Faking It With the Boss

by Nikki Chase

  “I’m great!” I lie, forcing yet another unconvincing smile. “Just these damn onions.”

  “Ah, okay. Yeah, I hate those things. Sometimes I wish I had safety goggles stowed in my locker so I can protect my eyes from the stuff,” she says, giggling. She flounces away, none the wiser.

  I’m relieved to have the onions here as an excuse for my tears, but I can’t lie to myself. I know why I’m crying, and it has nothing to do with the pungent odor.

  Before long, my shift is over.

  Usually, my habit is to stay long after my work is done, just to hang around and help clean up after a long, messy day. But tonight, I can hardly wait to get out of here.

  Taking care to be quiet and stealthy so as not to arouse suspicion or, God forbid, run into Ben, I clock out and slip out the back of the building.

  I don’t want to go home with Ben tonight. I’m too hurt and upset to be around him. I just need to be alone. In my own apartment.

  So I call a cab and give the driver my address. When he shows up a couple minutes later, I slide into the backseat, already feeling my chin quivering as I fight to keep from crying again.

  Luckily, my driver seems totally fine with giving me my privacy, so I just roll up the partition, lean back against the seat, stare out the window at all the bright, flashing neon lights, and let the tears roll down my cheeks.

  I just don’t think I can handle this anymore.

  It’s not fair. I didn’t go out of my way to try and build a romance with Ben.

  Hell, neither of us wanted this in the beginning, anyway. It was all just one huge, ugly misunderstanding.

  Sure, there were some lovely parts in between. There have been moments when it really felt like we might actually have something beautiful. Something real, for once.

  But there are just too many lies, too many secrets, too many slights against my character.

  I’m strong. I’m smart. I’m capable. And I don’t deserve to be shunted aside and kept on the back burner.

  If he doesn’t think I’m worthy of being an active and equal participant in all these important decisions, then clearly I’m not worth fighting for either.

  On the way home, I make a difficult choice. I’m not going to sit around twiddling my thumbs and waiting for him to figure out what to do.

  Now that I know he hasn’t filed for a dissolution of our stupid fake domestic partnership, that means I can go ahead and move on with it myself. I’ll get it done.

  Maybe it doesn’t matter to him, but it matters to me.

  It’s time I stop waiting around for Ben Graham to do the right thing. He only thinks of himself, not me.

  So I’ve got to do what’s best for me. Nobody else is going to.

  Ben

  After the longest day thus far at Ocotillo, I’m finally able to finally break away from everything, get out of the place, and somehow drive myself home.

  I pull up to my place and wearily push the car door open, staggering across the parking lot, feeling dead on my feet already.

  I’m not sure if the stars were lining up in the wrong ways, but it seemed like everyone had something ridiculous to nitpick, and it just never stopped.

  Jorge was the only person who was able to really hold it all together and pull us through the storm.I’m starting to lose track of how much of a debt I owe him. If only I could channel some of that calming energy into myself.

  I check my phone on the way up to see a text from Jorge himself, asking me to make sure that Claire is okay. According to Jorge, she left in a hurry right at closing time, and she didn’t even stay behind to help the rest of the team clean up.

  I furrow my brow. What does he mean by that?

  I sense a vaguely accusatory tone in there, as if he suspects I’m the one who told her she could leave early.

  I type out a response, letting him know she must have been feeling ill.

  I exit the elevator and head to my apartment door, then I turn the handle, expecting it to open for me. It’s locked.

  I get my key out and push the door open, stepping inside to a dark living room.

  “Claire?” I call.

  No answer. She must not be here. Did she go back to her own apartment?

  I haven’t missed a call from her, have I? I pull out my phone again. Nope. Nothing from her.

  I try calling her cell phone.

  I kick off my shoes and pace around the living room as I wait for her to pick up, but it goes to voicemail after a few rings. I call again, but I get the same result.

  Concerned, I type out a text while I head to the bathroom.

  Jorge said you left in a hurry tonight— everything ok? Got me worried. Give me a call.

  I set the phone on the toilet tank while I wash my face in warm water, getting all the grimy feeling of the day off, and once I’ve patted my face dry, I glance to the phone, expecting to see a text back.

  Nothing.

  I’m starting to get really worried now, so I send out a few texts to ask the other employees if any of them know where Claire ran off to.

  But before I even get one text back, I can’t ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach. She could very well still be mad about what happened earlier this evening.

  I wish I hadn’t snapped at her, but to say we were overwhelmed was an understatement. She was justified in being upset, but if she could have just waited a little longer . . .

  Texts start rolling back, and the consensus is that everyone was stressed this evening, so it’s not too surprising that she stormed out looking like she was a few seconds from snapping.

  That’s a relief. Everyone has been busy this week—tonight especially.

  Claire has been under extra pressure, too. Of course she’d be upset and strung out.

  She must have just hit her limit. As I get ready for bed, I decide that I’ll have a talk with her before work tomorrow morning and smooth everything out.

  That’s the last thought on my mind as I lay down to bed, drifting off into a comfortable sleep.

  Tomorrow, everything will be just fine.

  Claire

  All throughout the night, I was wide awake, tossing and turning.

  No matter how desperately I needed sleep, my brain just wouldn’t calm down long enough to let me drift off for long. I clutched my pillow to my chest and cried, staring at my cell phone, silently pleading for it to start ringing so I could pick it up and talk to the man who was tearing my heart into little pieces.

  When I left work last night at the end of my shift, I was so hurt and offended. I cried all the way home in the backseat of that cab. The poor driver had no idea what to do with that, and I felt guilty, so I gave him a sizeable tip when we arrived outside my apartment building.

  And then, of course, I trudged up to my apartment, took off my clothes, poured a glass of wine, and slid into a hot bath. I hoped that would be enough to calm me down and smooth things over, but no such luck. Instead, I just cried in the bathtub, too. I ended up going through half a bottle of wine by myself and was too drunk to make dinner.

  I called my favorite Chinese restaurant, still slurring my words, and ordered an entire platter of shrimp, spring rolls, rice, and some other random items—most of which are now crammed into my fridge. Then I stumbled into bed and dozed for about ten blissful minutes before I woke back up.

  I saw a couple of missed calls from Ben, as well as a text, but I wasn’t in the mood for talking by then.

  The rest of the night was silent, lonely torture. Just listening to the faint sounds of traffic outside, the ticking of my clock, the distant hum of the kitchen appliances down the hall. And the great, painful beating of my own heart.

  Some time in the midst of this crisis, I made a hard decision. One I wish I didn’t have to make.

  But it’s necessary. I have to stand up for myself, even if it’s scary. Even if it breaks my heart.

  Now, it’s early in the morning and I’m still awake.

  I’ve already dragged myself out of bed a
nd gotten ready for work. Even though I know I’m not going to be there long, I don’t want to tip off any of my coworkers about what’s going on. I just need to get in there, do my bit, and then it’s goodbye forever.

  My knuckles go white as I grip the steering wheel on the freeway to work, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying.

  I cannot let these tears fall. I cannot let anyone—especially Ben—see how hurt I am, how difficult all of this is for me.

  I drive cautiously. Between my complete lack of sleep and the overflowing, turbulent emotions inside me, it’s a challenge to focus on the road.

  It feels like there’s a moth caught inside my rib cage, fluttering frantically, trying to escape.

  But I have to be strong. I have to make a stand.

  I pull into the parking lot and sit there for a few minutes, letting the engine idle while I take slow, deep breaths.

  I feel totally nauseated and lightheaded, the emotions threatening to overtake me.

  I’m not usually one prone to theatrics. In fact, after getting bullied so much as a young girl for living what some might classify a flashy lifestyle, I tend to obsess over blending in and making myself as unobtrusive as possible. That means keeping quiet and keeping my head down.

  I’m a hard worker and I can put up with an awful lot. I mean, how long did I continue working at the Patty Hut?

  But this . . . this is totally different. It’s personal this time.

  Finally, I work up the courage to get out of the car, letter in hand, and go marching in through the back entrance of the restaurant.

  I can hear the familiar sounds of chopping, washing, grating, and of course, the cheerful humming, chatting, and joking around that happens in the kitchen every day. My heart surges with affection for this place and the people who work here.

  I know what I’m about to do will be very, very hard.

  But I have to do it.

  So I go straight to Ben’s office and throw open the door without even knocking. To my relief, it’s unlocked, and Ben looks up from the paperwork on his desk with a startled expression.

  When he sees it’s me, his face starts to brighten up, but then his smile fades when he takes a closer look at me.

  He knows something is wrong.

  “Claire,” he calls out gently, questioningly.

  I march right up to him and slam down my letter on his desk, then step back and glare at him.

  He frowns, squinting down at the paper. “What is this?”

  “You know how to read,” I reply icily.

  He picks it up and starts to silently read it over, his face going more sour as he gets further down the page. Then finally he sets it back down and looks up at me, totally bewildered. “A letter of resignation? Claire, what the hell? Why?”

  I scoff and roll my eyes. “Yeah. I quit. You’re really surprised, huh? Goes to show how much you pay attention. You never apologized to me yesterday and now you’re acting like you didn’t see this coming?”

  “How could I see this coming?” he shoots back. “You auditioned for this job. I went out on a limb for you. I ignored your work history and took a chance by hiring you, and I’m glad I did because you’re a great member of the staff. I thought everything was fine.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I burst out, flinging my arms up. I swivel around and stomp out of the office.

  Ben jumps up and follows me out into the kitchen, where we immediately attract the attention of all the staff members. The playful conversations die down when everyone sees the looks on Ben’s face and mine. It’s clear that this is going to be a big blowout.

  “Is everything okay?” Chef Alonso asks as he moves toward me rather protectively.

  He’s almost become more like a big brother figure to me over the weeks we’ve worked together, and through all the commotion and swirling emotions, I feel real affection for the guy.

  Ben looks over at him, then me, and lets out a groan of frustration. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re on her side.”

  “Side? Whose side?” Chef Alonso snorts. “All I see is a shaken-up sous chef and an angry jefe. You’re both my friends. Whatever it is that’s going on, I’m sure we can smooth it all out, aprobado?”

  “No. There’s no fixing this, Chef,” I tell him petulantly. “Ben doesn’t even know what’s wrong because he doesn’t pay enough attention. I could be on fire in front of everybody and he wouldn’t notice.”

  “Oh, come on,” Ben sighs. “Now you’re just acting like a bratty child.”

  “I’m acting like a bratty child?” I repeat incredulously, pointing to myself.

  “Yes. Clearly,” he replies. “If you can’t tell me what the problem is, then you’re obviously just doing this to cause a scene. I didn’t think you were like that. But maybe you are the same spoiled rich girl your classmates thought you were.”

  A collective gasp spreads throughout the kitchen and I feel my face burn red-hot, even as my blood runs cold. My hands ball into fists.

  “How dare you?” I hiss in a lowered voice.

  Ben seems to know, underneath his frustration, that he’s crossed a line here. But he’s just as stubborn as I am, so he doubles down. “Let’s be mature about this, Claire.”

  “Mature? You’re incapable of dealing with things like a mature adult. You know why? Because mature adults communicate with one another. We check in with each other. We share stuff. We discuss important changes and decisions together. But you? No. Never. You’re so far up your own ass, you have no idea how to have a functional, grown-up relationship.”

  “Oh, like you’re a paragon of maturity yourself. I still don’t even see why you’re so angry out of nowhere.”

  “If you’d been listening to me, maybe you’d know,” I counter. “Over and over again, I have told you exactly what the problem was. You make decisions for both of us without consulting me first. You ignore my suggestions at work. You won’t accept my help because you look down on me.

  “For instance, I told you there was something wrong with that fridge and you still let it go until it actually broke. If you’d just listened to me in the first place, maybe we could’ve gotten it fixed before it totally crapped out on us. And you let our parents find out about us without even mentioning it to me.

  “You don’t listen to me, you don’t consult me, and apparently, you don’t even think I’m competent enough to trust with the simplest responsibilities! I could’ve handled the fridge malfunction myself. I could’ve handled the domestic partnership dissolution myself. But you won’t even give me a chance, because you’re a control freak!”

  “She has a point,” Chef Alonso says quietly.

  Ben shoots him a withering glare and replies to me, “So your solution to all of this is just to resign? Really?”

  “Resign?” Chef repeated, staring at me.

  “Yes,” I tell him firmly. “Don’t get me wrong, I love this restaurant and I love all of you, but I can’t work like this anymore. I need to get a job where I can be respected and treated the way I deserve. I’m a damn hard worker and a good cook, and I want a work environment where I feel competent and trusted.”

  “Well, we’ll miss you, but you do you, girl,” Chef Alonso sighs.

  “Claire, I do respect you,” Ben breaks in angrily. “You know I do. I wouldn’t have hired you if I didn’t respect you as a chef and as a person. I do have some control issues, I’m man enough to admit that. But you have to believe me when I say that I never meant to treat you badly. I truly didn’t know anything was wrong.”

  “Yeah, but see, that’s the problem,” I reply, fighting back tears. “You should’ve known, Ben. Not because I expect you to read my mind, but because we talked about it multiple times.

  “You promise to do better, and then you just do the same things over and over again. You don’t actually listen to me. You just make empty promises and move on, expecting me to keep quiet. That’s not fair to me.

  “If you really respected me, you’d
respect my wishes, too. You’d value my advice. You’d listen when I talk.”

  “Look, I screwed up big time with the domestic partnership form. I didn’t realize how much it meant to you. I thought I had more time,” he admits. “But I’ll take care of it immediately, Claire. Leave it to me. Please calm down. Just—just don’t quit. Please.”

  “Too late,” I reply coldly. “You took too long. I turned it in myself.”

  “What?” Ben exclaims.

  “Yep. I did it on my own. Besides, this is about much more than that stupid form. I’m done, Ben. You blew it,” I conclude tearfully.

  Not wanting to let any of them see me cry, I turn on my heel and march out of the kitchen, heading out through the front of the restaurant so as to not have to pass by Ben.

  I’m grateful that Ocotillo hasn’t actually opened for the lunch service yet, because I sure as hell don’t want a dining room full of customers to see me cry.

  Ben

  “Claire! Claire, wait, stop!” I shout, and I take off running after her, nearly knocking over half the contents of a shelf in my office as I go.

  None of this is expected, and my head is still spinning over how quickly everything is crumbling down all around me.

  “Claire!” I shout again, but she has already gotten some distance on me.

  I can’t believe I let things go this far.

  Claire was right to be upset about my forgetting the papers, but I never expected anything close to this.

  Maybe she’s not thinking clearly. Maybe the stress from work has just built up over time and snowballed with all her frustrations about . . . well, everything. Her parents, her job, her new jerk of a boyfriend. It has all been one wild ride for the past month.

  No wonder she seems like she’s been pushed to and beyond her limits.

  I rush outside after Claire and see her several yards ahead of me already. I jog after her.