Same, girl.

“I got an offer. From a guy I know from Pop-Up Kitchen?”

Mom gave me breathing exercises when I was kid. A way to manage my anger when it came up on me fast, to keep me from jumping to conclusions, lashing out at her or my brother, but mostly my dad. In the freezer, each breath is so conspicuous, so obvious. But I focus on them anyway because even though she hasn’t said anything—even though I’m not, I’m absolutely not jumping to conclusions—I know exactly what she’s going to say.

“He offered me a job,” she says.

“Head chef?” Somehow my voice sounds totally normal even though I am screaming internally.

She shrugs, in this effortless, cool way she has. “Sous.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask. Kitchens are cutthroat. You don’t tip your hand, unless you want to get fired. Or maybe I’m about to be leveraged.

“I know things aren’t going well.” She stares pointedly at me. “You won’t let me see the books but... I know that part of it is my fault. I want to stay here and run this kitchen, but I just needed you to know that I’m considering it.”

“If you know things aren’t going well then you know I probably can’t match whatever they’re offering you.”

She shakes her head, her eyes worried. “No. I’m trying to be...helpful.”

“Well, thanks,” I say. “For the help.” My voice sounds exactly as bitchy as I feel right now. “I got to go.”

“Amy.”

“It’s fine.” Everything is fine. My restaurant is tanking and I’m losing my chef and I’m only upset about that for professional reasons and not because I find myself periodically wondering how soft her skin is. My stomach growls. And I’ve forgotten to eat. Again.

Everything is really fricking great.

“I made you a take-out plate,” she calls. I turn in the doorway and sitting on the expo counter is a silver take-out tin, most likely filled with what’s left of tonight’s under-ordered special. In moments like this, my crush for her absolutely leaps, but I know these moments aren’t for me. She’s always caretaking our staff in small ways that I’m completely inept at, like making meals for folks who’ve had a grumpy guest or who were run around all night. Or who have absolutely no idea what they’re going to do next.

The plate is still warm. “Good night, Hollywood.”

She looks at me only as the door starts to close. “Good night, Amy.”

For once I am relieved to not be the last person out of the restaurant if it means I can get some space from the woman who turns the center of my chest into warm goo, while simultaneously sending me into a panic.

“Carly.” I lean against the wall beside her sink. “I’m really sorry about Chad. I broke my own policy when I didn’t fire him the first time. It won’t happen again.”

Carly can’t be much older than I was when I started working in a restaurant. She smiles at me, so huge she reminds me of Wes. They both show you what they’re feeling with their whole chest.