32. Burnt To a Crisp #2
He snorts. “You know. Well, that doesn’t help us, does it?”
“Look, I fucked up, okay? There’s no excuse. I should have handled this completely differently. I should have quit, which I didn’t do because I...” I close my eyes for a moment. “Because I love this job so much. I was selfish and irresponsible.”
Ian studies me, unimpressed. “Why do I feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming?”
My hands fist on my thighs. “I have feelings for her.”
It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud, but it’s undeniable. And maybe it doesn’t make any of this better, but Ian knows what it’s like to lose his mind over a woman. He met Amelie when she was engaged to someone else.
His fingers drum once against the desk, then still, a long silence stretching until the door swings open with a sharp crack.
Amelie storms inside, her eyes finding me instantly. The hurt in them is a gut punch.
“Hey, beautiful,” Ian tries, but she silences him with a flick of her wrist. She’s breathing hard, and I can see the vein in her forehead popping from here.
“Amelie,” I say, my throat dry. “I’m so?—”
“You’re fired.”
The words crack through the air, final and absolute.
I roll my lips, bracing myself. I knew it was coming, but hearing it—hearing her say it—shatters something inside me.
“Hey, let’s just think about this for a second, okay?” Ian stands, placing a calming hand on her arm.
“There’s nothing to think about. He’s fired, effective immediately, and that’s the end of it.”
Ian’s hands rest on his hips.
That’s it. It happened. I’m fired.
I’ve been trying to convince myself that losing my job isn’t the end of the world. But the truth is, this isn’t just about a job. It’s about losing my purpose. The people who gave it to me, and made my life worth something.
Ian shifts beside her, his lips pressing into a thin line. “He has a young daughter,” he reminds her. “Maybe we could?—”
“What? Send him to another client? See who he sleeps with there?”
“No, of course not.” Ian scratches at the stubble on his jaw.
Amelie crosses her arms, her expression hard. “Because I definitely don’t want him in my kitchen. Not when I don’t trust him. When I don’t even like him.”
I stare at the floor as my hands begin to shake.
“You can’t even look at me, Aaron?” she demands.
I force myself to raise my chin, and the anger in her face twists into something worse. Her jaw quivers, and her eyes—fuck, her eyes—gleam with hurt so raw it almost knocks me back.
“You were my best friend,” she says. “I thought I could count on you. I wanted you by my side, wanted you to be my second. I thought you had my back.”
“I do,” I rasp, voice breaking.
“No, I was wrong.” She fights the tremor in her chin. “You’re not my best friend. You know Beatrice left me, and you couldn’t bother to tell me she was here? That you were sleeping with her daughter?”
Her daughter ? Doesn’t she mean “my sister”?
I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe through my mouth, fighting the overwhelming urge to ask.
“So you’re fired,” she repeats. “And not that it matters to you, but we’re done. I never want to see you again.”
My mind scrambles for words, but nothing I could say would be enough to change her mind right now.
“Am I clear?”
I force myself to nod.
“Good. Now get out.”
I hesitate for a moment, looking to Ian, my boss, the one with actual authority to fire me. But he’s not looking at me—his gaze is locked on Amelie, forehead creased in concern.
He’s not thinking about his business, his company. He’s thinking about his wife, the woman standing before him who has endured so much pain in her life, and who I’ve now hurt too.
He finally meets my gaze, and after a long pause, nods. “I’ll figure out your papers and be in touch,” he says. Then, rolling his shoulders, he adds, “As of now, you’re no longer an employee of Chef & Tell.”
I stand and turn, and every step toward the door feels like another nail in the coffin of the life I’ve just lost. Through the open sliver, I see the kitchen, the place where I found purpose, where I became more than just some guy who blew up his whole life.
I see the laughter, the late nights with Amelie, the hours of sweat and exhaustion that never felt like work because I loved it so much.
It’s all gone.
I grip the handle, heart hammering against my ribs.
If this is the last conversation I’ll ever have with Amelie, I need to say something.
I need to tell her that cooking changed my life.
That I’ll never forget what she taught me.
That she’s the best chef I’ve ever seen at work, and that she shouldn’t feel bad about this, because I know she will.
I turn back, meeting her gaze, and see nothing but ice and exhaustion staring back at me. She doesn’t want to hear anything I have to say.
So I say the only thing I really need to get out.
“She needs your help.”
Amelie’s brows draw together. “Excuse me?”
“Charlotte,” I clarify. “She’s not . . . she’s not doing well.”
“Unbelievable.” Her jaw ticks. “I’ve needed help more times than I can count, and nobody showed up for me.”
“So she should suffer the same way you did?” I counter.
She jabs a finger on her chest. “ I was the one who was left behind, Aaron. Not her.”
“And that might have been the biggest blessing of your life, because Beatrice...she’s not a good person, trust me.”
Amelie scoffs. “Really? The woman who abandoned her daughter isn’t a saint? You don’t say.”
“It’s more than that. She’s—” I struggle to find the right words. “She’s the kind of person who makes you believe you’re nothing. That you’re worthless. That you’re only good for what she can take from you.”
She hesitates, her mask of anger faltering. I know for a fact she’s gotten rid of people like that in her life, and I’m not sure how much of Beatrice she’s seen, but she must know there’s truth behind what I’m saying.
“No,” she says, almost to herself. “No,” she repeats more firmly.
“You’ve seen it with Sadie—you know what being left behind by your mother does to you.
I can’t—” She breathes out as if willing herself not to cry.
“I’ve worked hard to free myself of toxic people, and I’m not letting her destroy everything. ”
“She’s not Beatrice, though. Charlotte is not toxic, Amelie. She’s?—”
“There’s nothing I can do to help her.” Her shoulders arch. “I’m sorry.”
Oh, come on. This is bullshit, and she’s better than that. At least, I think she is. “You’re the only one who can help her. You’re her sister.”
“Her sister ?” Amelie straightens. “I don’t even know her.
My family was my dad, who was a piece of shit but a piece of shit who stayed.
And now he’s gone, so I made my own family.
This man”—she gestures at Ian—“is my family. Heaven and Shane with their kids, Primrose and her family, and you—you were part of my family too.”
A sharp ache pierces through me at the past tense, but I don’t interrupt.
“Charlotte?” She crosses her arms tightly over her chest. “Charlotte is a stranger. Someone who never once reached out, never even tried. And now she needs me because she has no one else?” Her lips curl, her voice dripping with resentment. “Well, I suggest she figures it out—just like I did.”
“Do you know what your mother does to her? She?—”
“I can’t help her.” Her chest rises and falls, her gaze stuck to the floor. “I can’t open that chapter again.”
Charlotte was right. This hurts more than getting fired. Even more than losing Amelie’s friendship.
“I guess we’re both disappointed, then,” I say, and without waiting for her answer, I walk out the door, then out of the restaurant.