Luck on the Line (21 page)

Oh no.

“What—?”

But he doesn’t stop to talk to me.

I can feel my chest constrict painfully as he doesn’t even look at me. His dark green eyes are trained on the door. As he walks by I place my hand on his arm and he jerks away. A tiny gasp escapes my lips. Not the delicious kind of gasps from this morning, from when he made me feel so good.

He keeps walking, as if I don’t exist. He takes a step, hesitating between turning back and the door. He pushes the double doors to the front of the restaurant and walks out into the rain. No. I do exist. He just doesn’t want anything to do with me.

“Oh look,” Stella says, her heels stabbing the ground like arrows against metal. “My restaurant manager has finally chosen to wake up.”

I shake my head, trying to process everything around me. Felicity’s wide eyes. James’s angry rejection. Mom’s botox frown (is it still considered a frown?). “Can I buy a fucking vowel?”

“You can buy a whole fucking sentence if you’d like,” Stella says, “so you can start explaining this to me.”

She slaps a newspaper on the table. It’s folded to the local gossip section. I remember seeing James there a few days ago with a drunken girl at the club. Here he is again. He’s being questioned by the stadium security. Then there’s a blurry picture of me wearing my Yankees cap. It’s the least flattering photo I’ve ever seen of me, which I realize isn’t a priority in this situation, but still. I look like I’m snarling, which I probably was. The headline reads: BUDDING CELEBRITY CHEF HITTING IT OUT OF THE PARK.

I roll my eyes and read too quickly only getting “Howie Johnson suffered a black eye and broken nose at the hands of James Hughes, Executive Chef of Stella Carter’s The Star, scheduled for opening June 28
^th
. Johnson claims Chef James went into a fit of rage after over a misunderstanding involving Lucky Carter, daughter of the Cooking TV star. When asked about the incident, the younger Carter replies, ‘He deserved it.’ Someone should alert Miss Carter that there’s no sense in crying over spilt beer.”

“You have
got
to be fucking kidding me right now,” I say. “Can’t even get my name right.”

“Wasn’t Clarissa Adams here the other day?”

“Yes! But that’s not what I said!” I think back to it. Actually, I did. She gave me the mug shot and I got pissed. I haven’t taken her calls since. “She was really sneaky. All she wanted to talk about was James.”

My mom is furious. She shuts her eyes, shakes her head, like she’s trying to banish me from this moment.

I look up from the paper and find my mother seething. “Mom—”

“Do you know how this makes me look?” Her arms are crossed over her chest. On closer inspection she’s still wearing her traveling yoga pants. Designer yoga pants, but still yoga pants. Her eyes look tired, and her mascara is splotchy, like she put it on while she was on the run.

“How this makes
you
look?” I stand, towering over her, but somehow she has this way of making me feel insignificant. “James was defending me. That guy was throwing beer at me.”

“I know, I read it right here,” she smacks the paper to remind me. “James’s face isn’t the one they chose to showcase with bruises and a bloody nose.”

“Of course they won’t! They just want a story to print. You weren’t there. Felicity, back me up here.”

“Don’t bring Felicity into this.” She points a finger right at my chest, digging her fake nail in until it hurts. “This is about you and how irresponsible you are. I leave you in charge for two seconds—”

“You didn’t leave me in charge, you just
left!
”

Hey tired eyes are bloodshot. “Do you know what’ll happen if this degenerate sues me? This doesn’t come back to James. It comes back to me. Everything he does, everything you do, comes back to
me
. I already sent him season tickets to Fenway.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Of course not! I have to cover my bases.” She smirks at her unintended joke.

“Fine, but what do you want us to do? We can’t take back the fight. It’s already been printed.”

“I want you to
give
a damn. Don’t lose your temper with would-be columnists. I don’t know what to do with you.” Stella waves her hand in the air, dismissing my statement like a fly buzzing around her ear. “I took care of James already.”

I think of James storming out of here without a single word. “Wait a minute. Did you
fire
him?”

Stella rolls her eyes. “I invited Clarissa Adams to the tasting. Perhaps if she gets enough food in her gob she’ll have something nice to say and shut the fuck up.”

Even though my mom isn’t exactly the most PC person in the world, she doesn’t talk like this often. She’s more of a back-handed-compliment kind of person.

“Did you fire James?” I ask harder.

“So what if I did? You hate him.”

I run my hands through my damp hair. Now I know why Felicity looks the way she does. “That’s not the point!”

“Tell me, Lucky, what is the point?” She cocks her hip to the side. Her flat abs peek between her pants and top. If it’s at all possible, she’s getting skinnier. “Is the point this freak show of a staff you hired?”

She waves the resumes of the staff I handpicked in her hands, their photos taken with Polaroids right on the spot.

“Those freaks are the most qualified.”

“I specifically wanted a certain kind of person.”

I suck my teeth. “What? Out-of-work models who don’t even eat so they can’t recommend anything off the menu?”

She shrugs and throws the papers on the table. “It’s done. We need them for the opening. After that—I’ll figure something out.”

My mom pinches the bridge of her nose, like she’s physically trying to push back all of this mess.

“Look,” I say, panic crashing down on me. My lips are dry and my heart is skipping beats. “You might not like the people I’ve hired, or the way we behaved at the game. I get it, it shouldn’t have happened. But the truth is that when James hit that guy for me, I knew that I could trust him. I knew I could count on him. I know your image is the most important thing to you, and if inviting that Adams bitch to the opening makes you feel better, that’s fine. But you’re not going to replace James. There’s is no replacing the
Executive Chef
whose face is plastered to your restaurant and your name. His food is amazing. It’s the only part of this restaurant that is actually put together.”

My mom looks at me for a long time. She lifts her chin up defiantly, the way I have so many times when she’s disciplined me. I wish I knew where we went wrong along the way. But that’s a stupid thing to wish for, because I know. I know that it’s the day my dad took that wrong turn, when the other car took the same wrong turn, when we collided into crushing metal and bone and a world of instant sadness. That’s when we couldn’t put our world back together. So we just pretend like the wreck isn’t still there.

She licks her dry lips, turning her attention to Felicity. “Make sure we have a final RSVP for the tasting. Lucky, on second thought, I hate the idea of a wall covered in cloth. I saw a steakhouse on the Lower East Side do it in silver and it distracted me from my food. Cancel the installation with the designer.”

And just like that, it’s like the storm has passed. She busts out laughing at a memory we can’t share in. A red flag goes off in the back of my head. It’s telling me something is wrong, but when has something not been wrong?

I shrug one shoulder. “So what do you want on the wall? It’ll be too late to have anything for the tasting, but if we start the next day we can have it ready by the grand opening.”

She sighs, a bleached smile brightening up her tired face. “Think of something. I’m working on a big thing for us.”

“What big thing?”

“It’s a surprise.”

Now it’s my turn to squeeze the bridge of my nose. My temples pulse painfully. I need coffee. “What about James?”

“Oh, dah-ling. He was never fired,” Stella says flippantly. “I gave him a piece of my mind, but I never fired him. As you said, his name is
attached
to this place.”

My entire body flashes with embarrassment. “Then why was he pissed when he walked out?”

Stella turns around, eyeing me carefully. “Because I invited Clarissa Adams to the tasting.”

I must be living in the Land of Miscommunication: population Lucky and friends. I mean, I’m pissed that the reporter is invited, too, but James was enraged. He was wrath-of-Zeus pissed. He slapped away my touch after spending a night and morning fucking me.

“I’m sure he thinks I’m a monster,” Mom says, checking out her manicure. There’s a chip in one of the nails. “But I have no choice. I have to make nice.”

“I don’t get it. Why does that make you a monster?”

She sighs, and eyes Felicity. It’s like she’s tired of talking, so she’s having Felicity do it for her.

“That’s the thing,” Felicity says. “Clarissa isn’t just a reporter. She’s James’s ex-fiancé.”

“Are you okay?” Felicity asks.

My new task is to find an outfit. Sure, there’s a wine shipment and a menu to finalize, but in the eyes of Stella Carter, her hot mess of a daughter needs a new outfit.
Something dignified,
was how she phrased it.

Dignified is the last thing I feel sorting through the designer racks of a department store that smells like recycled air and tourists. If I stand still for too long I’ll keep replaying the same thought: James has a criminal past. James had a fiancé. James has all kinds of secrets. I’m falling for a guy whose story I don’t know. And to top it off James’s
ex-fiance
is coming to the tasting.

I press my head to the mirror wall in front of me. I want to bury my head in the sand. If I close my eyes for long enough, I can recall how James’s fingers feel when he holds my arms, brushes the sensitive skin at the hollow of my throat.

“I’m fine,” I tell Felicity. “Actually, I’m not fine. What are you smoking? I’m not wearing that.”

Her face turns pink and she hangs the dresses. Shit, that’s probably something she’d pick out for herself.

“Why are we here? We’re not forty.”

Felicity shrugs. “They have some nice stuff.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be bitchy.”

“It’s been a crazy few days.”

“That’s not an excuse. Come on, let’s ditch this place and try to find something else.”

In the Back Bay station area we pass malls and convention hotels. I am mortified at the idea of bumping into James, but I couldn’t give Felicity that reason when she suggested we shop here.

The streets are busy, but they don’t feel over packed the way it feels when you try to shop in Times Square. Then again, it’s not like Boston is a fashion capitol of any world. Most people dress conservatively when they’re going to work, like there was a sale at Nordstrom and Talbots and everybody went. Others dress like they’re going to watch a baseball game at the nearest dive, even if they’re not. My eyes are flooded with Red Sox hoodies and baseball caps, khakis and polo shirts and shapeless messenger bags. What would the world
be
if you didn’t wear a t-shirt telling everyone you went to Yale or MIT? Thank god for gay men and hipsters who add some color to the least sexy city I’ve ever been to. Even Montana had a vibe of cowboy-hippie meets athletic.

“I have an idea,” Felicity says, stopping me before I get to the crosswalk.

“Do tell.”

“I don’t want you to think that I always dress like this.” She gestures to her dark gray pantsuit too long for her muscular legs. The white shirt that doesn’t quite fit her ample breasts.

I laugh. “Why do you care what I think?”

Felicity tucks a curl behind her ear. “Because you’re…cool.”

I grab her shoulders. “Dude, I am a walking malady.”

She rolls her eyes. “I just try to be
professional,
but no one makes the right kind of clothes for my body type.”

“You mean sex-a-licious?”

“Lucky!” She turns beet-red.

“I’m serious, I would kill for bigger boobs. I mean, I probably wouldn’t have to. My mom would just buy them for me, but it wouldn’t be the same.”

Felicity snort-laughs. “Have you ever heard of the Pink Pony Parlor?”

The Pink Pony Parlor is a cross between a thrift store and a boutique heaven nestled in the Allston-Brighton suburb. I’ve only been here once when visiting a friend from my brief stint at Simmons. When the city was on lockdown a few years ago, we drank cheap wine and ate the contents of her refrigerator before getting the okay to venture back outside where people on their stoops blasted Dropkick Murphys.

“I shopped here all the time when I was in college.” Felicity flicks through a rack. Everything is color coordinated, which makes my eyes have a serious case of ADHD.

“This place is awesome.” I pull out a wine-red leather dress. It reminds me of armor because of the detail on the chest. The back is super low, which sends my senses into panic mode. I don’t wear dresses, but I also don’t want to wear a boring pantsuit. Why are those my only choices?

“That’s hot,” Felicity says. “It reminds me of dragon skin almost.”

“Do you think my mother would freak if I wear it?”

Felicity squints at the dress in my hand. “I’m not sure. Try it on.”

I take it into the fitting room, checking my phone for the tenth time since we walked into the store. I keep wanting to see James’s name but instead it’s just messages from Bradley telling me I’m lame for working so much, and a surprising one from Sky asking me for the address of The Star. She was supposed to come shopping too, but bailed.

“Hey, Felicity.” I try on the red dress. It zips up to my lower back. The leather is like second skin, with a strong shoulder, and black detail along the ribs that makes my waist look even smaller. “Did you guys happen to do a background check on James before you hired him?”

“Oh, of course. James Hughes, born July 26, 1988. A few unpaid parking tickets. Started off working at a dive bar and worked his way up. Why do you ask?”

“It’s just…this Clarissa thing is crazy.”

“I know!” she says. I can hear her changing into her dress in the next dressing room. “He did mention a crazy ex during a dinner with Stella. Stella couldn’t believe he was single. He never said her name though. I’m ready, come out!”