Her jaw is set but there’s panic in her eyes and they shine bright like she could cry. I’ve seen this wild look before. It comes when an owner will do anything, even the wrong thing, to save their restaurant, and seeing this panic on cool, aloof Amy, I second-guess myself. Not for the first time since I’ve worked here, since Paul and I broke up.

I’ve disappointed so many people already, and Amy has been doing this since she was sixteen. The same age I was when I got my first job as a dishwasher in Le Plateau back home in Montreal. So what makes my expertise better than hers?

I close my laptop.

Since having more spare time, after Paul, I’ve had the opportunity to source local farms and research how to forage for edible mushrooms. A flicker of resentment for Amy burns in me as my dream of expanding our non-animal proteins goes up in flames.

“Fine,” I mutter. “We’ll do it your way, then.” We might not have a restaurant to try it my way with, come spring, but there’s no point in making things worse.

The thing is, I feel for her. Amy pays everyone above minimum wage; the prices of our dishes are higher than our neighbors’ because we don’t expect our guests to tip. Health insurance and benefits in the service industry is practically unheard of. But it’s like Amy had a vision for what she wanted her restaurant to be and she’s never let anyone in on the secret. She steers this ship alone and expects us all to blindly follow, even me, her head chef. I used to trust her enough to do that. But now...

“Do you have a better suggestion?” she asks.

How about letting me run my own kitchen? Before I can muster up the courage to say so, a notification pulls our attention to my phone lying on the table between us.

Amy’s jaw ticks. “More followers?” she asks and there’s an edge to her voice I’ve never heard before. Some days, when I’m feeling really low about myself, I wonder if the only reason she offered me a job was because of my perceived fame. When I first started, people would ask for photos. I could feel their eyes on me while I worked, the pressure to perform exceedingly high knowing there were fans out there waiting. I wonder if she even believes I have talent.

I flip the phone around and open the notification. A new DM. Super.

“Ew,” she says.

“Sorry.” I delete the message, a blush creeping up my cheeks. They’re obviously not my fault. I’m not asking for them. But it’s embarrassing nonetheless, for a strong woman like Amy to see the creeps who follow her head chef.

“Does that happen a lot?” she asks. “Those kinds of messages.”

“A side effect of being a woman on the internet.” I shrug, repeating the line my agent used to convince me not to delete my accounts.