24. Callum #3
The last plate of the third course goes out, and Becca comes back looking worried, her usual confidence shaken. “Chef? Is Roman okay?”
“He’ll be fine. He just needs stitches.”
“What do you need?”
“I need you to keep running food exactly like you have been. Can you do that?”
“Yes, Chef.”
“Good. Then go.”
I take a breath and look at the tickets for fourth course already printing, the small machine spitting them out relentlessly.
This is manageable. I’ve worked understaffed before. I just need to breathe.
The kitchen door swings open, and Vivienne walks in.
“I saw Roman leave with Hayes,” she exclaims, her eyes scanning the kitchen immediately. “What happened?”
“Cut his hand. He’s fine, but he’s out for the night.”
Her eyes scan the kitchen again — the empty station, the tickets printing. I can see her doing the math.
“You’re going to run two stations.”
“Yes.”
“For two more courses.”
“Yes.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then she starts rolling up her sleeves.
“What are you doing?”
“Helping.” She’s already pulling her hair back, securing it with a pen from her dress pocket, the gesture so familiar it makes my chest tight. Then she’s moving toward the sink, washing her hands.
“Vivienne, you don’t need to do that. They need you out front.”
“I can plate. Or garnish. Whatever you need me to do.” She grabs a clean towel, drying her hands. “Just tell me where you want me.”
I should say no. I should send her back to the dining room where she’s safe and she doesn’t have to face whatever demons wait for her behind this line.
But I look at the tickets and at the empty station, the clock ticking down loudly behind me.
And I know I need her.
“Okay,” I say before I can overthink it. “Okay. You’re on plating for the duck. I’ll do the sear and the gastrique. Amara, you’ve got sides?”
“We’ve got them,” she confirms.
Vivienne positions herself at Roman’s empty station. Her hands are shaking slightly, but her jaw is set with determination.
“You sure about this?” I ask quietly, stepping close enough that only she can hear me.
She meets my eyes. “I’m sure. Just tell me what to do.”
“Okay. Start plating. White plates, stack of twelve. You’ll add the sauce at center and I’ll plate the duck.”
“Okay.” She reaches for the first plate.
I move to my station, pulling out the duck breasts. They’ve been resting, perfectly cooked to temp earlier in the day. Now they just need a quick sear to crisp the skin and warm them through.
“First six firing,” I call out.
The duck hits the pan with a sizzle that fills the kitchen. The smell of rendering fat and crisping skin makes my mouth water even after all these years.
“Sauce ready in two minutes,” I yell, reaching for the gastrique.
Vivienne is plating beside me. Her movements are precise, muscle memory taking over. She ladles the cherry gastrique onto each plate with slightly trembling hands.
“Good,” I tell her. “That’s perfect.”
She doesn’t respond. She just reaches for the next plate.
I slice the duck. The knife moves through the meat easily, each piece perfectly pink in the center. I start arranging them on the plates Vivienne prepared.
“Marcus, garnish on these six.”
“Yes, Chef.”
The first plates go out. Then the next six. Then the next.
We’re moving.
We’re doing it.
This is working.
We are going to be fine.
“Halfway through,” Amara calls out. “Looking good, Chef.”
The kitchen is loud now. Multiple conversations happening at once. Pans clattering. Knives on cutting boards. The fan hood roaring. Becca and Morgan calling out table numbers as they come back for more plates, their voices overlapping.
“Behind!”
“Hot pan!”
“Sauce needs two more minutes!”
“Plating next six!”
Everyone’s locked in, the food is flying, and nothing can stop us now.
I glance at Vivienne. She’s still plating, but something has changed in her posture. Her shoulders are tighter. Her breathing has picked up. I can see her chest rising and falling faster than before.
“You okay?” I whisper.
“Fine,” she says, but her voice is strained.
“Last twelve,” I call out, keeping an eye on her. “Let’s bring it home.”
I sear the final duck breasts. The pan is screaming hot, the skin crisping perfectly. I can hear everything around me — Amara calling out times, Marcus plating sides, Becca shouting table numbers from the window, the constant hum of the hood, the sizzle of fat.
It’s loud.
It’s always loud during service. That’s normal. That’s how kitchens work. It’s the soundtrack of this job.
But Vivienne has stopped moving.
She’s standing at her station, a ladle in her hand, staring down at the sauce like she’s forgotten what to do with it.
“Vivi?” I set down my tongs. “You good?”
“Yeah, I —” She blinks and shakes her head like she’s trying to clear it. “What’s next?”
“Just the gastrique. Same as before.”
She nods, but she’s not moving. The ladle is shaking in her hand, trembling so hard the sauce is threatening to spill over the edge.
“Vivienne.”
“I’m fine. I just —”
Becca bursts through the door. “Chef, table seven needs their plates in three minutes, they have a —”
“BEHIND!” Amara shouts, moving past with a hot pan.
“WHERE’S THE DUCK?” Morgan calls from the pass. “Table twelve is asking!”
“Two minutes!” I shout back, my eyes never leaving Vivienne’s face.
The noise escalates even louder. Everyone talking at once. Pans clattering. The hood fan roaring. The dish pit running. Orders being called. Timers beeping.
And Vivienne is frozen.
She’s staring at the sauce in her hand, but I don’t think she’s seeing it anymore. I don’t think she’s here at all. Her chest is rising and falling too fast, her breathing shallow and rapid, each breath shorter than the last.
“Vivienne.” I step toward her, abandoning my station. “Hey.”
She tries to ladle the sauce but her hand jerks and it spills across the counter instead of the plate.
“Fuck,” she whispers. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”
She reaches for a towel to clean it up, but her hands won’t cooperate. The ladle clatters to the counter, the sound adding to the loudness.
“I can do this,” she forces out, but she’s gasping now, each word coming out between desperate inhales. “I can. I just need —”
“Vivienne, look at me.”
She doesn’t look at me. She’s staring at the sauce, her hands vibrating. I watch her glance at the plates that still need to go out, and I can see the panic taking over.
Her whole body is trembling now.
“I’m sorry,” she chokes out. “I’m so sorry, I can’t — I can’t —”
“It’s okay.” I move closer, putting myself between her and the rest of the kitchen. “It’s okay, you’re okay.”
“I can’t breathe.” Her hand comes up to her chest, clutching at her dress. “Why can’t I breathe?”
She’s hyperventilating. Full-blown panic attack right here in the middle of service.
“Amara,” I call out, not taking my eyes off Vivienne. “Take over fourth course. Everything. Now.”
“On it, Chef.”
I reach for Vivienne’s shoulders. She flinches but doesn’t pull away.
“Come with me,” I whisper against her ear. “Right now.”
“I can’t leave, you need —”
“I need you to come with me. Now, Vivi. Please.”
I guide her toward the back door, my hand on her lower back. She’s stumbling, one hand still pressed to her chest like she’s trying to physically hold herself together.
The second we’re outside, away from the noise and heat and chaos, she falls apart.
She bends forward, hands on her knees, gasping for air that won’t come. Her whole body is shaking violently, and there are tears streaming down her face. She’s making these horrible choking sounds as she tries to breathe.
“I’m sorry,” she sobs, the words barely intelligible. “I’m so sorry, I ruined — I can’t — I’m so sorry —”
“Vivienne.” I crouch down beside her, one hand on her back, feeling her spine trembling under my palm. “Listen to me. You need to breathe.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes you can. Look at me.” I wait until her eyes find mine. They’re wild and unfocused. “Breathe with me. In through your nose.”
I demonstrate, taking a slow breath in.
She tries. It comes out as a gasp.
“That’s okay. Try again. In through your nose, hold it, out through your mouth.”
“I can’t do this.”