“It’s not normal to feel sick about someone,” I mutter. If talking about her feels this way that’s a sign that this should be just a onetime thing.

No one has ever made me feel sick before.

My standard work uniform consists of dark slacks and a white blouse, while the servers get to wear whatever they like as long as it’s black or mostly black. But today I find myself lingering in front of my closet. I want to wear something nice for the scouts. But it wouldn’t be for them. That’s just what I’d tell myself. It would be for her, and I’m not supposed to be doing anything special for Sophie other than giving her the chance to explore what it means to be queer.

I shove my feet through the legs of my blackest pants and angrily tie the neck bow on a silk blouse I hardly ever wear. It’s easily my most femme piece of clothing. Part of me is tempted to wear that blouse Sophie hates to love, but it still smells like her and the combination of that plus the way her nose crinkles when she’s mad (and she’ll undoubtedly be mad if I wear it) might do me in before the scouts even arrive.

I listen to an audiobook on the drive into work, but I’ll have to rewind on the way home. I don’t hear a word. It’s just a churning stomach and an endless loop of worry about will we get chosen and what it will mean if we are chosen and will being chosen be enough for us to dig out of this hole and always the tug, low in my belly, reminding me that when it comes to my head chef I can’t think clearly.

I turn off the security alarm and flick on the lights, my footsteps echoing through the empty restaurant. I cleaned the table last night, wiped it down with cleaner, and even rummaged through our broom closet for wood polish. But in the harsh light of mid-morning it needs another wipe down. Are those fingerprints glinting in the high polished reflection? Better not risk it. I spray our house-made cleaner all over the table, wiping it down in long, slow sweeps.

Once I kissed another server after hours in the back booth at my first job. As assistant manager at my next restaurant, I had an extensive “friends with benefits” relationship with a bartender with a tongue ring. The furthest we went in the restaurant was a make-out session in the staff room. I have never had sex in a restaurant, in a kitchen no less.

That was stupid. But then, Sophie makes me feel kind of stupid. I never should have lied. Of course she distracts me.

Hiring her was stupid of me. She’s talented, she could have hitched herself to a bigger kitchen, a better one with more money, but she chose to partner with me. Amy & May’s holds her back, even if it’s worked out better for me than I could have imagined.