My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

Blinking in confusion, my feet stop of their own volition. “What? No, I don’t spit,” I answer before I realize what I’m saying. I shake my head, trying to clear up the swirling haze of bewilderment at Archie’s train of thought. “What do you mean? Why wouldn’t Lorenzo go to Aruba?”

I hate to admit it, even to myself, but hope, tiny and struggling, tries to bloom. Like a good plant mom, I give it light and encouragement, feeding it to life. “You think there’s a chance he wouldn’t?”

The three of them look at each other, leaving me outside to watch their silent conversation.

Archie is somehow elected spokesperson, or he nominates himself. Either is possible. He gets up, stomps over in his black combat boots, plum joggers, and grey off-the-shoulder shredded designer T-shirt. He puts his hands on my shoulders and looks deep into my eyes. His are dark brown and warm but filled with worry.

“We don’t know. Here’s the plan, though . . . you are going to get on with your fabulous life, doing and being exactly who and what you are. If he hasn’t pulled his head out of his ass within the next few days and come crawling back with promises of multiple daily orgasms and planning on forever, we’re going to assist with a forceful head-ass-ectomy.”

“Oh! Violet, I’ve got your salad tongs,” Courtney blurts out.

“Uh, salad tongs? Is that for the head removal?” I ask, only partially concerned. If it’d been Violet mentioning torture devices, I would’ve reminded her about the need for an alibi, but Courtney’s not rash that way. If she were going to do something illegal, she’d definitely plan an airtight alibi, probably somehow managing video proof of her being miles away from the crime. She’s good like that.

“For the dinner party,” Violet corrects. “Lorenzo has until Friday, and then I’m calling a mandatory dinner party and we’ll get his shit straight.”Chapter 22LorenzoMy return to Avanti is loud and boisterous for all of five seconds.

“Chef! You’re back!”

“Good to see ya, man!”

“Thank God you’re here to do the fettuccine tonight. Sergio’s been all up my ass about it being too spicy because I paired it with blackened salmon one night. Hasn’t shut up about how no one does it like you.”

Roberta’s lament makes me laugh, but it’s enough that everyone has returned to their stations and their work. It’s as if I was never gone.

It was only a week, but somehow, it seems like the longest and most important week of my life. How is life the same for everyone else when mine feels so different?

“Thanks, Chef. I’ll get on making the pasta and the sauce for tonight,” I tell Roberta as I wash my hands and slip on my jacket and apron.

“Heard. Might as well go ahead and make Sergio the first plate so he can ooh and ahh over it,” she advises sarcastically. She’s not bitter about my compliments, but I’m sure Sergio wasn’t exactly kind in his comparison, and chefs tend to be more than a bit prickly about coming up short when we’ve put our heart and soul into our food.

I get to work, the routine of prep mindless and automatic. Take out a ball of dough, knead and roll it, and then start the process of feeding it though the pasta machine while I ready the next batch. Next, I let a mixture of butter, heavy cream, garlic, parmesan, pepper, and a shake of Aunt Sofia’s special spices bubble on the stove.

The first plate complete, I call out to the line, “Chef, off line.” Eyes pop up, and Roberta nods as I hold the plate up. “For Sergio.”

“Good. Don’t let him hold you hostage. Service is already starting.” She pulls an order from the machine and yells out to the crew. “Table eleven, app vegetable misto, entrée one boar Bolognese, entrée two wagyu bavette with beet and apple puree.”

Milo and Alesandro are already in motion, and I watch for a moment as they rally together to begin tonight’s service. They’re a good team. I know I bring a lot to the table, but they’ll be okay without me.

The thought hits me harder than I expected. It’s what I do . . . arrive, work, and leave when the mood suits me. It’s what I’ve done time and time again, so why does this time feel different? Like there’s a black void in the pit of my stomach when I think of not being here?

Is it Roberta, Milo, and Alesandro I’ll miss? Perhaps.

Or maybe it’s that I already miss the island, with Esmar and his crew.

I sigh, knowing the truth. It’s none of those people I miss, though they are good friends. It’s Abigail. She might be right here in the city, but she’s never been this far away.

I swallow down the sour pain and head to Sergio’s office where I knock once and then open the door.