Chapter 11
“Sterling Restaurant, this is Sutton.”
I’m competent. Poised. Ready. Hostess with the absolute mostest. Right. But I wear a true actor’s smile. “We open at eleven. Hope to see you soon!”
Sterling is apparently one of the hottest new spots in West Hollywood.
It opened six months ago. The cuisine is international but accessible—the ambience exquisite but intimate.
Oysters on the half shell, burrata, branzino, a Wagyu burger, of course.
Like in my heavenly portal, white is the color here: the linens, the walls, the slipcovered chairs.
Fresh-cut roses—white and hot pink—are everywhere in crystal vases, with brushed-silver chandeliers and rustic-wood tables adding an antique air.
The place is a dream.
I feel stupidly lucky to have a position here. The jobs must be coveted.
With a damp towel, I begin wiping down a stack of silver leather-bound menus, one by one, focusing on deep breaths.
I can do this job.
I’ve been slaying this job!
We probably don’t say “slay” in this world yet.
While periodically spinning out over the Parker scenario, I spent the last twenty-four hours doing extensive archaeological digging into my life. Medical school–level homework, rivaling Quinn’s. I even pulled out a blank sheet of paper and constructed a timeline and org chart.
Key players, places, details.
I’m determined to, well, slay the game here.
To my relief, once again my written planner is not letting me down.
Neither is my closet, which left no question about my work uniform.
Between it and a few tagged Facebook photos of me with my “Sterling fam”—they’re so stunning, it’s criminal—I knew exactly what to wear today.
I yanked one of the four soft, slinky long-sleeved black dresses from its hanger.
The dress sculpts my body, so flattering SKIMS could’ve made it.
(Should I slip Kim K. the idea, get in on that venture now?) I pulled on black tights and loafers, pulled my blonde locks up into a high, severe pony.
Ready to sparkle at Sterling.
In addition to being fabulous, Sterling is total drama, according to TMZ, which adds up with Parker’s dig on the place.
Studded with Hollywood hopefuls, the staff does not always get along.
I work here three or four shifts a week as a hostess, and my bank account tells me I get tipped out nicely—but still, most months barely balance.
Between this gig, my odd acting jobs, and the one big commercial for Diet Coke, I’m surviving, but I’m not saving a dime.
Life in LA is sky pricey. Even with Quinn splitting rent, it’s a stretch—especially now that I’m flying solo for real.
Back in expensive OC, I always had Reid, our dual income easing the blow of our very adult bills.
Here, my financial fate is all mine to shoulder.
For now, I can see that Grandma Mabel’s more-generous-than-usual birthday checks are helping me stay in the black. She supported me in time of need, always.
My throat pinches.
I wonder fleetingly what my dad thinks of me working a restaurant job with my expensive degree. He was so proud of me in my real-life twenties—marriage, family, design career, all before thirty. I pray his pride followed me here.
Now my chest pinches, too, as a waft of cologne assaults me.
Deep, intense, and aquatic.
“Hey, babe!” A raspy and upbeat male voice enters the chat.
I turn to see a sharp-featured guy in a black collared shirt and black jeans, shoving his sleeves up, revealing a hundred tattoos.
We’re eye level, meaning he’s fairly short for a guy—which isn’t unusual for guys in LA, actors especially.
His hair—also black—is shaved short on the sides, longer on top, waxed to one side like a rock star’s, a few stray pieces hanging dangerously over his eyes, which are also black.
I squint at his name tag.
Axl.
We’re definitely in Hollywood now.
“Hi!” I say in a tone that I’m hoping shouts, Hey, bro! I know you!
He scans me up and down, arching a manscaped brow. “You look good.”
I straighten self-consciously. “Do I?”
He half circles me. “Yes, girl. The ponytail?” He pinches two fingers into a perfect sign. “Love.”
I smooth my hair over my scalp. “Thanks. Uh—Axl. Can I ask you a couple questions?”
“Sutton? The good girl? Wants something from me?” He gives a diabolical smirk, cinching his apron tighter. “’Course, gorgeous. What’s up?”
“I’m—” Think, think. I rub at my temples, deciding to feign a headache. “I don’t feel my best today. Just a bit off.”
“Aww, baby girl.” He snorts sympathetically. “Your first hangover?”
“Eh, something like that.”
It didn’t feel entirely wrong.
“How can I help?”
Like a helpless puppy, I pick up the laminated map of the tables, along with the dry-erase marker. There’s an equally confusing lined notepad. I’ve accomplished enough in my real life, I guess—but never once worked in a restaurant. “How do I . . . ? Who do I . . . ?”
“Yikes, Sutton, how wrecked are you?”
I grimace, leaning into the narrative. “Pretty wrecked, honestly.”
“Well, lucky for you, Rachel will be here at eleven thirty. But just—” He grabs the marker from me.
“I’m head server, so seat me first, always.
You know this.” He plants an asterisk next to four big tables toward the back.
“Then Holly.” He hearts three more tables.
“For the two-tops, alternate between Evan and Jess.” He marks Es and Js with bravado. He’s an artist, and I’m indebted.
“Oh my gosh, thank you.”
“No problem. Where are the reservations?”
My heart stops. “Reservations?”
“Sutton.” He reaches around my waist to open a drawer. He retrieves a typed list of names, times, and party sizes. “Always seat reservations first. Use the notepads for walk-ins. Got it?”
“Yes.” I grab the list sheepishly. “I’m so sorry. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Feel better.” He knuckles my shoulder platonically. “Does this mean you’re bailing on tonight?”
I wrinkle my nose. There was nothing on the calendar for tonight. I’d checked. Triple-checked. I wanted all the prep time possible for my callback tomorrow. “Tonight?”
“Rachel’s birthday! At Red Vine? Come! Bring your boyfriend if you want. Or Quinn.” He whistles. “Quinn.”
I roll my eyes, but admittedly find him charming, despite his Tom Sandoval vibes. I bet we’re good pals, and I like that I’m known as the good girl. Something about him makes me feel twinkly.
“Let’s see how today goes, okay?”
I bare my twenty-three-year-old teeth, hoping they shine like the ambience.
Nothing could have prepared me for the difficulty of this assignment.
By noon, I’m sweating cannonballs through my dress.
Why the long sleeves, Sterling, why? And black?
Okay, the black is brilliant. Otherwise, I’d be covered in grease splashes and armpit stains.
Oh, and spit spray from spewing customers.
For the entire three-hour shift, my heart clicks in rapid time with the lunch rush of heels tip-tapping on polished concrete.
Turns out this is no restaurant. This is a war zone.
A pressure cooker. My Instant Pot before it’s ready to release the steam of a thousand chickens.
With confidence, I can say that even my most high-profile design jobs and tightest deadlines have not stolen years off my life like this.
More than once, I’ve been on the verge of tears today, even with Axl’s advice and head hostess Rachel to my rescue with her blunt pink bob and much-needed interventions.
“A thirty-minute wait? Do you know who I am?” barked a white-haired man with a doughy face, elegant suit, and slight limp.
“I’m sorry, sir. You don’t have a reservation. I must seat reservations first.”
He stormed off as Rachel sidled up to me, panic falling over her button nose and bud lips. “Where is he going? What did you do?”
I gulp. “What do you mean?”
“Craig Coleman? Famous producer? One of our most faithful regulars?”
No, no, no.
“Oh, I’m so sorry! I can run after hi—”
“What is wrong with you today?” Rachel hissed. “You’re usually my best hostess. It’s almost like you have amnesia.”
Astute, dear Rachel. Impressive.
I double-sat Evan—for which Jess reamed me out with colorful language.
I forgot to offer free truffle fries to the stunning couple who waited seventeen minutes too long.
In my lowest moment, I walked a party with a large woman to a booth, in which she could not fit—but the rest of our tables were full and only mid-meal.
So we stood there in the most uncomfortable impasse of both my lives, stranded between my gaffe and the star-studded onlookers all around us, waiting out the woman’s tantrum and her husband’s high-decibel promise to never return.
I wanted to cry for us all.
By the time my shift’s over, I’m at my employee locker in the back, shaking—so thankful it’s a locker key on my chain and not a combination, not one more thing to remember.
This much is clear: I earn every penny of the payouts here.
There’s a hand on my shoulder. “You okay, bud?” I glance up to see white nail polish and hairy knuckles. Axl, naturally.
“Not really,” I sniff.
“We all have bad days.” He waves a hand. “Let it go.”
I smile. “Like Elsa?”
Blank stare.
I clear my throat. “I turned away a notable regular. And then I believed a grifter who said he was filming a movie with Leonardo DiCaprio. Just fire me now!”
“Lucky you, I don’t have that power,” he jokes. “Plus, manager’s on vacation. I’m about as senior as it gets today, and”—he brushes my cheek with a finger, and I hate that he catches a tear—“it can’t ever get worse than that.”
I manage a laugh. “Ugh,” I sigh, retrieving my brown leather satchel and snapping the locker shut.
“Come out with us tonight,” he insists. “Ten p.m. It’ll be fun.”
“You go out at ten p.m.?” I whine, sounding forty. “Like, that’s when you’re starting?”
“Yes, Grandma Sutton. Get over it.”