4. Off Limits
Waking up this Friday, I’m relieved the week is nearly over, but I’m also troubled by a nagging regret. I realize I wasn’t the best company for Jeremy during last night’s first date. I couldn’t seem to steer the conversation away from Randy, and now I’m worried I might have overshared. Jeremy was so quiet on the way home that I’m left doubting if there’ll be a second date, let alone a third.
And then there was that moment he asked if he had a chance with me. He was so sincere. Truthfully, I don’t know the answer. It’s not that I’m not interested; it’s just that I’ve always struggled with making clear choices.
Take my college years, for instance. I spent four years working toward a biology degree, fighting through every test, paper, and lab. Finishing with a 2.7 GPA, the dream of becoming a doctor—of making a meaningful difference in people’s lives—faded when my academic advisor suggested delaying graduation to retake courses and improve my GPA. Sigh…
Just like that, the reality hit me. Was I really cut out for a life spent diagnosing and treating others? At age twenty-one, despite four years of college, I found myself more uncertain about my future than ever.
Helping Naomi study for the LSAT and then taking the test alongside her as a gesture of support brought an unexpected twist. Once again, I was on my way down what I thought would be another solid career path. I scored 160, a surprise to both of us given Naomi’s impressive 176. Yet, it didn’t take long, only about a year, for me to realize that the law wasn’t for me either. Still, I went through the motions, even attempting the bar exam three times. Each time I stared down at that test, my mind went blank. Plus, the idea of standing in a courtroom and debating legalities felt utterly foreign to me. I was indifferent to winning or losing legal battles?
But when it comes to food? That’s where my heart truly lies. Culinary school was a true revelation. It’s where I earn consistent A’s and praise from chef instructors. I really like cooking. I like learning all the techniques and pairings when it comes to seasonings. I relish studying the secrets behind making food taste exceptionally flavorful and cooking my meats until they’re as tender as butter. And the sauces—oh, I’ve learned to make my sauces so delicious, they’ll melt in any taster’s mouth. Yes, I love all of that. But baking and making desserts and pastries bring me the most joy.
There is an indescribable satisfaction in watching others relish the various breads and sweet creations that I whip up. The look of pure satisfaction on their faces brings me abundant joy, a sense of accomplishment that feels like it has meaning. This is where my future is meant to unfold—in the kitchen, not in a courtroom. Yet when it comes to relationships, clarity still seems to elude me.
Today, I’m back at work. And Randy, with his knack for complicating my feelings, has been distant for most of my shift, only to suddenly appear, all wired up and asking me to join him at the back counter to show me something.
“You see this number?” he asks. I instantly recognize the rhetorical tone in his voice, a familiar prelude to one of his ‘teachable moments.’ “We have to account for every grain of flour that’s used.” His lecture begins as if today were my first day on the job.
I can’t help but roll my eyes, my default response. I wish Jeremy could witness this perfect example of the behavior I spent so much of our date trying to explain. If he were a witness to this, then he would understand why I couldn’t stop going on and on about his cousin.
Standing my ground, arms folded and adrenaline surging through me, I’m ready for whatever confrontation comes next. “What’s that got to do with me?” I manage to politely ask, barely masking my aggravation.
“You didn’t ask if you could make your lemon pastries this week.” That patronizing smirk of his makes me want to… Ugh.
But I hold my composure. “What lemon pastries?” I feign ignorance, though I’m fully aware what he’s referring to. If Randy insists on picking this battle, then he’d better get his facts straight.
His expression twists in silent accusation. He knows that I know exactly which pastries he’s referring to. “There’s a budget, Gina, and if you’re going to keep this going, then I have to make sure we can pay for it.”
As Randy’s intense gaze meets mine, I can’t help but notice, despite everything, how striking his eyes are. Still, I am not deterred. “Are you kidding me?” I challenge him, rendered incredulous by his audacity.
“No,” he replies, dead serious.
Taking a moment, I look carefully at the pastry counter before proceeding. Then I watch Randy’s eyes, giving him one last chance to save himself. Of course, he doesn’t take it. “You should be kidding me,” I declare. “Because as you can clearly see by the empty pastry container, we are now sold out of my… what?”
“Sold out of your what?” he echoes, sounding confused about what I’m asking.
I relish that puzzled look on his face. “You said they were lemon pastries, but they were not. They were raspberry vanilla swirl cro-muffins. So if you’re complaining about the flour used for lemon pastries because those items aren’t selling, then you’re barking up the wrong tree because my baked goods have sold out.”
Good, he hasn’t dropped my favorite expression of his. Well, my third favorite expression of his. My first is when we’re in the throes of passion and Randy looks blissfully satisfied. I am just that satisfied right now, having wiped that smug look off his face. Sometimes when I’m arguing with Randy, all those law school classes definitely come in handy.
Just as Randy gears up for his rebuttal, a voice calls out. This is a voice that tugs at my heartstrings and cuts through the tension. “Oh, Gina?”
“Mom?” I respond even before my eyes find her. This is a surprise that sends a wave of warmth through me considering it has been two weeks since I last saw her. That’s a rarity since my parents live only ten minutes from my apartment. They also have a washer and dryer that I use to do my laundry, which is currently overflowing in my laundry basket. I’ve just been so busy lately.
I hurry over, and we exchange kisses across the counter.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I happened to be in the neighborhood, and it’s been ages since I’ve seen you,” she explains with a gentle pinch to my chin. “Plus, I’ve been dying to taste those raspberry vanilla swirl cro-muffins everyone’s been raving about.”
Before I can even turn to flash Randy a self-satisfied grin, one that silently conveys, “See? My mom remembers the pastries I make, and she’s not even profiting from them,” I realize he’s already standing beside me with his arm outstretched. Surprised, I twist slightly to face him, my expression inquisitive.
“Hello, I’m Randy,” he croons.
Catching the charm he’s throwing, my mom’s eyes light up as they shift between Randy and me, silently urging me to exhibit the manners she instilled in me.
“Right,” I mumble. Suddenly, my face flushes with warmth, and my head begins to spin. Strangely, my legs feel weak, as if I might actually faint if I don’t compose myself. Gathering my thoughts, I manage to introduce them, albeit somewhat clumsily. “Randy, this is my mother, Faye. Faye, I mean, Mom, this is Randy.”
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Faye,” Randy says, his tone syrupier than before. The agitation and snarkiness I faced earlier have completely melted away from him and have been replaced by a warm smile directed at my mom—an inviting gesture not even reserved for our regular customers.
“I know who you are. It’s nice to meet you too,” Mom responds, as if she has already been briefed about Randy, which I’m certain I haven’t done.
“Mom, I’ve never mentioned Randy to you,” I interject quickly, just in case he gets the wrong idea.
My mom gives me a curious frown. “I know, but his food is the talk of the town.”
“I know, but I don’t… Just…” My eyes squeeze shut as I fish for the right words, not wanting Randy to think I’ve been discussing him with my family as if he’s more than just a casual fling.
“Are you feeling all right, honey?” My mom appears slightly concerned but more amused. “Did you have shellfish for lunch?” She then turns her attention to Randy. “Gina tends to get anxious when she eats shellfish. It’s the mercury.”
Mom, please,I plead silently, hoping we can cease discussing personal matters with Randy.
“I don’t think she had shellfish today,” Randy interjects smoothly. Oh, that grin. I could just eat him alive. “Maybe last night. She went on a date with my cousin, Jeremy. He’s a nice guy, just so you know.”
My horror deepens at Randy’s disclosure.
“A date? Well, that’s nice,” my mom responds passively. “How about having dinner with us on Saturday night?” she asks, getting to the crux of her surprise visit. “Then you can tell Dad and me all about your date with this handsome man’s cousin.” She winks mischievously. “Unless you’ve got other plans, of course.”
“No, I don’t have other plans,” I murmur, hanging my head, my face burning with embarrassment.
“Good, because we just want to see that lovely face of the daughter we made. Hear her voice…” My mom inhales deeply through her nose. “Smell her skin,” she says dramatically.
Randy chuckles, evidently amused by my mom’s quirky sense of humor.
She’s grinning from ear to ear. My mom loves it when someone appreciates her unique brand of wit.
Before I can break the two up, Brady, one of the kitchen staff, thankfully interrupts by poking his head into the front of the café to inform Randy that everything is prepped for the dinner crowd.
“Right. Be right there,” Randy responds before turning his attention back to my mom. “Are you staying for dinner, Faye?”
“No,” my mom and I answer simultaneously.
Startled by our chorus, Mom shoots me a perplexed frown, as if questioning my sanity.
“I mean, I’m assuming you’re not staying because Dad isn’t with you,” I quickly add.
“No, he’s not,” Mom whispers, her gaze piercing through me. I can tell she senses something off about my behavior.
Randy smoothly assures my mom that it was a pleasure to meet her and generously offers that anything she orders tonight will be on the house. Then he pivots to me. “Gina, we’re short-staffed tonight. Could you cover some tables until your shift ends?”
My mouth drops open, totally caught off guard. Randy knows I’m supposed to start working with Pete in about an hour. I won’t argue with him in front of my mom, and he seems to be well aware of that.
“Sure thing, boss,” I manage to say, though my eyes shoot daggers at him.
He chuckles—a deep, taunting sound—as he heads to the kitchen.
What an ass. Score one for him.
* * *
Oddly enough,I’m still fuming hours after my mom’s departure, even though when she left, I promised to eat dinner with them on Saturday night, which usually makes me happy. I’m one of those people who loves hanging out with their parents. But I’m angry because Randy was charming, almost in a scheming way. It feels like he ultimately used the interaction with my mom to get me to stand down, and that doesn’t sit right with me.
I would be angrier if I hadn’t gotten so much exercise by moving from table to table, but the nonstop hustle quelled my irritation. The evening rush kept us exceptionally busy. Even though we don’t officially have wait staff, the combination of Randy’s culinary expertise and our warm service consistently encourages diners to leave generous tips. Now, as the shift winds down, Sarah and I find a moment to take our final break together.
Tonight’s “Star Chef Special”—Randy’s brown butter lamb ravioli—was a massive hit with customers. I’ve been on my feet for three hours straight, receiving all kinds of “compliments to the chef” that I’ll never deliver.
“Mmm.” Sarah’s eyes roll back in delight as she takes a bite of the ravioli. “This man definitely knows how to cook.”
Reluctantly, I have to admit that she’s right. Randy’s culinary skills are undeniably impressive. However, this seems like the perfect moment to ask Sarah something that has been on my mind since last night.
“So, Sarah—” I take a bite of ravioli. “What’s it like working for Randy? Do you find him as annoying as I do?”
“Oh, you two,” she says with a laugh. “I find him friendly, Gina. He’s been a game-changer for Calypso Café. He’s like a big fish in a small pond, and he seems content with that, which is great. Well, thanks to you.”
“Thanks to me?” I blurt out, taken aback.
“He loves bantering with you,” Sarah says matter-of-factly, as if it’s common knowledge. “You both thrive on it. And by the way, you’re not fooling anybody. The way you two look at each other. All chemistry and sexual tension.” She shrugs, her eyebrows animatedly raised.
I’m so shocked by her words that I feel utterly exposed, as if I’ve been left out in the cold, bare and vulnerable.
“I don’t have feelings for him in any way.” Even though I’m strongly protesting, my insides feel as if I’m making a feeble attempt at convincing her.
Sarah serves herself another hearty helping of ravioli, while I find myself silently appreciative that Randy left enough on the plate for both of us. We’re famished, and it shows in the way we’re eating. “Is that so?” she asks, sounding far too nonchalant for my liking.
“Yes! Absolutely.”
Sarah just shrugs. “Okay, then.”
Her indifference irks me. I feel like she’s not taking me seriously. “I really don’t!” I insist.
“Whatever, Gina.”
This whole verbal exchange feels like a trainwreck. Just because there’s a physical attraction and some chemistry between us doesn’t mean I actually like him. And clearly, he doesn’t like me in that way either. Sarah calls what he does “banter”? That sounds like a sugarcoated way of excusing his behavior. All these thoughts are swirling around, ready to burst out, when my Apple Watch beeps. Relieved for the distraction, I eagerly answer it, grateful for the chance to divert my thoughts from this mess.
“Hi, Gina. It’s Jeremy.” His voice cuts through the crisp late-afternoon air.
Sarah’s eyes are fixed on my lips, as though she’s hanging on every word I’m about to say. I wish I had my AirPods to make this a bit more private, but they’re in my purse, which is in my locker.
“Hi, Jeremy,” I manage, forcing a smile that feels genuine. But if being honest, I’m surprised to hear from him.
“I was wondering, do you have any plans for tonight?” he asks.
I hesitate, keenly aware of Sarah’s intense gaze fixed on me as if she’s determined to catch every nuance of my response. “Um, no. I guess not,” I say, a bit unnerved by her scrutiny.
“How about dinner?” Jeremy proposes.
Glancing at the large plate of food on the table, mostly devoured by Sarah, I reply, “Sure.”
Sarah silently claps and mouths, “Good answer.”
Jeremy adds, “Oh, and how about we keep talk of Randy off the table tonight? I’d rather know more about you.”
In a moment of panic, I quickly agree, telling him he can pick me up at The Calypso at 7 p.m., before ending the call swiftly. I avoided making eye contact with Sarah during the last part of my conversation with Jeremy. But now, facing the music, I look at her. Sarah’s eyebrows are raised in a “told-you-so” manner, as if to say, “See? I was right about you and Randy, wasn’t I?”