Chapter Fifteen #2
He’d do it, because he was bored and there was only so much cleaning to do, even though the thought of another kitchen—a kitchen without Bastian at the head of it—made him sick to his stomach.
He could do it because he was a goddamn professional.
That was what Bastian had trained him to be, even though he’d failed at the end.
“I know Xander is desperate to hire you,” Wyatt said.
“Did you call for any actual purpose or just to make yourself feel better?” Kian demanded, inexplicably furious all of a sudden. “Because you’re not making me feel any better.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. Kian pinched off the disappointment that Wyatt didn’t really care either and tossed it away. He didn’t need that on top of everything else.
When Wyatt finally spoke again, it was slowly, like he was carefully picking every single word. “Xander told me about your European jobs. That you think you’ve wasted the last two years.”
“I did,” Kian retorted bitterly.
“Actually,” Wyatt said and then hesitated. “I really don’t think you did.”
“You don’t really believe that.” The only reason Wyatt would say that would be to try to talk Kian out of feeling that way. And Kian wasn’t dumb, not anymore. His eyes had been forcibly opened wide.
“I do. Do you love him?”
“I don’t see why that matters.” Kian swallowed back the unexpected tears lingering in the back of his throat. Suddenly it didn’t matter if Wyatt did care about him, he just couldn’t talk about this anymore.
“You might as well just tell me, because we all know you do.” Wyatt sighed. “Does he love you?”
Kian nearly hung up the phone. It was only the impossible kindness in Wyatt’s voice that kept him from doing it. “He said he did, but I’m not sure I believe him anymore.”
“He must love you, because he gave you a job you weren’t really qualified for, but that you wanted a lot. He didn’t give it to you because you guys were fucking; he gave it to you because that’s what you do with someone you love—you give them what they want, even if it isn’t always good for them.”
Kian hated the sob that escaped him. Even more than he hated that Wyatt was right.
He’d been ill-prepared, even with all of Bastian’s training, and he’d known that when it had been offered to him.
He should have turned it down, but there’d been that irresistible glow of living up to the man on Bastian’s pedestal.
That had turned out so well, too.
“I’ve fucked it all up,” he cried. “I knew it was too soon, I knew it was a mistake. I should have told him.”
“You can’t go back and change the past,” Wyatt said softly, “you can only change the future. So what are you going to do with it?”
“I guess . . .” Kian took a deep breath. “I guess I could contact these restaurants in Europe again. See if they’d consider hiring me still.”
“Do you want to go to Europe?”
Truthfully Kian didn’t know what he wanted. No—that wasn’t true. He wanted things to not change, but Wyatt was right; he could only change the future, not the past.
“I don’t know,” Kian said. “Bastian said they’d have me doing dishes for a year.”
“At least,” Wyatt said with a chuckle, then his voice grew serious.
“You didn’t waste your time at Terroir. Bastian was a good mentor to you.
He taught you an enormous amount, and you were already talented.
It wasn’t a waste, because you got to do more in two years than anyone in Europe would do in five. ”
“Swear to god?” Kian demanded.
“Swear to god.” Wyatt laughed again. “Seriously, go work for Xander while you figure it out. You could do it in your sleep and it’ll keep you occupied and sane. Somewhat, anyway. It is still Xander’s restaurant.”
Kian had considered that too. Working for Xander at the Barrel House might hurt the least, out of all the options available to him. Was that a pussy move? He wasn’t sure anymore. Self-preservation, while not something that Bastian had ever encouraged or cultivated in himself, wasn’t so bad.
“I’ll think about it,” Kian promised. “I’m not ready to be chef de cuisine and I’m done doing dishes. I’m not sure where I belong anymore.”
“Somewhere in between. But I know you’ll figure it out, you’re the smartest guy I know,” Wyatt said.
Kian scoffed. “That’s bullshit. I went to my boss’ house and took my clothes off.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. So Xander hadn’t told Wyatt everything.
“I reserve the right to take back that statement,” Wyatt said. “Nobody ever said you didn’t have balls, though. Wow.”
“Love makes you do really stupid things,” Kian pointed out and Wyatt agreed.
“You know you can text me anytime,” Wyatt stated. “I have to go make sure Tony doesn’t blow up our food truck. He’s deep frying a turkey or . . . maybe a whole ham. Or something.”
“Go save your truck,” Kian said. “And yes, I do.”
Wyatt was right, Kian realized after he’d set the phone down and had continued scrubbing the living room wall.
He hadn’t wasted the time. It helped alleviate some of the humiliating sting, but the yawning chasm of pain was still right there, hovering on the edge of Kian’s consciousness.
Not thinking he’d wasted his time wasn’t the same as not missing Bastian so much he could barely breathe sometimes.
Maybe Wyatt was right about something else too. Working for Xander wouldn’t be so bad; it would at least be better than continuing to scrub this wall.
Bastian didn’t know how it happened, but his whole life had suddenly become a fucking disaster.
Wyatt and Xander were long gone. Kian was gone.
That worm Mark was gone. He was left with a bare bones staff, not nearly enough to run a restaurant the size of Terroir.
Also spring and the tourists were coming and they’d be able to open up the patio in a few weeks.
That meant even more tables to service, and not nearly enough people to service them.
He’d considered begging Kian to come back, not just because things were bad on the staffing front, but because every time he thought so much as his name, Bastian felt like throwing up. And since he thought about him all the damn time, that was a problem.
Terroir needed Bastian to be leading it, not hiding in the bathroom, curled inwards around his traitorous stomach. He never actually threw up, he just wanted to, constantly.
After the second day without Kian, Bastian finally assumed that this horrible feeling must be what a broken heart felt like and stopped going to the bathroom to hunch over the toilet in vain.
He was a master at ignoring things that might have bothered others: sickness, exhaustion, injuries, personal problems. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d actually had a personal problem, but he’d always assumed he could push those petty hurts away, like he did everything else.
But Kian wasn’t a petty hurt, he was a gaping hole in Bastian’s chest, a maelstrom of regret and guilt.
On the third day, his mother called, and he’d ignored it. She called again, and then again, and then again. Biting off a whole string of bad words, he left the prep station, hoping that Derek wouldn’t fuck anything up in the five minutes he was gone.
He exited out the back door, and leaned on the brick wall, taking a deep breath of fresh air.
He’d been working almost nonstop since Kian had walked out, and somehow, even though two years ago, Bastian had done everything without Kian, it turned out that he’d come to rely on him so much that now the burden felt too heavy to bear.
Not a realization that Bastian was particularly happy to come to.
“What is it, maman?” he asked when she picked up the phone on the second ring.
“I’m very busy, the restaurant is swamped, and we’ve had some .
. .” Bastian paused, he didn’t want to tell her about Kian in the context of complaining they didn’t have enough staff, but what else was there?
He wasn’t going to sit at her knee and cry into her lap.
He’d never been that child, and he certainly wasn’t that child now. “We’ve had some staffing problems.”
It was foolish to hope she’d let it go at that vague statement, but he’d cross that bridge when they came to it. Yet another painful inevitability he’d need to face; admitting to his mother that he’d fucked up everything with the love of his life.
“Bastian,” she staid sternly, “I am hearing the strangest rumors.”
Sighing, Bastian scrubbed a hand over his face. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d really slept. Probably before Kian had quit. “I wish you wouldn’t listen to those.”
“I went to Barrel House last night,” she continued, like he hadn’t said a word. “And for once the rumors were correct. Kian, he is not working for you anymore? He was working at Xander Bridges’ restaurant? What has happened?”
It was inevitable that Kian would go to work for Xander. Bastian had theoretically prepared himself for that eventuality, but it stung so much more than he’d ever imagined it would. Salt on an open wound, sprinkled liberally.
“I really don’t have time for this right now, maman,” he said, trying with one last ditch effort to dodge the question.
“Bastian Pierre Aquino,” Celeste said sternly. “Do I need to come down there and harass you until you tell me?”
Bastian laughed because otherwise he was going to cry, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d ever cried in front of someone. Frankly, before this week, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried at all, but he’d passed that milestone the first night without Kian beside him.
It was shameful, but at least it was honest, Bastian thought bleakly. He deserved the misery; he’d fucked this whole thing up, and he didn’t really blame Kian for quitting.
For leaving him too, maybe. But Kian was almost certainly right, their personal relationship would never have survived their professional one imploding.
That didn’t mean Bastian had forgiven him for it, or himself.