Chapter 11 Brussels Sprouts
Brussels Sprouts
Poppy
I am absolutely, positively convinced that Jack is the spawn of Satan.
I wonder what sulfur hole he crawled out of. Was he raised by wolves? Robots? He probably spent half the night thinking of
ways to torture me.
Despite my best efforts, I was late this morning, and that’s all the excuse he needed to shove a sponge and a bucket of cleaning
solution into my hands. I’ve been scrubbing away dirt, grease, and way more disgusting things I don’t want to think about,
for hours. In a hairnet. On my knees.
And that’s not to mention the music.
As soon as I figure out where he hides his phone, I’m changing the playlist. I’ve endured more rock and metal in half a day
than I’ve listened to in my entire life. “Enter Sandman” looped like fifteen times before he finally put me out of my misery.
Maybe it helps him get in the zone—he’s done nothing all morning but scrub, too, and bark orders at me when I’m not moving
fast enough—but for me, it’s the equivalent of nails being pounded into my skull.
A Doors song comes on. I grip my sponge tightly, resisting the urge to fling it across the kitchen. He’s doing something in
the walk-in, so unfortunately, I have no chance of hitting him.
I rise on creaky knees. Jim Morrison is chanting about blood and death and Los Angeles.
I didn’t notice Jack’s phone in the pocket of his faded, bleach-stained jeans, which means it must be around here somewhere.
I peer at the walk-in. He’s still inside, probably scraping at a bit of fossilized crud with a toothbrush in a corner no one would ever notice.
I wonder if he’s this neat in his personal life, too.
I’ve always been more of a hurricane, constantly losing things.
I don’t see him looking at me, so I set down my bucket of dirty water. I tiptoe through the kitchen, pausing to peek in cabinets
and underneath lids. To let an “accident” befall the Bluetooth speaker perched atop the stainless-steel table adorned with
heat lamps that he keeps calling the pass would be too easy. Better to queue up another song. Something he’ll absolutely hate.
I grin at the thought of his reaction to Miley Cyrus. It would serve him right after scolding me when I shrieked at the sight
of a decomposing lizard.
When I’ve poked through the kitchen without finding anything, I slip into the office, a tiny, windowless room mostly taken
up by a desk covered in stacks of files. Bingo: There it is atop a clearly well-loved copy of Marcella Hazan’s Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking. Right next to a prescription container.
The small tube is in my hands before I can think about it. I shouldn’t look, it’s not my business, but I can’t help myself.
I nearly drop it when I get a look at the label. Adderall. I double-check the name but it’s clear as day: Jackson Hartman.
There’s only one reason I can think of that he’d be prescribed that by an actual doctor. It looks real; it was refilled a
few days ago.
“What are you doing in here?”
I jerk my head up. My knee smacks on the corner of the desk. The container slips out of my hand, hitting the floor with an
unattractive rattle.
Jack is in the doorway, eyes narrowed, as he wipes his hands with a dishcloth. Somehow, despite cleaning all morning too,
he looks more handsome than ever. Objectively speaking, of course. There’s no way to ignore that dark, disheveled hair and
the sheen of sweat on his neck and arms.
“You have ADHD?” I blurt.
He bends to pick up the bottle, tucking it into his apron pocket.
Then he turns on his heel without a word.
“Jack.” I hurry after him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snoop. I was only looking for your phone.” I wince; that doesn’t sound
much better. “It’s just, the music—”
“Don’t go in the office.” He strides back into the walk-in.
I gulp as I follow. “Heard. Sorry.”
At the back of the walk-in, he leans against the wall, pinching his nose between his thumb and forefinger. I chew my lip anxiously.
The refrigerator’s chill seeps through my shirt.
“Why were you looking for my phone?”
“Your taste in music sucks. What are you, sixty?” I’m desperate to ask again about the Adderall, but I don’t want him to shut
me out even more. “Is this your idea of torture? Because if so, it’s working.”
“The door is right there.” He says it almost pleasantly.
I cross my arms, hip cocking. “Change the music.”
“Why would I do that?”
“I’m trying to help you, you know.” I tear off the hairnet. I need something to do with my hands. As I untie my braid, I add,
“You’ve barely said anything to me since this morning. You need to give me something to work with if I’m going to create buzz.
I don’t even know yet if you’re going to change the restaurant’s name.”
“Why does that matter?”
“I can’t make a website or set up handles for social media accounts without a name. Which you’d know if you asked me.”
He studies me. “Did you finish the ovens?”
“Go see for yourself, Chef.”
He strides away. I follow, re-braiding my hair frantically. He leans down, using the flashlight function on his phone to peer
inside each oven.
“Not good enough.”
“What?”
“You missed a spot,” he says flatly, pointing to a minuscule speck of grease. “Clean it again, Princess. And when you’re done
with that, you can tackle the bar.”
“Fine. I mean, heard.” I slide past him, grabbing a fresh pair of gloves. “But will you please, please turn down the music,
at least? I can’t hear myself think.”
He fiddles with his phone, and the volume drops significantly.
“Thank you.” I swallow, looking into those unreadable forest-green eyes. “Look, I have ADHD too. I get it. Sometimes it’s
almost impossible for me to focus. Or get places on time. Although I promise that I’m really going to set a million more alarms—”
An expression I can’t quite read crosses his face. I stop, bracing myself for his laughter, or scorn, or worst of all, an
ignorant comment about ADHD only being a thing for little boys. I’ve gotten that one a bunch, despite an official diagnosis
and two pill bottles with my name on them—Wellbutrin and Vyvanse, keeping me out of my head and on track with moderate success.
He isn’t smiling, but he doesn’t look like he’s about to chew me out, either. “Heard. I’ll wear earbuds tomorrow. It’s actually
the music that keeps me focused when I want to jump out of my skin.”
I take a step closer, desperate for a hint of connection with him, a flash of what I felt when we were at the bar together.
Like we really could be on the same side. Friends, even. “Thanks. That—it means a lot.”
“Don’t you hate when you feel like your head is full of bees?” he adds suddenly.
I rock on my heels, reeling in a strange urge to hug him. “I usually think of it like hamsters on wheels. Hundreds of them.
All running at breakneck speed.”
“And then sometimes you follow one and suddenly it’s hours later and you don’t know what happened, but you’ve perfected soufflé?”
“Did you really?”
“Unfortunately.”
“I love soufflé. Doesn’t sound like a waste to me.”
He snorts, shaking his head.
“What about when you have so much energy, you wish you could do parkour on the ceiling?” I add.
“Or when you can’t seem to find fucking anything?”
“God, yes. My purse is a black hole.”
He laughs. After a moment, I join in. It’s not much, but it’s something. Jack Hartman is infuriating beyond belief, but we have at least one thing in common.
So much more about his attitude in the kitchen falls into place. It must be something he can hyperfocus on. Something to throw himself into, at the exception of nearly everything else. I know how thrilling it can be, and how frustrating, all at the same time.
“I’ll think on the name,” he says eventually. “And you can come in any time before six tomorrow.”