Three
THREE
Mia
“TABLE SEVEN SAYS these lamb medallions were supposed to be medium rare, but they’re well done.” Trinn, one of the waitstaff, brandished a partially eaten plate of food through the kitchen pass.
Quashing the little adrenaline jolt of guilt that always hit me when an order went out wrong, I took the plate and confirmed that, yes, the medallions didn’t have a hint of pink in the center.
“Okay,” I said, trying not to let on how harried I was, with the dining room packed and a line of diners waiting to be seated. “Do we know which table was supposed to get the lamb well done?”
“One with bad taste in meat?” Trinn muttered. “Who orders lamb well done ?”
I shot her a narrow, quelling look—but before I could tell her to go find out, Paul hurried up, holding a nearly identical plate.
“Table eleven says—” he began.
“That they ordered well done lamb and got it medium rare,” I finished for him, taking his plate as well. “Apologize to both tables and tell them their meals will be out as soon as possible. Give them a twenty percent discount on the checks.”
I scraped the contents of both plates into the trash and handed them off to be washed. “I need two lamb medallion plates, one medium-rare, one well-done, on the fly!” I called to the line.
“Yes, chef!” came the immediate reply.
No sooner had I retrieved four more lamb medallions for the grill than one of the sous-chefs came rushing over. “Sorry, chef—we’re out of asparagus! What do you want us to do?”
“We’re what ?” I snapped, harshly enough that the poor kid flinched. “How the hell can we be out of asparagus?”
“I... I don’t know, chef?” he stammered.
More guilt and stress piled onto my shoulders. It wasn’t like the sous-chefs were responsible for ordering produce.
“Sorry, Isaiah. Not your fault.” I scrambled for the best work-around. “Substitute a medley of summer squash, carrots, and parsnips with mint.”
“Yes, chef,” Isaiah said, and scurried off.
Christ—now not only would the two tables with the switched lamb have to wait for their meals, but they wouldn’t even get what they’d originally ordered. Seriously, how the hell could we be out of asparagus?
I gritted my teeth and seasoned the lamb medallions, tossing them on the grill where they sizzled at me accusingly.
“Mia?” Nat’s voice cut through the bustle of the kitchen, and my shoulders tensed further.
“Bit busy,” I called back.
“What’s this about orders going out wrong?” he demanded, ignoring the words.
“Why are we out of asparagus at seven p.m. on the busiest night of the week?” I shot back.
“We can’t be out of asparagus,” said the guy in charge of making sure we didn’t run out of asparagus.
“So, my sous-chef is lying, then?” I asked sharply. “Or maybe he suddenly forgot where we keep the produce. I mean, he’s only been working here for a year-and-a-half.”
Nat burst into the kitchen, making a beeline for the walk-in cooler. I clenched my jaw and flipped two of the lamb medallions, taking a quick survey of the line to make sure everything else was nominally under control.
“Dress that salad for table three,” I said. “It’s been sitting there too long. And finish that charcuterie board so it can go out!”
The bustle around me increased, orders flying out just barely fast enough to keep up with the hungry crowd on the restaurant floor. Once upon a time, I’d thrived on this controlled chaos. Now, all I wanted to do was crawl under a giant pile of blankets and hide there for a week.
Nat stomped out of the cooler, two high spots of color on his cheeks. “There’s clearly been some kind of mistake.”
“Yes, clearly ,” I agreed, in a tone that could have stripped paint. “Tell the waitstaff to warn customers about the substitution, will you? I’m a bit swamped back here.”
Trinn approached again, looking like she expected to get yelled at. She was holding a salad bowl this time. “Um... sorry. This wasn’t supposed to have parmesan. The customer’s allergic.”
I took the bowl and thanked her, feeling my blood pressure ratchet up another few degrees as I binned it and called for a replacement.
hours later, I returned to the house and flopped back on the sofa with my laptop, intent on distracting myself after the worst Saturday dinner service I could remember having since the restaurant opened.
Nat’s Jeep was in the driveway, but he wasn’t in the living room, the kitchen, or the bedroom. The door to his office at the end of the hall was firmly shut, a strip of light showing through the gap at the bottom. I left him to it, in no hurry for a conversation after an evening spent snapping at each other across a busy kitchen.
I knew I should be browsing something mindless, but my brain wasn’t ready to turn itself off yet. Without really intending to, I found myself scrolling through the private forum where a bunch of the newer Michelin star recipients hung out and traded intel.
Maybe I was looking for reassurance that other high-end chefs had off nights, or maybe I was just torturing myself with yet more work-related shit. Whatever the case, the post I stumbled over was one titled ‘ Michelin inspector spotted in Chicago’ and dated two days ago.
A terrible, sinking feeling made my stomach dip, irrational though it was. St. Louis would likely be the next stop after Chicago on an inspector’s list, and we were the only starred restaurant in the area.
It was ridiculous. Just because an inspector might be hitting St. Louis this weekend, it didn’t follow that they’d been at tonight’s dinner service... or that they happened to have a bad dining experience when the vast majority of orders had gone out just fine.
Still... I steeled myself and set the laptop aside, heading for Nat’s office. Whatever else was going on between us, we were business partners. I knocked on the door.
Silence settled for a long moment, but then I heard footsteps and a lock clicking. The door swung open. Nat looked about like I felt—exhausted and overwhelmed.
“Yes?” he said neutrally.
The queasy feeling in my stomach grew. “You should know that a Michelin inspector was spotted in Chicago two days ago.” I tried to match his flat tone. “There’s a chance they might be in St. Louis this weekend.”
I didn’t have to spell it out for him. He knew what that could mean as well as I did.
He stared at me for a long moment—the face I’d loved so ardently now cold and distant.
“I need to be alone for a bit,” he said eventually. Then he took a step back, and the door closed in my face. Not slammed. In fact, it closed very gently, barely making a sound as the latch slipped home.
Somehow, that was worse.
I stared at the blank wood surface for a few seconds, then turned and walked back to the living room. Without realizing, I was moving like a thief, sneaking silently through my own house as though I didn’t have every right to be there. My queasiness had turned into full-blown nausea. I sank down on the couch, clutching a pillow to my stomach as I stared blankly into the middle distance.
I thought I should be feeling more. Anger, or frustration, or fear, or sadness. Not this terrible, sick nothingness. A dull whisper in the back of my mind told me I shouldn’t be alone right now... and yet, in that moment, I felt more alone than I ever had in my life.
Rising on numb legs, I shuffled to the empty bedroom and came to a stop before my dresser. My makeup case was in the top drawer. I pulled it out and opened it, slipping the green business card from its place between a compact and a flat of eye shadow. I stared at it for a long time before pulling my phone from my pocket and unlocking the screen.
The text window stared at me blankly as I silently debated.
Finally, decision made, I entered the phone number and texted, “Hi. This is Mia from the bar last night. You gave me your card. Are you awake?”
Nothing happened for several moments. Then three dots marched across the bottom of the screen.
“Hi. I wasn’t sure you’d use it. What’s up?”
I bit my lower lip, rolling it between my teeth.
“Been a bit of a rough day. I know it’s late, but could we maybe meet up?”
More dots.
“Sure. I don’t sleep much at the best of times. Want to come over?”
The guilt that washed through me was predictable and unwanted. But this time, hard on its heels came something new.
I could say yes . I could get in my car and go see Luca, because my husband, who should have been my rock, was probably sitting in his office right now, contemplating who he was going to fuck next outside of our marriage.
My breath caught in my lungs, a dizzy, untethered feeling making me briefly lightheaded.
“I’d like that,” I texted. “What’s your address?”