Lola
My knees were hurting, my back was killing me, and I had burned my forearm pulling biscuits from the oven.
I finally felt like I was living again.
Sure, we had been in the weeds for most of the morning, and the new guy turned out to be useless on the line. But we did it. I did it. I ran a kitchen and fed a dining room full of guests, and I didn’t break down or lose focus or do any of the things my ex used to accuse me of in the kitchen.
And I had done it on my own.
Now, I was on the other end of it, coming down from the adrenaline while wiping down surfaces, cleaning up for the day. After months of looking at the daily totals through slightly parted fingers, I was actually excited to see how we had done.
Though unexpected, the busy day had reminded me why I used to love working in the kitchen.
The pure rush of churning out dish after dish felt like a state of nirvana.
When it went right, at least. It was when it went wrong that I began to question myself.
The chaos, the workplace toxicity. Working yourself to the bone without working your way up.
Is there a hyper-specific word for that feeling where you know in your heart what your purpose in life should be, but you’ve also never felt like you belonged in that world? If so, that would have perfectly applied to me and the world of cooking.
The rush of the kitchen was like nothing else I’d ever experienced, but I never quite found my place.
Those days when I was still a kid, helping my grandma make a batch of corn fritters in the kitchen for the community center potluck were my fondest memories.
Everything felt possible with her leading the way, following her own dreams and making them happen.
Without her—without the soft bubble of Southern Charm as it was when I was a kid—I hadn’t quite figured out how to make my dreams of becoming an executive chef come true, or if that was even what I wanted.
The clatter of pots and pans from the dish pit reminded me I had a new unresolved problem to deal with.
A problem named Kal. When I peeked around the corner, I saw him trying and failing to pick up a tower of clean pots.
Eventually, he managed to do it, carrying them from the dishwasher to the racks.
I noticed that his clothes, apron and all, were soaked from head to toe, and a mound of soap suds sat daintily on the crown of his head.
Kal’s huge grin didn’t falter once as I watched him dump leftovers from a plate of red beans and rice into the trash can, heft a load of coffee mugs onto a shelf, then rinse a pile of pans.
A soap bubble floated up from the nearly overflowing sink, and Kal’s gaze followed along as the bubble bounced in the air.
He tried to catch it on his finger, and when it popped, he laughed like it was his first time ever popping a bubble.
What the hell?
I’d briefly wondered if this stranger was dangerous. Like maybe he belonged under the supervision of a trained mental healthcare provider, rather than in the back of a kitchen full of sharp knives and other things that could be used as weapons.
But as I watched him, all I could see was joy. Pure, unbridled joy, like nothing I had experienced in a very long time. It would have been a lie to say that watching him experience that level of joy didn’t make me feel a little jealous.
I had just finished one of the best shifts of my life back in the kitchen. I was on top of the world. But did I feel like that? Not really. I still had the weight of a failing business resting firmly on my shoulders, and a to-do list a mile long waiting for me in the office.
Kal swung around to deposit another load of dishes into the machine and caught me staring.
“I was just, um, checking in on you,” I said, twisting the bottom of my apron in my hands.
Kal’s smile was blinding. “Just finishing up in here,” he said. “Wow, you sure go through a lot of dishes!”
I chuckled. “Yeah, I guess we do.”
I took in Kal’s wet clothing and huge grin, and regretted what I had to tell him next. Since we were already having a conversation, I figured it was probably best to break the news to him sooner rather than later.
“So,” I said, still worrying the apron’s fabric between my fingers. “I know you came here for the line cook job, but…” My voice trailed off as soon as I saw Kal’s smile drop.
“But you don’t want me.”
He said it so readily, so matter-of-factly, and with such a sad smile that it stopped me in my tracks.
Either I had a terrible poker face that gave me away, or rejection wasn’t a new thing for him, and he knew what was coming right away.
How many times had Kal heard some version of this, to react in such a way?
Was I going to regret this? I might seriously regret this. Because as I took in his doleful expression and kind, striking green eyes, I didn’t think I could turn him away. I saw how happy he was working. Besides, the dish pit was positively spotless, despite the mess he was covered in.
Other than the egg faux pas, hadn’t he kept up with everything I’d thrown his way today? Wasn’t it clear that he was a good worker with a positive attitude?
And I remembered how hard I had to fight to earn my way into a kitchen, even with my education and years of experience working in the family restaurant.
Most people didn’t take me seriously because of my pink hair and positive attitude—and they made it an uphill battle to earn their respect.
Even when I’d worked my way up, the guys in the kitchen found new ways to keep me at arm’s length or make me feel out of place.
I didn’t want to be that kind of toxic chef who thought they were above everyone—especially someone who is willing to try. It was my restaurant now, damn it.
I considered what to do next, already knowing where I was going to land.
I didn’t really have the money to spare, but I had just lost an employee.
We were heading into tourist season when things historically picked up from folks visiting the Great Smoky Mountains and nearby attractions in Gatlinburg and Pigeon Forge.
I could use the extra set of hands, just in case. And since I’d be working in the kitchen until further notice, it would be nice to have someone to pick up some tasks I’d always covered.
“How about this,” I began. “If you don’t have any experience cooking, I can’t have you on the line. But I could use you as a dishwasher and busser. Does that work?”
That damn smile again. It just about knocked me on my ass when he beamed at me. All I had done was offer him a job—not even the one he originally wanted—and he was looking at me like I’d just hung the moon. It was a dangerous look, the kind a woman could get accustomed to.
“Yes!” he exclaimed. “Yes, I would love that. Thank you, Lola!” Without warning, he wrapped me in a bone-crushing hug that squeezed the breath right out of me.
“You’re…welcome…” I slapped at his back in acknowledgment and in an attempt to subtly let him know I needed the ability to use my lungs.
“Now…can…you…please…let…me…go?”
He loosened his grip and stepped away, looking bashful. “Oh! I’m sorry. Sel always says I get too excited about things. That’s why she…” Kal paused. “Never mind what Sel says.”
My eyebrows crept toward my hairline. I understood being excited about a new job, but being this excited? Without knowing the guy, I could only suspect it was Kal’s first time getting a job. But that couldn’t be right, surely. Kal looked to be about my age, so he must have had a job before.
Unless he was one of those billionaire nepo babies who liked to cosplay as blue-collar workers for a day before going back to their marble mansions with golden toilets, or whatever.
I looked Kal over again. Nah.
There was no way Kal was a billionaire, not with the way he was dressed.
He looked like just another regular guy.
Jeans and a plain t-shirt that could have come from any big box store, and shoes from an outlet.
I tried to picture him wearing a Rolex and a thousand-dollar suit, and my brain simply couldn’t make the leap—and I had a vivid imagination.
The most likely scenario was that Kal was one of those newcomers who got burned out on city life and working a corporate job and decided to move to the mountains for a slower-paced life.
I’d seen it happen time and again my entire life.
They would usually stick around for a while, sometimes try to ingratiate themselves with the locals for a few months, before getting bored with real small-town life.
Only a few decided to stick around for the long run.
The rest turned their houses in Roswell Falls into vacation homes, visiting for a few weeks during the summer and renting them out to other vacationers the rest of the year.
Another possibility: There was a brown-haired, green-eyed man missing from an Amish community in Ohio. Or a cult. Or possibly even an Amish cult. (But this might have been the influence of the hours and hours of true crime documentaries I’d been watching every night.)
It was probably in my best interest to be wary of Kal, even though he seemed like a perfectly nice person.
It also didn’t seem smart to turn away extra help, especially from someone who, from first impression, was pleasant to work with.
I had worked with a few too many grade A, prime assholes to take a genuine positive attitude for granted.
That was another reason I wasn’t too upset when Julian had walked out on us earlier.
Sure, he’d picked the worst possible time to bail, but he was also truly miserable to work with.
I had only kept him around as long as I had because it was easy.
With all the other stressors in my life, I’d taken the path of least resistance.
I untied my apron and slipped it over my head. “Okay, well. Sounds like a plan. We’re closed tomorrow, so I’ll see you the next morning. I’ll leave the front door unlocked.”