She, Myself & I

by Whitney Gaskell

  “No. I mean . . . I don’t know. I just thought it would be fun to go out. But we don’t have to, we can just keep doing this,” I said, trying to keep my voice light, wanting to placate him.

  “Do you have any idea how much pressure I’m under right now?” Oliver asked. He sat up abruptly, bending over to retrieve his underwear from the bedroom floor. “I have to turn Versa around. You know the last chef nearly drove the restaurant into the ground.”

  “I thought business was going well.”

  “For now. But things could change just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “And if that happens, then there goes all of my profit sharing. If I’m ever going to open my own restaurant, I need to take a profit out of this place.”

  “I understand,” I said, reaching out to rest my hand on his sloping shoulder. He stood up, and my hand slid off, falling to the bed. “Are you going to open your restaurant here in Austin?”

  “It’s not my first choice. That would be Miami, or even New York. But if I build a reputation here, I might stay,” he said. He pulled a T-shirt on over his head and then snapped on a pair of ratty blue sweatpants. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”

  I took a deep breath and tried to suppress the whine I could feel coming: Why can’t I spend the night with you here? We’d been over this one. I hated being dropped off at 2 a.m. It made me feel like a whore being deposited back on her corner. But Oliver had a demanding job, I knew, and he worked late and then had to get up early to meet suppliers or the owner of the restaurant, or deal with whatever crisis might pop up. And it seemed as though the restaurant was always having one kind of an emergency or another—staff was quitting, competition was edging in, profits weren’t up as far as expected.

  Someday I’ll be handling all of this, I reminded myself.

  “Maybe after you open your restaurant, I can come work there. After I finish school, I mean,” I said, standing and pulling on my bra and underwear, before retrieving my work uniform from where it lay crumpled in the corner. I’d once suggested bringing some clothes to leave at Oliver’s house—sweats or pj’s, something I could slip into after work—but he seemed irritated by the idea and dodged the question. I hadn’t brought it up again.

  Sometimes I felt like my age was putting me at a disadvantage; I simply didn’t know the rules for dating a thirty-four-year-old man. All of my previous boyfriends had been my age. Nick would never have minded if I left every stitch of clothing I owned at his place, nor would he have ever asked me to leave in the middle of the night. But then, Nick didn’t have a real job, and he spent every afternoon playing Xbox games with his best friend, Fitch.

  Now Oliver just laughed and pulled me toward him.

  “You’re adorable,” he said, burying his head in my hair, his hands sliding down until they cupped my ass. I was wearing yet another new lingerie set, this one a solid purple satin, with a lightly padded demi-bra and matching thong bikini underwear. The thong had me wriggling with discomfort all night at work—I couldn’t get used to the feeling of a permanent wedgie—but it had really turned Oliver on.

  I wrapped my arms around his waist and wondered if he’d want to make love again. I hoped so. That way I’d get to stay here with him for longer, and maybe it would get to be so late, I could just spend the night.

  And then Oliver was plucking at the underwear, sliding his hands underneath the waistband. His mouth moved to my neck, kissing the soft skin of my throat in the way that he knew made me melt.

  “I thought you wanted to get some sleep,” I said, testing him.

  “I’m not so tired right now,” Oliver murmured. And then he was turning me around, discarding my bra, and leaning me forward, moving the thong to the side, while he pushed into me.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  “I’m glad you’ve got the night off,” Paige said, pushing the shopping cart through Central Market. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I can’t take another night of eating alone.” She stopped and peered into a glass case filled with prepared food. “The mushroom lasagna looks good. How does that sound to you? We could get some garlic bread and a Caesar salad to go with it.”

  I looked doubtfully into the shopping cart that already contained a six-pack of double-chocolate cupcakes, croissants, five containers of Yoplait yogurt (“The baby needs extra calcium”), three different kinds of jam, a bag of chocolate chips, two boxes of butter sticks, frozen waffles, and two cartons of ice cream—one strawberry, one mint chocolate chip. Also nestled in the cart was a vanilla-scented pillar candle and satin-nickel candleholder that I’d gotten for Oliver’s apartment, thinking it might warm it up. Last week, I’d given him a framed black-and-white photograph of a Paris grocer’s market to hang in his living room, and he’d seemed to really like it.

  What was he doing right now? I wondered, checking my watch. The dinner rush had already started, so Oliver was likely at his normal station, a generous worktable in front of him, the six-burner cooktop at his back, where he personally made many of the entrées that were served at Versa. He’d be in his crisp white jacket, his hatless head lowered in concentration over whatever it was he was cooking or prepping. His dark brown hair would be curling down over his forehead, slightly moist with sweat while he worked.

  “Who’s going to eat all of this food?” I asked Paige, making a good-faith effort to shake off the Oliver obsession.

  “We are! Come on, Mick, you always have a huge appetite,” Paige said.

  “I guess,” I said. “But maybe we should get something healthy, too. Aren’t you supposed to be watching what you eat?”

  “No,” Paige said firmly. “This is the one time in my life when I can eat whatever I want. And don’t nag me, you sound like Zack.”

  “I’m not nagging. I just think that maybe we should add in a token vegetable to soak up all of the grease and sugar.”

  “Ha-ha. Oh, look, crème brûlée!”

  “We already have ice cream and cupcakes,” I said.

  “Maybe you’re right. Speaking of dessert, I talked to Kevin today,” Paige said in a too-casual tone of voice that I knew all too well. There was a lecture coming. “He said that you seem to be getting cozy with your boss at the restaurant.”

  “Oh?” I said.

  “Don’t ‘oh’ me. You know what I’m talking about,” Paige said.

  I knew exactly what she was talking about. The night before, after we thought that everyone had left for the night, Oliver and I made love in his office. It was incredibly uncomfortable, since he wanted me to lie down on his steel desk while he stood in front of me, and the desk had been hard and cold. And then Oliver couldn’t get any good traction, and every time he thrust his hips forward, the desk would slide across the floor, screeching loudly while my head bounced on the top.

  After we had finished and dressed, and were walking out of the restaurant, Oliver said, “I’m going to just drop you at home tonight,” and I was silent, resenting this dismissal, when Kevin walked out of the back kitchen where he did all of his baking.

  “Hey, Kevin. What are you doing here so late?” Oliver said.

  “Just sorting out some stuff. I think I’m going to make bread pudding soufflés as a special for dinner tomorrow,” Kevin said. His eyes flickered from Oliver to me, and self-consciously I raised a hand to smooth down my disheveled hair.

  “Did you know Mickey here is an aspiring chef? I’m teaching her some of the ins and outs of the business side of things,” Oliver said, lying glibly.

  Ins and outs? Was that supposed to be funny, I wondered, glancing quickly at him. Oliver’s expression was innocent.

  “An aspiring chef? What happened to medical school?” Kevin asked.

  “I, um, decided not to . . . well, I’m delaying my admission,” I said.

  “Really. Wow. Well, I’d better push off. Mick, do you need a ride home?”

  “That’s okay, Oliver said he’d drop me off,” I said.

  “It would be great if you could take her. I nee
d to make a few phone calls before I go. Thanks, buddy,” Oliver said.

  “Oliver . . . ,” I began.

  “Sure, no problem. Come on, Mick,” Kevin said, turning to leave.

  I waited a beat, looking at Oliver, but he just winked at me and then turned around and walked back into his office. And I followed Kevin out, feeling disposable and panicking that Oliver was losing interest in me.

  And now the only question was, just how much of this little run-in had Kevin shared with Paige?

  “I was hanging out with our boss last night—he’s really great, very funny. And Kevin saw us, and I think he got the wrong idea,” I said.

  “Really. Because Kevin told me he heard the two of you having sex in your boss’s office,” Paige said dryly.

  “What? I can’t believe he told you that. Oh my God, that’s none of his business, and it’s none of your business, either.”

  “He wasn’t being a gossip, he was worried about you. And after what he told me about that chef guy, I have to say I’m worried, too,” Paige said, wheeling the cart into the checkout. She groaned when she saw how long the lines were. “My feet are killing me, and I’m starving. And look, that guy in front of us has one, two, three . . . fifteen items, and this is the twelve-items-or-less line!”

  “We have twenty items.”

  “Yeah, well, they should have a super-express lane exclusively for pregnant women.”

  I turned toward Paige and noticed for the first time how tired she looked. Her face was puffy, and her eyes were sunken and ringed with dark circles.

  “Paige, why don’t you go sit down, and I’ll finish checking out,” I said.

  “No, I’m fine. Just a little tired,” she said.

  “So . . . what did Kevin tell you about Oliver?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

  “That he’s a womanizer. A married womanizer. And he’s already had flings with a couple of the waitresses,” Paige said.

  “He’s wrong about that. Kevin saw a waitress leaving Oliver’s office in tears like two months ago, but she wasn’t crying because they broke up, she was crying because she was quitting,” I said, relieved that it was the same misunderstanding that had already been cleared up.

  “It was something else. Although I don’t know if you want to hear this.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Are you sure? Maybe this should wait until we get home.”

  “No! You can’t say that and then not tell me!”

  “Well . . . Kevin told me that he walked in on Oliver having sex with another one of the waitresses. In the kitchen. Apparently, he had her up on the kitchen counter and was . . . um . . . going down on her,” Paige said.

  I felt light-headed. He’d done the same thing with me our first time. Was it some sort of a compulsion for him? Diddling waitresses on countertops?

  “Did he say who it was?” I asked. I stared at the magazine rack, trying to ignore the sickly sour feeling spreading through me.

  “Yeah, I think he said her name was Sarah. Does that sound right? Do you work with someone named Sarah?”

  “Wait, that can’t be right. Sarah really likes Oliver, but I know they never got together. She told me so, and I don’t think she was lying,” I said.

  “Mick . . . Kevin said it was just a few nights ago,” Paige said.

  “But that’s impossible,” I said. The relief was like fresh air being sucked into my lungs. Kevin had to be wrong. Oliver and I spent nearly every night together.

  And then I remembered. Three nights ago, Oliver told me he wasn’t going to be able to see me after work. He said the owner, Mr. Kramer, was coming in to meet with him to go over the receipts. Oliver had acted nervous about it, said he was worried that business had been slowing down lately. I’d gotten a ride home with Caitlin that night, and Sarah . . . Sarah was still there when we left. Normally she’s the first one out the door, but she’d definitely been there, looking at Oliver with those narrow eyes, and I’d felt a childish pleasure that he’d picked me over her.

  Me over her. Her over me.

  “I’m sorry, sweetie, I know that must be hard for you to hear,” Paige said, putting her arm around me and patting me on the back. “And, God, I should have waited to tell you, instead of dropping it on you in the middle of the grocery store. What was I thinking?”

  I began to lean forward and move the food onto the conveyer belt, marveling at how numb I felt.

  “You know, Mick, I have tons of candles at home, feel free to use whatever you want,” Paige said when she saw me holding up the candle and staring at it.

  “It’s a present for someone,” I mumbled.

  Paige sighed. “You’re giving him presents?”

  And then I crumpled, lifting my hands to my face.

  “Oh no. Mickey, don’t, he’s not worth getting upset over,” Paige said, grabbing my arm and pulling one of my hands down so she could clasp it in her own. “And maybe Kevin’s wrong. Because for some strange reason, he thought you’d changed your mind on going to medical school, so maybe he was wrong about Oliver, too.”

  I shook my head and looked at my big sister, the person I’d always looked up to. She’d always been so cool and capable, able to handle anything. Just look at her now—she’d broken up with her live-in boyfriend and the father of her child, and she was dealing with that better than I was handling finding out that my married lover was screwing around on me.

  “He wasn’t wrong. I’m not going to medical school,” I heard myself say.

  Chapter Forty

  Although I’d already hatched and discarded several revenge plans, I still had no idea how I was going to handle the Oliver situation the next night when I went into work. Should I just quit without explanation? Confront him? Try to embarrass him in front of the staff? None of it seemed to capture the level of vengeance I was going for.

  “Whatever you do, just keep it dignified. He’s not worth making a scene over,” Paige had advised as she dropped me off at Versa the next evening.

  I nodded, but wasn’t convinced. Oliver hadn’t even bothered to call me the night before. Was he with Sarah then, too? Anger choked in my throat, and when I got inside, I headed straight for Oliver’s office.

  “He’s not there,” Adam said, appearing behind me while I rapped on the door.

  “Where is he?” I asked.

  “What do you want to see him about?”

  “Something that’s none of your fucking business,” I said sweetly, and stepped around him.

  “Someone’s PMS-ing,” I heard Adam say behind me.

  “No, but if I was, you’d really regret saying something like that. Trust me,” I called back over my shoulder, and then went to find busywork that would keep me in the kitchen so I could intercept Oliver when he arrived.

  He still hadn’t shown up at five-thirty, the time Oliver always held the servers’ pre-shift meeting, and everyone was milling around, restlessly waiting. Normally this was the calm before the storm, and we’d be joking around with the kitchen staff, but tonight there was so much tension in the room, even Ansel commented on it.

  “Why does everyone look so pissed off?” he asked me.

  I shrugged and pulled out some lemons and limes to slice for the water glasses, ignoring Adam when he told me to recheck the tables in my section. Adam stomped off, glowering and mumbling under his breath that he was going to have to have a word with the owner about bad attitudes among the waitstaff, as if that would scare me.

  Screwing the boss does have some benefits, I thought.

  “Give him my best when you talk to him,” I snapped at Adam’s departing back.

  “What crawled up your butt?” Opal asked me.

  “Just leave me alone,” I muttered.

  “What-ever,” she said, turning on her heel and walking away.

  Sarah also didn’t join the other servers in the dining room, I noticed. She was also finding reasons to hang around in the kitchen, folding enough napkins to last us a week. She kept glancing at t
he back door and at Oliver’s office. I tried not to care.

  At six o’clock, Adam ran back into the kitchen. “Oliver’s finally here, thank God,” he said out loud to no one in particular. He just wanted all of us to know that he was on the case, self-important prick that he was. “When people started to come in, I freaked, but it turned out it was Oliver with some friends of his.”

  “What friends?” Sarah asked.

  “His wife and some other woman,” Adam said.

  At the word “wife,” I froze in the middle of slicing a lime. His wife. Here. The one he was supposedly separated from.

  “Shit,” I said under my breath. “Shit, shit, shit.”

  I put the last of the lime slices in a rectangular metal container, carefully covered it with plastic wrap, and then plunked it in the refrigerator.

  His wife was here. His wife.

  Adam rounded up the rest of the waitstaff for the meeting, and when I turned to join them, I noticed that Adam, Ansel, and a few of the line cooks were watching me.

  Oh my God, I realized numbly. They all knew. They knew that I was sleeping with Oliver, although I’m sure they thought of it in cruder terms than that. They probably made vile jokes about it when I was around, snickering to one another over Oliver’s latest conquest.

  I could just hear Ansel now, pointing his chin at me as I walked into the dining room, a heavy tray lifted up on my shoulder: Oliver’s banging that one. It’s crazy, man, he does her right on his desk.

  Just when I thought this couldn’t be any more mortifying, I thought. And who had told them? Oliver, bragging about his exploits? Kevin, maybe, unable to keep such a juicy tidbit to himself? Or had someone else seen us leaving together, or going into Oliver’s office and shutting the door behind us?

  The door to the kitchen swung open, and Oliver came striding in. Before, when everything about Oliver was colored with a gauzy romance, I’d mused that whenever he entered a room, the space always seemed a little smaller, as though he filled it beyond his physical dimensions. Now I saw him for what he was—a ridiculous rooster of a man, so cocky and egotistical that every self-important affectation, every temper tantrum made him that much more unlikable.