Love On the Line: An Enemies to Lovers Standalone

by Adriana Peck

  “Why are you here so early?” he asks after the numbers spit out.

  “Get some extra prep done,” I lie. I was hoping Mason would be here, too, but now I see that was only wishful thinking. I sigh as quietly as I can to myself and get started on prep. Washing veggies, sharpening knives, wiping down cutting boards. It’s just routine at this point. I move my workstation to where Chef Robby usually sets up things. The more space between me and Gambio, the better.

  I finish chopping my onions and clean my knives before Gambio finishes. Before he leaves the kitchen, Gambio tucks his reading glasses into his front shirt pocket and turns back to me. He peers down the bridge of his nose, and I freeze instinctively.

  “You and Mason better watch it tonight,” he says. “No funny business.”

  I nod. No funny business.

  ◆◆◆

  Of course, funny business still has its way of finding us. Mason comes in late.

  Strike one.

  Gambio chews Mason out in front of the three customers we had in the front of the house. Okay, then. I try to lean through the partition to get Mason’s attention, but he keeps his head down and attends to his tables. I stay in the back, chit-chatting with Benicio about last night.

  After our group went out together for pizza, Paige and Benicio practically disappeared, leaving Dylan and I alone to fend for ourselves. We took a cab back to Paige’s, where he tried to make a move on me in the back seat. I, of course, told him to shove it, and we went our separate ways once the cab finally dropped us off. Dylan went back up to Paige’s apartment, I assume. I took the subway home, fuming at myself for acting so naive. Of course Dylan hadn’t changed his ways, and I feel stupid for thinking he had.

  Benicio and Paige got along great, according to Benicio’s testimony. In between the few plates I have, he tells me about the rest of his night. He and Paige hit it off super well, and they went back to her place. Dylan was there, waiting for them, and apparently ruined the mood with an angry rant about me. How I’m a whore, this and that, I’ll never find a man who really appreciates me like Dylan, so and so. Fantastic. I set the record straight with Benicio and get back to my work. Before I know it, a family reunion the size of an army walks through the front door of the Restaurante, and Mason throws back twice as many order cards.

  I drop a plate in the middle of finishing up a simple pasta order. Gambio runs to the back of the kitchen, and he screams at me, telling me I have no excuse.

  So there’s strike two.

  But strike three is a joint effort on both our parts.

  The order cards our restaurant uses are super tiny. No bigger than a playing card. Mason has to squeeze in large orders in the margin lines. So, naturally, the order cards are easily misplaced. Every restaurant has to deal with BS like this one way or another, and if somebody claims they don’t lose an order card every once in a while, well, they’re flat-out lying to you. Mason takes the orders, and hands me the card as he verbally tells me what the order is through the partition. In a rush, he’ll clip it up onto a rack where I can access it at my convenience.

  Tonight, somewhere along the way, we misplace an order card after our brief exchange at the window. I don’t know what happened. One moment I’m hanging onto the card, the next it’s just gone. I’m ashamed of myself. It’s not that busy tonight, family reunions aside.

  I call Mason over to the partition sheepishly.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “What?” He’s back to his old angry self. The usual.

  “I lost the order,” I say, my face beet red. “What was it again? Pasta something?”

  “I don’t know,” Mason groans. “I don’t remember every order that passes through here. You want me to ask them again what they want? Really?”

  I don’t know what to do. I feel horrible. I look back at the kitchen behind me, hoping to see the order card sitting on a counter or just on the floor. But it’s not there. It’s gone.

  “Please?”

  Mason rolls his eyes and blows air from his nose.

  “Fine.”

  He’s back a few seconds later. It’s a beef ravioli with red sauce. How on earth do I forget something like that?

  A little wile later, when Gambio finds out I lost the order card, he completely loses his mind. He barges into the kitchen from the front of the restaurant, absolutely fuming.

  “Rosa! I can’t believe it. Making poor Mason harangue the customers after you screw up. ‘Oh, excuse me, ma’am, I forgot your order. Can you tell it to me again?’ ‘Ravioli!’ How can you be so irresponsible! This restaurant can host a hundred people, and there are less than twenty out there right now. Tell me, Rosa, why could you be this stupid?”

  Gambio is practically screaming at me as I try to mix up a light red sauce with a whisk. I never take my eyes off the bowl as Gambio lays into me with It’s doing a terrible job of distracting me. My face turns red, I can feel hot tears sting my eyes. I just have to keep it together. Just long enough to get this sauce out onto the ravioli, just long enough to get this plate out to the partition for Mason to pick up, just long enough to look into his eyes so he can hopefully shoot me a touching look of reassurance. I know it’s a long shot, but I still try.

  Gambio keeps going. On and on, he says this and that about responsibility and personal sacrifices and applying oneself to the best of their ability. Honestly, I wish I could pay attention at times like these. Truly. It would probably do me a lot of good to get real feedback from a boss I respect. But when voices get raised, I shut down. My Dad used to raise his voice just like that. I know I can’t ask Gambio to tone the yelling down, I’ll look like a pouting child. Instead, I keep my head down and take the verbal abuse as he hurls it my way.

  Finally, Gambio asks me one last question, and I snap back into reality once again. I’m done whisking my sauce anyways.

  “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, Chef,” I sigh. I look up as Gambio walks away.

  Mason’s face is in the partition, framed like a picture of bad news. He squints at me, lips pursed over with pity. I haven’t seen this look on him before, and it doesn’t feel good. It’s even worse when the pity party's pointed at me. I wish I could run to him, ask him for advice, but it’s too late. Chef Julia brings Mason three plates, handing them one after another for Mason to balance on his forearm, and in a heartbeat he’s gone again, back to the customers.

  Being the lead chef of a restaurant has always been a passion of mine. But right now, I can almost feel that passion dying. It’s super shitty when you’re chewed out for trying to do something right. Something that you love to do. But before I can feel too sorry for myself, I finish the dish I was working on before the Ravioli fiasco. Red sauce over spaghetti noodles. And it’s taking me the better part of an hour to prepare, Gambio’s yelling slowed me down immensely.

  Out in the front of the restaurant, I hear Gambio scolding Mason over the lost order card, too, and I guess it’s his turn for drama. Looks like nobody is safe tonight from the owner’s rage. I wonder if he’s already yelled at Robby, Julia, or Benicio yet, because I bet he’ll find a reason to blame them, too. What’s gotten into him tonight? I take the plate over to the partition and lean through the window carefully, trying to hear what Mason’s going through.

  “Keep it together, Mason. You’re on the thinnest of ice right now,” I hear Chef Gambio say. I feel angry at Gambio. He’s the owner, of course, but it’s us putting in all the work that keeps this place afloat. Sure, we make mistakes, but we’re busting our butts way more than I’ve ever seen Gambio try. All he seems to do is yell at us and tell god-awful jokes to customers who just want to eat their meal in peace.

  After a while, Gambio finishes his rant and storms through the kitchen to his back office. I dive into my work, hoping tonight will just go ahead and end so I can talk to Mason.

  The rest of the rush passes by like a blur. I can hardly remember which dish
es I prepared, but all I can remember is that Gambio didn’t feel the need to holler over anything else that night. That much I can say.

  Night falls, and eventually the clock strikes 11:00. Closing time. I shut off the oven, wipe down the counters. I take all my utensils back to Benicio who washes them without saying a word. I worry that something is wrong, that Benicio knows something I don’t. I just hope that Gambio isn’t waiting outside for me to yell at me one last time before I finally go home. When all my closing duties are finished, I grab my purse and jacket and get the key ready for lockup. Benicio leaves just a few minutes before me, leaving me the only one in the kitchen, and I flick off the light as I head out to the main lobby to leave.

  I can see Mason standing outside the Porto, chatting on the phone with somebody as he watches the cars pass by on the road outside the Restaurante. I guess he’s waiting for his cab over here tonight.

  I head outside and lock the door behind me. Mason glances over, pauses his conversation and gives me a slight nod. He doesn’t say a word. I sigh, pocket my keys, and look back at him.

  “Mason?”

  He tells whoever is on the back of his line to hang on for just a minute. “Yeah?”

  “Can…can we talk?”

  He sighs, looks at his phone. “Hang on,” and Mason goes back to his conversation. I think it’s about a football game that happened on Sunday. I don’t know. It’s all so casual, and with each passing moment I feel my stomach sinking further and further as I know Mason is going to want to know what I would like to ask him. He tells his friend he’ll call back later and hangs up.

  “Okay, fine. What’s up?”

  I sigh again. Here goes:

  “Mason, I…I’ve been wanting to tell you something for a while now.”

  “Okay.”

  Not much to work with, but here goes. “Okay,” I nod. “Well, I’ve been meaning to tell you that—”

  A yellow cab almost passes by, and Mason turns to flag it down. As it pulls up to the curb, Mason motions for the cabbie to wait for just a moment and looks back at me. Now there’s a ticking clock. I can hardly think straight, but I manage to get the words out.

  “Dylan and I aren’t together,” I say, my heart heavy in my chest. “I…after I saw you last night, I just wanted to set the record straight.”

  Mason just looks at me, dumbfounded. “What?”

  “The guy from last night,” I repeat, stuttering out my words as carefully as I can. “We—we aren’t together, me and him.”

  “Oooookay,” Mason says, utterly confused. At least he doesn’t look angry. “Good for…you?”

  “Well, I wanted to tell you that because—because…” I trail off, hanging my head in shame. I can’t do this. Mason thinks I’m stupid. I think I’m stupid. Telling him Dylan and I aren’t a thing…because?

  “Because?”

  “Because you looked like you were having a rough night,” I suddenly rush to make up an explanation. It doesn’t make any sense, but Mason shrugs.

  “Whatever. I won’t be here forever,” he says casually. “That all?”

  “You—you won’t be here forever?”

  Mason opens the door of the cab and sighs. “Yeah. I told you how much I hate it here. Tonight’s just another nail in the coffin. Probably going to open my own restaurant soon. I’ve almost got the cash. I’m sure you’ll be glad to see me gone.”

  “Oh!” I exclaim, doing my best to sound as bubbly as I can, given the news that Mason won’t be in my life for good. Honestly, the way things have been going lately I’m almost kind of happy to see him go. We’ve been butting heads and he’s been being kind of a prick lately, too. Mason’s better than Gambio, but some part of me is still going to miss him.

  “Oh? That’s all you can say?”

  I shake my head. “Mason, we got off on the wrong foot. Okay?”

  He shrugs, one foot still in the cab as he leans out onto the sidewalk.

  “And I wanted to ask you if…if…” I trail off again, leaving dead air to fill the vacuum of this conversation.

  “If…I want to get a drink sometime?” Mason asks flatly. “Is that what you’re doing? Asking me out?”

  I nod, and I grin instinctively like an idiot. What am I doing, what am I doing, what am I doing?

  He looks around, pauses. Mason shrugs. “What the hell,” he mumbles. “Sure. Why not?”

  He’s got a spare order card and a pen in his pocket. He takes it out, writes his number down.

  “Text me as a heads up first,” he says. Then Mason gets in the cab and it pulls away a few moments later.

  I’m more confused than anything else. Mason’s given me his phone number. I’m an odd combination of weirdly excited and anxious. I guess we don’t hate each other anymore. And I guess we’re going to get drinks sometime, too? I can hardly feel my legs as I float home. I’m walking on air.

  What is even going on anymore?

  Nine

  The weekend finally catches up to me, and it’s the weekend Dad is supposed to come visit. I pick him up from the airport as soon as his plane’s scheduled to land, and we decide to hit the town in celebration of our time together.

  Dad and I sit down in a café, two espressos between us as we take in the sights. Chalked-up menus and signage tell us this place is fancier than most coffee shops in downtown Deporte.

  “European,” my Dad mutters. “As vague or as specific as you want it. Want Italian coffee? Sure thing. It’s right next to the French pastries,” he grumbles. Leave it to an old Italian man to take things personally—in a café, of all places. “It’s this whole city. Speaking of gross European blends, how’s the restaurant going?” Dad asks, trying snarkily to change the subject. “The Porto. How’s old Gambio treating you? He still serving that french ratatouille next to our precious Abruzzese lamb?”

  I laugh. “Yeah, he is,” I say. “It’s fine, though. Work is work.”

  “Work is work,” Dad agrees. “Any friends there?”

  “One. Benicio, he’s a dishwasher. He went out with me and Paige the other night last weekend. He’s cool, I guess.”

  Dad raises his eyebrows, his hairy arms resting on the table as he stirs his espresso between sips. “So, this Benicio fellow is cool. Okay. When do I meet him? Is he nice to you?”

  I laugh. “Dad, he’s not that kind of cool. Just a friend, that’s all.” Based on how Dad reacts to me telling him about Benicio, I don’t dare bring up seeing Dylan last weekend. Dad knows Dylan, and Dad doesn’t like Dylan.

  And I certainly won’t bring up Mason, either.

  “What about your cookbook, the one from college?” Dad asks after taking a sip. “You work on the old project at all?”

  “No,” I sigh. “I haven’t thought about it in years.”

  I had a book I started my freshman year of culinary school, just a little pet project of mine. ‘How to Cook Italian Food in your Dorm,’ it had some title like that. I never got around to finishing it. I had all the recipes down. I had the steps written out. I’d been able to cook polenta in a dorm room microwave for months by the time I got the book started, and by the time I had all the notes compiled I was able to cook a three-course meal for Paige and Dylan using only a toaster, a mini-fridge, and a microwave. I knew the book had potential. Life just caught up with me. I never got around to finishing it, and I never asked around into getting it published.

  “Well, maybe you should,” Dad said. “If it goes big, you won’t have to work in a hot kitchen day in and day out. Huh? People will pay you for the words you write on your butt instead of the work you do on your feet. Much better to think about that.”

  Dad takes one final swig of espresso and gets up to return his cup and saucer. I take a moment, sipping mine as I look outside at all the cars passing by on the street. It’s certainly possible. I could find an agent, get my book published. Then I’d be a real chef. One who has a cookbook of her own. One whose recipes pay the bills, not her day-tp-day work in an exhausting three-t
o-midnight shift.

  Maybe Dad’s right. Maybe I do have a shot with the cookbook.

  I’m going to start writing tomorrow, I tell myself. I’ve got the recipes. I’ve got the theme. And this time, it’ll happen. This time I’ll get it finished.

  Dad and I spend the rest of the weekend hopping from café to café, restaurant to restaurant. We love food and drink, it’s in our DNA to love it. We try a Greek place that serves the most amazing lamb gyro, and as I bite into the perfectly cooked meat I wonder if it’ll be possible to cook one of these in a dorm room. At the very least, I note that I definitely want to make gyros at home sometime. I’ve been meaning to branch outside of just Italian food at home, and Dad and I find inspiration in every spot we visit during our weekend together.

  Unfortunately, our time together comes to a close when Sunday rears its nasty head. I take Dad to the airport in a cab, and we hug it out before he’s through the double doors, back to his life as a construction project manager. I’m glad I was able to provide him an escape from his day-to-day life.

  We say our goodbyes, and just like that, I’m on my own again.

  As soon as my cab is back on the road, I can’t stop thinking about Mason. What he was doing, what he did in his spare time, how he spent his weekend if he wasn’t at work. Sure, we fight, but I just can’t get him out of my head.

  I think things are going to look up between us. I can just sense it. As I go to bed Sunday night, ready for my non-stop schedule to pick back up again, all I can see are Mason’s piercing blue eyes.

  Ten

  Dinner rush doesn’t faze me at all anymore.

  The plates stacking in a careful balance. Every plate unique, even the main course dish has special instructions for each and every patron. I keep everything in tip top shape. My work station is clean. My utensils are lined up evenly next to my cutting board. The pantries are stocked, as are the walk-in freezers and coolers. Everything has a rhythm of its own, and I’m the DJ, center-stage, making sure every beat is on cue.