet another new town with a new restaurant and nobody I know.
Except this time, it wasn’t my parents who did it. It was me.
Since I don’t have the gym, I take the stairs up to Terrace instead.
Nobody needs me there. The lunch rush hasn’t started yet, and besides, the restaurant runs without me.
I have managers, sous chefs, bartenders who handle the day-to-day.
Nobody needs me, but I need a knife, or a mixing spoon, or a slab of meat in my hands if I’m going to pretend to be a normal person today.
When it feels like the world’s against me, I have to remember the one thing I could always do right—feeding people. No matter where we moved, the kitchen was the only place where I knew I belonged. With the gym closed, for now, it’s the only thing left.
No one bats an eye when I show up in the kitchen. They do, however, give me sympathetic smiles that tell me everyone knows what happened. Even the building maintenance guy replacing a lightbulb throws me a pitiful, “How are you?”
At least my sous-chef is chronically offline. Tomasso has no idea that Peppermint or the Toronto Tea exist. He has also never downloaded TikTok, making his brain 70 percent more intact than mine.
“Hey, Boss,” Tomasso says in greeting. “What’s happening?”
“Thought I’d work on the line today, if you’re not overstaffed.”
“Nah. Victor’s back is giving him trouble. He’d appreciate the second set of hands.”
I hum sympathetically. Working in a restaurant takes it out on your body, especially if you’ve been doing it as long as Victor. He started working as a dishie when he was sixteen, and has been working in a kitchen in some capacity for almost forty years.
After I wash my hands, I join Victor by the stove.
“Hey, man. How can I help?” I ask.
Victor nods knowingly. He’s seen me stress cook my way through a crisis before.
“If you could get working on the braised pork for tonight, you’d be saving my ass,” he says. “Yesterday, I was running around searing pork in the middle of the lunch rush. It was fucked.”
I nod. “Heard.”
It’s the perfect task to keep me busy for hours.
It helps that I originated the dish, adding daikon and giving it a Japanese twist. I disappear into the work, cutting and seasoning the pork, automatically transferring it between heat.
Occasionally, Victor pulls me out of my trance to help out during a rush or to pick up something heavy for him.
Otherwise, it’s just me, doing what I do best.
Before I know it, dinner service has started. I plate the pork myself. If I weren’t slightly afraid of being recognized, I would bring it out to the tables myself. There’s nothing better than delivering food you’ve spent hours on to people who can’t wait to eat it.
Tomasso taps me on the shoulder while I’m in the middle of whipping cream for the desserts.
“Take a break,” he says.
I shrug. “It’s fine. I don’t need one.”
“You’ve been working for ages, Boss. Legally, you should have had a break an hour ago.”
“Do the laws really count when I’m the owner?”
He rolls his eyes. “Out. I don’t want to see you for at least half an hour, or better yet, for the rest of the day.”
“But—”
“I’m in charge of this kitchen, yes?”
“Well, technically?—”
“You told me, when I come into the kitchen, that doesn’t mean I’m taking over. That just means I’m here to help. You remember that conversation, Boss?”
“Yes,” I sigh. I’ve been trying to get my staff not to defer to me for ages. Now, Tomasso is just dishing back exactly what I asked him to serve me.
It’s dark outside when I head out through the back entrance, so I can be sure I won’t run into any of the guys by going through the lobby.
I could always go check in on Velvet & Vice during my break.
The benefits of owning two businesses is that I can be a workaholic in both of them.
It’s harder to run away from my problems in a nightclub, though.
The only chopping to be done is slicing lemon and lime garnishes.
Plus, I’ll have to look at groups of friends hanging out, drinking and dancing, enjoying their lives.
I lean against a wall and pull out my phone. There’s a text from Brinley waiting for me.
Brinley
Eden’s making me watch some crazy reality show about people working at a circus. You’re welcome to join, but be warned—there are clowns.
Beau
You know I’m not crazy about clowns.
Brinley
One day you’ll get over your IT trauma.
Beau
Tim Curry haunts my dreams.
Brinley
Nothing a little exposure therapy can’t help with.
It’s nice to be able to text Brinley with her own name in the contact. My phone still feels quiet with the silent guys group chat. I open it out of habit—the way you press on a bruise, just to make sure it still hurts.
The final texts do.
Nate
My PI might stop by during poker tonight.
Ryan
Hell yeah! Let’s end this.
Then nothing. Because they were having the conversation in real time, the one where they learn who Brinley is and how I lied to them. Because Luke learned about my betrayal and they all decided that they couldn’t trust me.
It stings, getting nothing. Knowing that they’re texting each other on another thread, probably about how much they hate me.
I read about a study once where they brought people into an empty room, except for a button. If you pressed the button, you got a painful electric shock. When they were left alone for fifteen minutes, a crazy amount of people chose to press the button. Maybe humans are just wired to crave pain.
Maybe that’s why I find myself scrolling up through the guy chat, rereading months of inside jokes, trash talk, restaurant recommendations.
Ryan rescheduling poker night around his five-month anniversary with Pippa, and all of us giving him shit for celebrating a five-month anniversary.
Nate sending us a picture of Cat proudly displaying messy-looking homemade pink iced cupcakes.
It’s like a living record of the family I built, frozen in time.
I clench my jaw so hard it hurts and close the app.
Mama chooses that exact moment to call.
Because I’m lonely, I pick up, even though I fully expect a lecture about taking Giulia out to dinner or something.
“Hey, Mama.”
“Hello, tesoro. ” Her voice sounds strangely cool. “I just heard a strange rumor.”
My stomach drops. “What kind of rumor?”
“You’ve had a falling out with your friends. Something about an anonymous blogger and a lost business deal. Is it the restaurant?”
“No. The restaurant is fine.”
“But you’re fighting with Luke.”
I frown. How did she find out it was Luke who’s mad at me?
“Don’t worry about it. It’s not that big a deal.”
“Is it? Because friendships that old don’t crack for nothing. Something must have happened. Tell me, Beau.”
I rub my temples, staving off a headache. “Nothing, Mama. Really. Whatever rumors you heard, I’m sure they were exaggerated.”
“You don’t have to pretend with me. Those boys are the most important thing in your life. I know you’re hurting, Beau. What I don’t understand is who could be worth jeopardizing those relationships for.”
“Haven’t you meddled in my life enough already, Mama?” I snap. “I said it was nothing, now leave me alone!”
She’s quiet. Mama is never quiet—she would rather fight it out than leave conflict simmering. I know immediately that I’ve gone too far. What I said was true, but I threw it at her because I wanted to hurt her. Because she got too close to the truth, and I needed her to get away.
“You remind me of your father when you shut people out,” she says.
I wince. It stings because it’s true.
“I’m sorry, Mama.”
“I know you are. We’ll talk later, when you’re in a better mood.”
She hangs up before me, for the first time I can remember.
Shit. Now there are officially only two people in Toronto who aren’t actively pissed at me—Brinley and Victor.
Even Tomasso is going to be grumpy, because it’s only been fifteen minutes since I left the kitchen, but if I don’t get back up and distract myself, I’m going to spiral so low, paleontologists might be digging me out in a few thousand years.
I speed through the kitchen before Tomasso can see me and complain. Being front of house isn’t my favorite job, but it’s better than being alone with my thoughts.
I send the bartender outside for a smoke and take over, pouring wine and making cocktails for the customers waiting at the bar.
Using the cocktail shaker is as close as I’m going to get to a workout today.
I’m making a batch of amaretto sours when a man with dark blonde hair enters.
My eyes catch on him, hope flaring briefly in my chest before I make out his face.
It’s not Luke.
Luke, who comes to Terrace three or four times a week, for dinner or a drink or just to say hi. Maybe part of me came to Terrace tonight hoping he’d come. Hoping that he’d forgive me, explain he was too busy at work to text and that he’s fine that I’m in love with his sister, actually.
Or maybe I just crave the pain of him not coming.
Because every time the elevator doors open and it’s not him, my soul deflates a little more.
I don’t leave Terrace until the lights go off.
I pitch in on dishes, finish prep for tomorrow, and even mop the kitchen.
It’s past midnight by the time I leave, but I’m not tired.
I jog over to Brinley’s instead of driving, as fast as I can without getting sweaty and gross, enjoying the small burn in my muscles.
Using the key she gave me last year, I let myself in the building and walk upstairs. Thankfully, Brinley and Eden have finished their TV night. The living room is dark, no circus shows to be found.
The lights are off in Brinley’s room, too. I tiptoe inside and find her lying in bed. She’s wearing one of my old T-shirts, her legs tangled up in the sheets. I assume she’s asleep until she says, “Hi.”
“Hey, Brinley baby.” I kick off my shoes and unbutton my jeans. “What are you still doing up?”
“I can’t sleep.”
“Why? Did the clowns scare you, too?”
She groans. “Worse. An email from my landlord.”
“For the apartment?”
“No. The Copper Cup.”
“What do you mean? What happened?”
“He’s thinking about terminating my lease. He sent it days ago. The Peppermint news reached him, and apparently, he has ‘concerns about reputational alignment.’”
“Fuck.” I strip off my shirt and crawl into bed, pulling her tight against me. “I’m so sorry, Brinley.”
“Well, you know what they say. Karma’s a bitch, right? And I brought on some bad karma.”
“It’s messed up! It’s not like you committed a crime. You posted an apology. They’re blowing everything way out of proportion.”
“No, they’re not. If you read some of the messages people have sent me?—”
“You shouldn’t read those. Those people don’t know you.”
“I’m not. Eden’s helping me delete them.”
“Good.” I nuzzle my nose against her neck. “I wish I could protect you from this. If there’s anything I can do?—”
“This. Just be here and hold me. Everything else, I’ll think about tomorrow.”
Just like she asked, I hold Brinley until her breathing grows even. The whole time, I’m composing the email to my financial advisor in my head. I refused to let Brinley lose the Copper Cup. She built that place from nothing, and I know what it means for her.
She’s lost enough already. I can’t take away her pain, but this—this I can fix.
Once she’s asleep, I roll over and lower the brightness on my phone.
It only takes a few minutes to send my advisor the Copper Cup’s address and ask him to find out who owns it and how much it’ll take to buy it.
I tell him to come in at 5 percent over market cost, with the aim of not going over 20 percent.
If the owner refuses, I’ll go higher—hell, I’ll double the cost if that’s what it takes.
But I know better than to say that to someone about to negotiate for me.
After I press send, a new text arrives.
Ryan
Give Luke time. He’ll come around.
I let out a long breath. It’s not forgiveness or a promise, but it’s a thread. A hint that maybe I haven’t lost everyone.