Chapter Eighteen
Rick treats opening day at the National Zoo F’resh like it’s his own personal debutante ball.
When I was a kid and they opened the Safeway in Petworth after the neighbourhood only had a bougie organic grocery store for years, they had a straight-up gospel choir singing out front, but somehow this feels bigger.
A green-and-black balloon arch crowns the doorway, a sign that says GRAND OPENING TODAY!
in sparkly emerald writing draped above.
Outside on Olmsted Walk, the Sarahs pass out complimentary raspberry-lemonade kombucha shots and direct people towards the Mane Grill, where Rick stands in a tuxedo personally welcoming everyone who passes through the automatic doors.
About ten employees from other F’resh branches around DC who will now be working at the zoo restaurant joined training the day before to get used to the new digs, so behind the counter feels suddenly crammed.
It’s manic and busy but the day goes by fast.
Sunday feels slightly calmer, the balloon arch and poster gone. Rick is wearing his usual F’resh uniform, but his eyes are bloodshot and watery, as though he spent all night celebrating the grand opening by binge-watching MILF Manor.
Max arrives shortly after we open. Over the last few days, we’ve fallen into a routine: he works mostly with the suits while I’m on shift, and then once I get a break, we walk around the zoo talking about Tyler.
He added me on Snapchat last night too, and though I followed him back with my real account this time, I was still too scared to view any of his Stories in case he clocked that I was watching him a little too closely.
My stomach fluttered every time he sent me a Snap – it was only really stuff about Tyler – but that was because it still felt too good to be true.
Max was actually talking to me. My first and only undercover mission was going well.
Max was disappointed when the herb bath didn’t work, resulting only in the cave stinking of patchouli and wet dog. But he quickly pivoted to other suggestions he found on the internet, which he compiled in a Google Doc he’d titled HOW WE SAVE TYLER.
He kept doing that. We. As though we were partners on some detective show and not two employees of a salad franchise who had accidentally collided while trespassing on government property.
A tiny part of me flickered with guilt every time Max’s eyes lit up at a new suggestion, especially because I knew instinctively that none of them would actually work.
They were too vague, too universal, because Max has no idea the curse is actually all about my love life.
I need to find the actual curse and its parameters, but I still haven’t found a way to bring up Max’s dad in conjunction with magic, at least not one that wouldn’t completely give me away.
The lunch rush over, I retreat to the mini fridges behind the cash registers to start refilling the tubs of salad toppings.
Rick gave a long speech about ‘time theft’ a couple days ago, and how even a single minute while on the clock spent doing anything other than working is equivalent to shaving pennies off F’resh’s bank account.
‘Okay, I found an interesting one last night.’ Max appears beside me with an empty F’resh salad bowl and a can of hibiscus La Croix. He shoves his trash in the recycling bin beside the fridge. ‘It says that having positive energy can help counteract the negative energy used to create the spell.’
We’re far enough away from Cecily on the cash registers that she can’t hear our conversation, but I keep my voice down anyway.
‘What, so, like, Tyler just has to giggle his way out of becoming Frankenstein’s dog?’
A laugh explodes out of Max, causing Cecily and both Sarahs to turn our way. Before I can stop myself, I half smile at the sound.
‘Come on, it could work,’ he insists. ‘At the Christmas party last year, Megan from the Capitol Hill F’resh challenged Rick to shove as many salad toppings of his choice in his mouth as he could, so we just give him thirteen cherry tomatoes and bring him to the cave to re-enact that.
Trust me, Tyler will laugh so hard, he’ll be, like, permanently curse-proof. ’
‘Shut up, Rick did not pick cherry tomatoes,’ I say. ‘That feels like the worst possible choice.’
Max nods sombrely. ‘Confirmed when Santa had to give him the Heimlich.’
I laugh loudly at the thought of Rick’s cheeks packed with cherry tomatoes. That, and him doing literally anything other than marching around this exact F’resh measuring bell pepper consistency with his pinkie finger.
‘Seriously, no offence, I’m sure you make a banging smoothie. We’re just here for her.’
Max turns around at the sound of sniggering from the other side of the counter.
‘Oh my God,’ I groan.
Standing at the top of the salad bar counter and waving frantically is Sam.
Beside her, Elliott is smiling sheepishly while Rick, who’s been in the back processing paycheques all afternoon, emerges from the office and squeals at the sight of Julian, his former employee.
Cecily, realising they’re here for me, moves aside.
‘What’re you guys doing here?’ I say, abandoning the salad toppings and taking Cecily’s place. My visor suddenly feels too tight around my forehead.
Sam bounces on the balls of her feet. ‘We wanted to surprise you!’ she says.
I spend the next three minutes mixing strawberries, bananas and cacao powder in one of the industrial-sized blenders, Sam demanding one chia seed more or one goji berry less until I give up and flick the blender to life, drowning out her threats of bad TripAdvisor reviews.
As I ring up Sam’s smoothie, her eyes drift between me and Max, who has quietly slipped back to work at an outdoor table.
‘Have you already had your lunch break?’ she asks once I’m done.
Rick has us on a strict rotation, and my break still isn’t for another twenty minutes.
He glances down at his watch. ‘Oh, go on,’ Rick says, looking at me but patting Julian on the back. ‘Have her back in thirty minutes.’
I steal into the back office for my backpack. Once I’m outside, Max glances up. When our eyes meet, he smiles slightly and lifts his hand in a half wave. I raise my eyebrows before turning away.
‘To the petting zoo!’ Julian bellows, one arm extended as though he’s leading a charge.
Sam waits until he and Elliott are a few feet ahead of us before looping her arm through mine and glancing over her shoulder.
‘So, who was that?’ she says. She smiles around the straw that’s bitten between her teeth as she takes a sip of her smoothie.
Even though I knew this was coming, my shoulders tense.
‘Who, Rick?’ I say. ‘He’s my new best friend. He might be the only person who loves 90 Day Fiancé more than you.’
Sam bumps me with her hip. ‘You know who I’m talking about.’
I roll my eyes. ‘That would be Max. His dad owns F’resh.’
‘What, like, the zoo one?’ she says. ‘I thought Smithsonian—’
‘No, as in, like, all of it. The F’resh empire.’
Sam blinks as this statement resonates. ‘Damn,’ she says after a few seconds. ‘So, this Max person is gorgeous and rich?’
My neck prickles at the pairing of Max and gorgeous.
‘I don’t know, we haven’t really talked about it.’
‘You mean you haven’t asked about his net worth? I would.’
I snort. ‘Yes, Max, hi,’ I say. ‘If you were to get us Beyoncé tickets, would we be in box seats, or the parking lot?’
Sam and I collapse into giggles.
‘I miss you,’ she says when we catch our breath. ‘You worked like, every day last week, and Flirty Friday is basically dead.’
I bite the inside of my cheek. There used to be a punishment for missing Flirty Fridays: whoever hadn’t cancelled got to pick the next movie while the criminal had to buy all the snacks.
I once went an entire year without missing a single one; just the thought of missing a Friday with Sam used to fill me with panic. But now, it’s the opposite.
‘I know, I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m not working after school Wednesday and Thursday, though. You could come over and we could study for the calc final.’
‘Or,’ Sam draws out the word, ‘we could watch Little Women and eat our weight in peanut butter M&Ms because calc is stupid and I’m gonna get a C in that class anyway.’ She squeezes my arm and stares at me expectantly.
My mouth drops open, but no words come out.
The 1994 Little Women is one of our actual favourite movies.
On average, it graces the Flirty Friday calendar at least four times a year.
Watching it used to be a remedy for all things: heartbreak, frustration with our parents, longing, when Sam’s cat died.
Sam is still watching me, waiting for my answer.
Once, we cured my period cramps by replaying the scene where Laurie confesses his love for Jo twelve times in row.
This would be the first time in what feels like forever where Sam and I are actually alone, just the two of us, obsessing over an on-screen romance rather than a real one.
No matter how agonising it might be, it feels too good to pass up.
‘Okay, fine,’ I say. Sam opens her mouth for a celebratory scream, but I cover it with my hand before she can make a sound. ‘But only if you promise not to skip the part where Amy and Laurie kiss.’
Her absolute least favourite scene, and for good reason. It’s a tragedy.
Sam’s face darkens with a scowl, but she sighs. ‘Fine. But I get unlimited commentary and you get zero eye rolls.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Deal.’