11. Lincoln
11
Lincoln
“ Gem, I need to get into the restaurant.” I sigh, pinching my nose as my girlfriend continues to ramble about all the shit she wants us to do this weekend, all the places she wants to go, and the parties she wants to hit up. She’s social, an extrovert who, while exciting, can be exhausting.
“So, should I tell Fiona that we’ll be there on Wednesday night?”
“Who the hell is Fiona?” I ask, confused by the unfamiliar name. Gemma releases a shriek, and I have to pull the phone away from my ear from the volume. “Jesus, Gem. What was that for?”
“Just be a good boy and say yes for me, k? All those hours in the kitchen are scrambling your brain. I told you you need to quit and find a normal, nice job. One with benefits and maybe a 401(k). Or you could model, you know, like old times?”
Of all the unappetizing professions she could suggest, the one thing I would never do again is model, and Gemma knows that. I hated being in front of the camera, even if I got paid a fuck-ton of money to smile pretty and keep my mouth shut. I’m used to her disgust over my job, which is ironic since I met Gemma at the restaurant I’m about to walk into. We dated casually at first, a way to put other things—other people—from my mind before ending things when she left for her steady modeling gigs. When she came back two years ago, we started seeing each other again, and I’ve had a headache every day since. I sigh at her dig. “I love my job, Gemma. We’ll talk when I get home, okay?”
“I’ll let Fiona know we’re coming. Oh! And maybe we can do that cute little brunch place on Sunday morning. You know they make the best French Toast and—”
“Gemma,” I cut her off, my voice dripping with exasperation. “I can’t do this now; I have work. I’ll see you tonight.” I end the call, releasing a breath when her voice is cut off from my ears. “Fuck’s sake,” I breathe out, shaking my head as I replay the conversation in my head.
It’s easy to fall into Gemma’s plans, the constant “go, go, go” mentality that leaves no room for rest or contemplation or a fucking breath. When we first met, I had no desire to give in to the energetic model who was passing time as a hostess, but she was relentless. The back-and-forth of our relationship, the break-ups and make-ups, the moving out just to move back in, has been beyond tiring.
Gemma’s a complicated person, caring and beautiful, but also a little self-centered and easily bored. Despite what I said about talking when I get home, I know she won’t be there waiting for me. With Gemma, there’s no downtime or a quiet night in, so the fact that I’m working until ten tonight means that she’ll call up one of her girlfriends and go to dinner before heading over to a club or a bar.
I’m fucking exhausted trying to keep up with her and her ever-evolving schedule, and not for the first time in the last few months, I question why we’re together when all she seems to want to do is change me to fit the mold she so desperately wants.
Shaking my head, I yank open the side door and stride into the restaurant, immediately feeling calmer when my feet hit the distressed hardwood floor.
—
Zucchini, bell peppers, eggplant, onion.
Zucchini, bell peppers, eggplant, onion.
Zucchini, bell peppers, eggplant, onion.
I repeat the vegetables in my head as I rummage through the walk-in fridge, trying to find the shit I need before starting dinner prep. It’s useless, though, because one step into the nightmare that is the Garganello’s vegetable fridge tells me whoever unloaded the nightly provisions left halfway through their task. Empty boxes mix with full ones, leaving little to no room in the already cramped space. I nearly trip over a basket of canned tomatoes, which definitely should not be in here.
“Shit, sorry, Chef.” A rushed exhale sounds behind me, and I almost feel sorry for the fear etched on the kitchen porter’s face. Narrowing my eyes, I see the tear marks on the kid’s face, the sweat beading on his hairline. I could be a dick right now, demand to know why the walk-in is a fucking disaster, and order him to clean shit up. But what will that accomplish? I decide to go easy on him, even though every instinct I have tells me to call this kid out on his incompetence.
Drawing in a deep breath, I swallow the words I want to say. “It’s fine. I need fifteen zucchini, bell peppers, eggplants, and onions. Where do I find them? The onions weren’t in the root vegetable closet.”
“I’ll bring them to your station, Chef; I’ll be right there. Just give me a minute to finish sorting these boxes, and I’ll get you your vegetables.”
Nodding, I turn, careful not to trip over the cans as I make my way back to my station. Surveying my space, I feel the same rush of pride as I do each night I come to Garganello’s. I’ve been here for four and a half years, working my way from a dishwasher to kitchen porter, commis chef, and now finally, entremetier, or vegetable chef. Dante may have gotten me the job, but I worked my ass off to get to the station.
While I wait for my vegetables, I set my station up, prepping my knives, cutting board, prep containers, and towels so that when the porter comes with my shit, I can start on the julienne. Fishing my phone out of my back pocket, I place it face down on the stainless-steel shelf in front of me, making sure that I can’t see the screen while I work.
As though someone knows I’m about to start my dinner prep, my phone starts vibrating, moving rapidly on the shelf to let me know someone is calling. I almost reach forward to answer the call when the porter arrives with a tray of my vegetables.
“Thanks, man. Set them down on the cart there.” I nod toward the rack beside me.
Following my directions, he places the oversized tray down, stepping back once it’s secure. “Anything else, Chef?”
“No, you’re good. Thanks again.” I dismiss him, grabbing the first of fifteen zucchinis I need to prepare.
Losing myself in the repetitious act, my mind travels back to the first time I stepped behind the station, eager and nervous as shit to prove myself to some of the titans in this industry.
I was a fucking asshole when Dante got me this job, all but demanding it as payment for a bet I didn’t actually win. I love bartering, wagering, and the high I get from winning a favor. It’s not money that thrills; my family has it in spades.
No, I like to be owed. I like knowing that I can collect on what I want—what I need—when the moment benefits me. I have no desire to risk a fortune in Atlantic City or play cards with the boys in Vegas. I’d rather bet on an outcome, a board game, or some other innocent shit that means nothing but gains me everything.
Slicing through the vegetables, I let my lips break out into a smirk, remembering how pissed D was when I told him he’d never have a shot with Celeste, the fiery redhead who had his dick in a twist from the moment he laid eyes on her. I even offered my car, Betty, my prized possession, as collateral because I was so goddamn sure he had no chance.
He could have taken the car and laughed with his girl in the front seat, but instead, he lied and claimed nothing happened, saving her from the humility of publicly declaring their relationship. Hell, I’d be embarrassed by the overgrown, overbearing Italian too.
I can admit that it was a dick move, a careless and senseless bet, but I can’t regret it when it landed me a spot in one of the most high-profile and respected restaurants in the city.
I was a cocky college student that first day, but I never complained about washing dishes in the back of the restaurant because I knew, like I know the blood rolling through my veins, that I’d be on the brigade someday. It took a long time, but I finally worked up to one of three vegetable chefs last year.
My phone vibrates again, pulling me out of my memories. “Leave me the fuck alone,” I mumble, keeping my eyes trained on the way my knife slices through the zucchini.
“Simmons, I am going to break that phone if it goes off again,” Diana, the other vegetable chef on the brigade tonight, shouts at me.
“Sorry, Di. I’ll silence it.” Laying down my knife, I grab my phone and unlock the screen. Based on the number of times the phone’s gone off, I’m unsurprised to find two missed calls and a few text messages in my notifications. They’re probably from Gemma bitching me out for ending the conversation earlier. I don’t bother checking who they’re from; instead, I set the “do not disturb” option. “See.” I hold the phone for Diana to view my screen. “It’s off. Will you stop giving me shit now?”
“Only if you finish cutting those zucchinis.”
“Such a hard-ass,” I mumble under my breath, reaching over to rinse my hands before picking my knife back up to finish the first part of my preparation.
“I heard that,” Diana’s voice sings like she finds me amusing. I don’t suppress the smile that breaks out from the shit Di and I give each other; I fucking love it. I live for the bullshit in the kitchen, the quick-fire orders, the time-driven tasks. Fucking around with my coworkers before we leave the kitchen to shoot the shit over a beer is half of what gets me through the absolute pandemonium each night.
“Okay, everyone, listen up,” Franki calls, walking into the back of house armed with papers and her binder. “We have some shifting up tonight. James, you’re sous-chef tonight. Vivienne, I need you on butcher. Oscar, Vienna, Daniel, you three stay on pastry, obviously. Sammy, you’re also staying as chef de cuisine. We have a full house and need this shit to run smoothly. I’m sure you all see the mess in the walk-in and vegetable pantry. Our supplies came late tonight, but we’re dealing with it. If you need anything, call Sammy, and she’ll work with Ray to get you what you need. Got it?”
I look over at Sammy, the chef de cuisine or kitchen manager, and see that she’s as calm as she always is in her Crocs, cat-eye glasses, and white chef’s coat.
Nodding my head along with the rest of the kitchen, I let the anticipation pour over me. I operate best in madness, and I’m eager for the night to start.
“Good. The first seating is in two hours, so let’s get our shit together and get ready for a good night. Family meal is downstairs; make sure you eat before service starts because it’s going to be hectic tonight. Now, for the specials.” Franki goes into the details of each of the five specials offered tonight, paying close attention to how she expects each to be prepared. From knife cuts to butchering techniques, she leaves no question hanging as she delivers the instructions.
When she finishes, she hands each of us a menu and races to the front of house, where she must give a similar speech to the waitstaff, bartenders, and hosts setting up for the evening.
Losing myself in the orders given to me, I work on the julienne on every vegetable on my station, separating them by type. The mindless task allows my mind to wander back to my phone, and curiosity takes over. People rarely call me, probably because I only pick up if the phone reads one of three names: Gemma, Mom, or Dad.
Well, that’s not entirely true.
Slicing through the remaining vegetables with a little more force than necessary, I let my mind take me back to when my phone would be on fucking fire from the amount of use due to talking to a pretty girl with long brown hair and sad, quiet eyes.
Fucking Seraphina Gregori, the little thorn who embedded herself so expertly into my DNA before extracting herself like it was a life-or-death situation. I’ll never forget the six months I spent goddamn obsessed with the sound of her soft voice. It went nowhere—be it age, bad timing, or destiny—but I still get phantom memories, small moments that remind me of her.
Four years ago, my phone going off so frequently would have excited me, giving me shots of adrenaline and anticipation of what Seraphina wanted. Now, dread pools in my stomach since the last time I had five missed notifications, they were from Gemma telling me that she used my credit card to book a vacation for us and five of her closest friends. To make it worse, I couldn’t even go because I had work.
“Simmons, take a twenty-minute break and then get your ass back up here,” Sammy calls from behind me, interrupting my musings.
“Got it.” Placing my knife down, I look over at Diana. “You need anything, Di?”
She doesn’t stop her prep work and doesn’t bother to look at me as she responds, “Yes, for you to go on break so I can go after you.”
“Hard-ass,” I repeat, wiping my hands on my dish towel. Grabbing my phone, I make my way out of the kitchen and jog down the hall that leads to the employee locker room, changing areas, and break room.
I don’t unlock my phone until I’m over the threshold and in front of my locker. I ate before I came and have no need for family meal, but I won’t turn down the opportunity for a break before shit gets wild on the brigade.
I’m surprised to see two missed calls from Greyson and three texts from the group chat I share with Dante and Grey.
Dante : Does Linc know yet?
Grey : No.
Dante : Oh shit, I know before Cheffy? Someone’s going to be pissed.
I roll my eyes at Dante’s nickname for me. He watched Below Deck with Celeste, and the crew called the chef “Cheffy.” They’ve been doing it to Ava and me ever since, and it annoys me every time.
Letting my fingers fly over the screen, I don’t hesitate to respond.
Lincoln : Stop calling me that. What don’t I know?
A reply comes instantly, though it’s not an annoyingly sarcastic reply from Dante like I expect.
Grey : Call me when you can.
Pulling up his contact information, I call him immediately and breathe when he answers on the first ring.
“The hell is going on?”
“Hey, man.” My eyes narrow at his tone; he sounds happy, almost like he’s laughing, which is unusual since he’s a grumpy asshole unless Ava is in the vicinity.
“What’s going on?”
Grey clears his throat, rumbling directly into the line. I wince at the sound.
“I asked Ava to marry me.”
My eyes widen at his words, shocked that he didn’t mention his plans. From the moment Grey met Ava, we all knew they were endgame, so it’s no surprise they’re getting married. But I am in disbelief that he kept it to himself before the proposal.
“Well, shit, man. Congratulations to you and Aves. When did it go down?”
“Thanks, Linc,” Ava shouts in the background, her voice high-pitched yet happy.
“Last week. We just told her sisters and Rafe.”
I swallow at the mention of her sisters, keeping silent so I don’t ask the question I know I shouldn’t: she’s back?
“That’s great. I’m happy for you, bro.”
“Vixen, give me a minute?” Grey’s voice sounds distant like he’s covering the speaker. “Linc, you still there?”
“Yeah.”
“Listen, I don’t want to bring shit up, but I remember how everything went down after smalls got back together with that asshole. You going to be okay seeing her?”
I grit my teeth against the memory. It’s the second time today I’ve had to think about Seraphina, and I’d be happy to lose at least half of the memories that bombard me. When I first found out Seraphina and Mitch were getting back together all those years ago, I didn’t handle it well. I didn’t understand how such a smart, beautiful girl could fall for the manipulation a guy like Mitch employed. When Ava told me that Mitch hurt Sera and they ended their relationship, I felt for her, and even tried contacting her, but I never got through. Eventually, I stopped trying. I stopped asking for updates, stopped scrolling through Ava’s family photo posts on social media, and tried to forget about Seraphina Rose Gregori. I packaged my feelings for Seraphina years ago, cataloging them in the recesses of my mind. “Don’t make this about me; I’m with Gemma. I doubt I’ll see her much outside of the shit for the wedding.”
A humor-filled chuckle hits my ear, so much delight that I wish I could reach through the phone and strangle one of my best friends. “You are so fucked.”
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I look down, letting my eyes fall to the nonslip black shoes on my feet. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”
“Yeah, just give me a minute to take this in before I ruin your goddamn life.”
“You sound pretty amused,” I comment, pulling the phone from my ear to check the time left on my break. “Listen, I have five minutes before I need to head back to the kitchen, so you want to tell me what’s so goddamn amusing?”
Grey sobers, the laughter fading from his voice. “Linc, she’s back. She’s getting her master’s at Marymount, so you sure as hell will be seeing her around.”
I don’t need to ask who “she” is.
“It happened a long time ago, Grey. We’ve all moved on. Like I said, you know I’m with Gem.”
“Whatever you say, Linc. I’ll let you go. Give Mama Dorota a ‘hello’ from me, yeah?”
“Yeah, sure. Congratulations again,” I respond, distractedly ending the call. I don’t miss how Grey didn’t bother asking after Gemma or how she was. He and Dante have never liked her, though they’ve never been honest about why.
I always knew I’d see Seraphina again. With a friend group as close as we are and as tight as I am with Ava, it was just a matter of when. I foolishly figured it’d be years from now.
Well, fuck me.