Chapter 6
Chapter Six
A t three, I pulled off my white jacket, ready to go home, when Mom stopped me.
“Jenna, we could really use you on tonight too,” she said without stopping to see if I would say yes. She knew I would, which made it even worse that it was true. Every moment spent in my parents' kitchen felt like time not spent on my own dream. That wasn’t true, of course. I was earning money and saving, but it still felt like working for someone else’s vision. Maybe that’s what all work felt like, and I was naive to think there was a way out. If I gave up on the bakery, I would have nothing. But that didn’t mean I could bail and not help when my parents needed me. So, I spent the next several hours breaking down claws for the lobster rolls.
By the time I was done, my brain had turned to mush, and I couldn’t feel my fingers. Thankfully, all I had to do was clean up my own spot, rather than break down the whole kitchen like the rest of the cooks.
When I stepped out of the kitchen at the end of the night, I deeply breathed in the fresh, salty air as the breeze swept off the ocean several blocks away. The glowing streetlights pooled on the cobblestone. My feet burned in my no-slip, sensible shoes as they echoed off the street and walls of the darkened shops. Sometimes I liked the quiet, solo walk home at the end of a long night. The historic streets of Cape Shore with their old Victorian buildings complete with steepled roofs and wraparound porches felt romantic and full of hidden stories.
Other times, I just felt weary all the way down to my bones.
I may have been surrounded by people all day and night, but I was still lonely. I woke up when others were already at work and went home when everyone was asleep.
A light flashed in my eyes, blinding me momentarily. I crouched down, fists up, ready to fight, as if I stood a chance at all from any assailant. Luckily, the familiar laughter coming from the darkness meant I wouldn’t have to.
“You were really ready to throw hands, huh?” Cat said, stepping into a puddle of light reflecting against the cobblestone, her camera hanging around her neck. “That’s gonna be a good one.”
“I hope I get a cut of the profits,” I said, dryly. “What are you doing out here so late?”
“I wanted to get some shots of the empty streets in the full moon,” Cat said .
I looked into the sky and saw the moon hanging low. “Huh, I guess that’s why everyone was so on edge in the kitchen tonight.”
“Must be,” she shrugged. “Couldn’t have anything to do with the Food Fest tomorrow.”
“I doubt it,” I said with a smirk.
Cat had been my best friend for as long as I could remember. We had spent four years apart when she went to school and refused to come back—for mostly good reason because her family could be intolerable—but I was glad she came back and settled in Cape Shore. She opened her art store where she sold photo prints and lived out her happily ever after with the love of her life. Defying all the odds my cynical brain had cooked up for her.
“Are you talking to Darren yet?” I asked.
Darren, Cat’s brother, had dated her high school bully and took the bully’s side even after it came out that she had sabotaged an art competition, so Cat stopped speaking to him. Predictably, the bully dumped Darren, and he had been trying to apologize to Cat ever since.
“A little.” She shrugged.
“Is that a good thing or bad thing?”
“That remains to be seen,” she said, holding up her camera and watching through the viewfinder, looking for her next shot. Cat was absolutely crazy, but sometimes—okay, often—I envied that about her. I wish I had just a little more crazy and a little less overthinking, obsessive worry about what other people thought of me. That worry was interesting though, because it wasn’t like I worried they were judging how I wore m y hair or what clothes I put on. Instead, I worried that I wasn’t doing enough. I was the lamest, most unsuccessful overachiever in history stuck in my hometown working fourteen-hour days at my parents' restaurant without a path to anything more.
“I’m gonna head home,” I said. I debated telling Cat about the Wallaces showing up but didn’t want to have to explain just how annoying that news was.
“I’ll stop by the booth tomorrow,” she said.
“Do you think I can just not show up?” I asked as I started walking away.
“I think that would be bad ass!” she said. I laughed. “Better you than me. I don’t plan on working another stupid booth until it is my own.”
“Must be nice.”
“Hey, can you do me a favor?” she asked after I had already turned to walk away.
I stopped. Good dependable Jenna. Always ready to do favors.
“I’m trying to get a feature in the paper with some Food Fest pictures,” Cat continued. “Do you think you can help me line up a couple good shots?”
“Sure,” I said, lifting my hand to wave, but she already had her camera up to her eye, not waiting for an answer. Of course, I will say yes. I always do.
Cat had a tendency to talk mostly about herself when we were together. Maybe I was partly to blame. As a perpetual people pleaser, I had a tendency to spend conversations asking probing questions and offering support rather than running through whatever was on my mind. I always assumed no one cared about my problems.
When I got home, I was too antsy to sleep. I opened my computer, and my heart dropped despite myself. No response from PotatoBake888. I always worried if I blew up his messages, I would look clingy or desperate, but as a fellow anti-establishment guy, he might be the only one to understand my frustrations.
TheBakingChick: I just heard the Wallaces are coming to Food Fest.
Afterall, I had spent most of the night thinking about the stupid Wallaces showing up and how excited my mom was.
Three dots showed he was typing, and my stomach fluttered.
PotatoBake888: That’s a good thing, right?
TheBakingChick: Are you kidding???? Don’t tell me that you have been bamboozled by the glitz and glam of those pompous idiots. They are the reason people like you and I can’t get our foot in the door of the industry.
The three dots appeared then disappeared then reappeared again as I waited anxiously for his response. Had I grossly miscalculated this guy? He was pretty tight-lipped about his life, but still, I thought I had a pretty good sense of his values. Tears burned in my eyes, and my stomach turned at the realization that I had been fooling myself this whole time. I blin ked hard trying to clear my eyes when a message popped up.
PotatoBake888: They are pretty hard to take.
I sighed with relief at his response, annoyed with myself for both jumping to conclusions and being so damn dramatic.
TheBakingChick: They are worse than hard to take. They don’t live in the same world as us. I don’t understand why my mom is so enamored of them. If they are coming here to open a new restaurant, that will be the end of The Lobster Tail.
PotatoBake888: How so?
TheBakingChick: The Wallaces show up, open their overpriced, poorly planned, chain restaurants, put the locals out of business, then bail to let some know-nothing run it in their place. I hate everything they stand for, especially in my town.
PotatoBake888: Maybe you can run him out of town.
TheBakingChick: Aren’t there two of them?
PotatoBake888: I think there are three?
TheBakingChick: No, it’s a father and son.
PotatoBake888: I thought it was two sons.
TheBakingChick: Maybe, I don’t follow them at all.
PotatoBake888: Then maybe they aren’t as bad as you thought?
TheBakingChick: Whose side are you on anyway? I thought we were just talking about running them out of town.
PotatoBake888: I’m on your side. Always.
They were just words on a screen, but they left me warm and flushed as I read them over and over again.
“This man could be a serial killer, Jenna,” I said out loud to myself. “No feelings allowed.”
TheBakingChick: Good. Maybe they won’t show up.
PotatoBake888: Good luck
TheBakingChick: Hey, what did you want to tell me?
PotatoBake888: What?
TheBakingChick: Your message last night. You said you had something to tell me.
PotatoBake888: Oh, nothing important. I’ll tell you later.
TheBakingChick: Oka y
I would be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed. I wondered what he had wanted to tell me and why he decided not to. Could it have been something personal, or even better, a confession of feelings?
“Uhg! Stop!” I told myself, but in the secret recess of my mind, I wished it was. Somewhere along the way, PotatoBake888 had become my favorite person to talk to. I spent a lot of time convincing myself that I had no feelings, but I couldn’t explain away how excited I got when I heard the little ding announcing his messages. Every time something newsworthy, or even mildly interesting, happened, he was the first person I thought to tell. Did he feel the same about me? I was more real with Potatobake888 than anyone else in my life. He knew about my dreams, my worries, my self-doubts, in a way even Cat didn’t know. I wouldn’t know how he felt until I asked, but I wasn’t ready for that just yet. One problem at a time.