Chapter Fourteen #2
“I’m in love. I want to marry this burger. I want to have its burger babies.”
Quinton raised his beer. “To Cate’s burger babies.”
“To burger babies,” Fitz echoed.
I laughed, taking another bite. The beef was perfectly seasoned, the bacon crispy, and the cheese melted just right. This was what I’d missed about Boston—the food. The good food. The kind of food that made me remember why I wanted to cook in the first place.
“So what brought you to Boston today?” Quinton asked. “Besides our charming company.”
“I was supposed to meet a friend,” I said. “But then you two kidnapped me.”
“We prefer ‘enthusiastically invited,’” Fitz said.
“I used to live here,” I continued. “Went to culinary school. Was supposed to work at this restaurant downtown, but...” I trailed off, the familiar ache settling in my chest. “It didn’t work out.”
“What happened?” Quinton asked.
I shrugged, trying to keep my tone light. “My best friend got the job instead. Long story. Lots of drama. Very boring.”
It wasn’t boring. It was devastating, but I wasn’t going to unload all of that on Gabriel’s colleagues while eating a burger.
“That sucks,” Fitz said simply.
“Yeah.” I took another bite, letting the flavors distract me. “But hey, now I’m a nanny. Living the dream.”
“You’re good at it,” Quinton said. “Gabriel wouldn’t keep you around if you weren’t.”
“I broke his daughter’s arm.”
“She broke her own arm,” Fitz corrected. “On a skateboard. Which, knowing Megan, was probably going to happen eventually anyway.”
That made me feel slightly better.
Slightly.
I was halfway through my burger, finally relaxing again, when I heard a voice behind me. “Cate? Oh my God, Cate!”
Every muscle in my body tensed.
I knew that voice.
I’d know that voice anywhere.
I turned around slowly, and there she was.
Tracy. My ex-best friend. The person who’d stolen my job, my future, my entire life plan. She looked exactly the same—perfectly styled blonde hair, designer clothes, and a smile that had once meant everything to me and now just made my stomach turn.
“Cate!” She rushed over, arms outstretched like we were long-lost friends reuniting. “I can’t believe it’s you! What are you doing here?”
“Eating a burger,” I said flatly.
“I mean, in Boston! I thought you’d moved away. Someone said you were in Connecticut now?”
“I am.”
“Doing what?” She was still smiling, but there was something sharp in her eyes. Curiosity. Maybe judgment.
“I’m a nanny.”
The words came out before I could stop them, and I immediately regretted it.
Tracy’s eyebrows shot up. “A nanny? You? But you went to culinary school. You were supposed to—” She stopped herself, but the damage was done.
I was supposed to work at that restaurant.
The one she was working at instead.
“Yeah, well,” I said, my voice tight. “Plans change.”
“But you were so talented! Remember that chicken piccata you made for our final? It was incredible. I still think about it sometimes.”
Of course she did.
Of course she remembered the dish I’d perfected, the one I’d planned to put on the menu at the restaurant we were both supposed to work at.
The restaurant where she’d ended up instead of me.
“I still cook,” I said. “Just... for a five-year-old now.”
“That’s so sweet!” Tracy’s voice had that condescending lilt that made me want to throw my burger at her face. “I’m sure that’s very fulfilling. Different from restaurant work, obviously, but still.”
“Obviously.”
“I’m actually at Sorellina now,” she continued, because of course she was going to tell me. Of course, she couldn’t just let it go. “It’s been amazing. Challenging, but amazing. We just got a great review in the Globe. Did you see it?”
I hadn’t.
I’d specifically avoided reading anything about Sorellina because I knew it would destroy me.
“No,” I said. “I’ve been busy. With the nanny thing.”
“You should come by sometime! I could get you a reservation. It would be so fun to catch up properly.”
Fun.
She thought it would be fun.
Fun to watch me sit in the restaurant that should have been mine, eating food I should have been cooking, while she played the role of successful chef and I played the role of failed culinary school graduate turned babysitter.
“I’m pretty busy,” I said.
“Oh, come on! We haven’t seen each other in months. I miss you!”
She missed me.
She missed me!
The person who’d gone behind my back, who’d taken the position that had been promised to me, who’d never even apologized or explained or acknowledged what she’d done—she missed me.
Something inside me snapped.
“You miss me?” My voice came out louder than intended. “You miss me? Tracy, you stole my job.”
Her smile faltered. “I didn’t steal anything. They offered me the position.”
“The position that was supposed to be mine. That I’d been promised after my externship. That I’d worked my ass off for.”
“Cate, that’s not fair. It’s not my fault they chose me instead.”
“You knew I wanted that job. You knew how much it meant to me. And you fucked the chef!”
“What was I supposed to do? Turn him down? It’s not my fault you—” She stopped, but I knew what she’d been about to say.
It’s not my fault I what? That my legs didn’t open like a naval port like hers did! Her words hung in the air between us, unspoken but deafening.
“Forget it,” I said, turning back to my burger. “Congratulations on your success. I’m happy for you.”
I wasn’t.
I was the opposite of happy.
I was devastated and angry, and hurt, and every other emotion I’d been trying to bury for the last six months.
“Cate, don’t be like this—”
“I’m not being like anything. I’m eating my burger. You should go back to your table.”
“We should talk about this properly—”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” I looked up at her, and I could feel tears burning behind my eyes. “You got what you wanted. I’m happy for you. Now, please leave me alone.”
Tracy’s expression shifted—hurt, maybe, or offended. “Fine. If that’s how you want to be.”
“It is.”
She turned and walked away, her heels clicking on the sticky floor, and I sat there staring at my half-eaten burger, my appetite completely gone.
The pub felt too loud. Too bright. Too much.
I wanted to leave. I wanted to go home. I wanted to rewind the last ten minutes and never turn around when I heard her voice.
“Hey,” Fitz said quietly. “Are you okay?”
I wasn’t. I was the opposite of okay, but I nodded anyway, because what else was I supposed to do?
“That was her,” I said. “The friend who got the job.”
“She seems like a piece of work,” Quinton said.
“She’s successful. She’s talented. She’s everything I was supposed to be.”
“She’s also kind of an arsehole,” Fitz said bluntly.
That startled a laugh out of me. A wet, slightly hysterical laugh, but a laugh, nonetheless.
“Yeah,” I said. “She really is.”
I looked down at my burger—the perfect, beautiful burger that I’d been enjoying five minutes ago. Now it just looked like food. Meaningless. Cold.
My good mood was gone.
The fun afternoon was over, and I was back to being exactly what I’d been trying to escape: a failed chef working as a nanny, watching everyone else live the life I’d wanted.
“I think I need to go,” I said quietly.
“We’ll walk you to the station,” Quinton said immediately.
“You don’t have to—”
“We’re walking you to the station,” Fitz said firmly. “Come on.”
They paid the bill—refusing to let me contribute—and walked me through the Boston streets toward South Station. Neither of them tried to make conversation, which I appreciated. They just... walked with me. Present. Supportive.
Like friends.
At the station entrance, Fitz pulled me into a quick hug. “For what it’s worth, Gabriel’s lucky to have you.”
“As a nanny,” I said.
“Sure,” he said. “As a nanny.”
Quinton hugged me too. “Don’t let her get to you. You’re doing great.”
I wasn’t.
But it was nice of him to say.
I rode the train back to Connecticut in a daze, watching the city disappear behind me, and tried not to think about Tracy’s face.
Her success. Her perfect life in my perfect restaurant.
I tried not to think about how I’d ended up here—a nanny in Connecticut, cooking chicken nuggets instead of chicken piccata, living someone else’s life instead of my own.
I tried not to think about how much it hurt,
By the time I got home, I was exhausted. Emotionally wrung out. Ready to crawl into bed and not emerge until Monday.
My phone buzzed.
Fitz: Had fun today. Sorry about your friend. She’s definitely an arsehole.
Then it buzzed again.
Quinton: Next time we’re in town, we’re getting burgers again. Better ones. Without the drama.
I smiled despite myself.
Maybe I hadn’t completely failed at everything.
Maybe I’d made some friends today.
Maybe that was worth something, but as I lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, all I could think about was Tracy’s face. Her success. Her condescending smile, and the fact that she was living my dream while I was living... this.
Whatever this was.