My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

Until now.

I might have moved on from the food in Aruba, though I admit I wasn’t ready to come home and am still considering Esmar’s offer because there is much to learn there. But I haven’t moved on from Abigail. She keeps me guessing and surprises me with her passion for life, and I find that thrilling. But is it only a matter of time before that too becomes boring and I’ll want to move on?

Something in my gut says no.

But Abigail’s moved on from me, wanting only an island ‘honeymoon’ to satisfy some schoolyard competitiveness. Even if what we had went beyond that, she is not a woman to leave her mind unspoken, and yet, she said nothing about continuing once we came home. The only logical conclusion is that . . . she doesn’t want to.

While I have an existential crisis, something even worse has happened.

“Valentina! Lorenzo!”

Sergio’s voice is hot with barely restrained fury and loud enough that I know everyone on the other side of the kitchen door heard him because the din of the hustle and bustle of work stops abruptly.

I clench my jaw, not willing to apologize when I have done nothing wrong.

Valentina is of no such ethical dilemma. “Oh, Sergio, thank God! He was all over me, talking about how much he missed me. He . . .” She breaks down into gushing, sobbing tears, and I watch incredulously as she burrows against her husband’s round belly, laying her head on his shoulder.

What the fuck is she talking about?

From her vantage point, she sniffles and throws me a look that Sergio can’t see. ‘Gotcha’ that look says.

“Lorenzo! Go to my office. Valentina, go home. We’ll discuss this later.” Sergio’s orders are barked and authoritative, something I rarely hear from him.

I stomp down the hall, past Sergio and Valentina, to return to the office. I see the plate of half-eaten fettuccine sitting on the desk amid the mess of papers with Valentina and Sergio’s sex juices and sweat on them.

I can’t do this.

I don’t have to do this.

I can go anywhere—like Aruba. Cook anything—like island fare. I wonder if the papayas are ripe today and what stories Gilberto is telling the crew to make them laugh.

Sergio comes in, shoulders back and chin lifted. He plops down into his chair, which makes a creaking noise.

“Sergio—” I start, my mind made up.

He jerks his chin toward the chair, silently telling me to sit down. I lower myself into the chair, thighs spread wide and my hands clasped between my knees.

“That was not what it looked like,” I try again.

“How long?” he demands. “How long has my wife been coming on to you like that?” His voice has gone softer, the hurt woven through the roughness.

For all of Sergio’s faults, I do believe he truly loves his wife. Unfortunately, she’s demon spawn in stilettos.

“You know?” I hedge.

He sighs heavily. “I was in the hallway and overheard some of what she said.”

I guess her teary blame game wasn’t so successful after all. I can’t find any joy in that, though, when Sergio looks like someone just stole his happiness.

It wasn’t me, though. That was all Valentina.

“Look, man to man . . . she started flirting with me when I first started. At first, it seemed friendly, welcoming. But she’s been more and more aggressive. I’ve told her no dozens of times, told her to go to you more than that. I’m an asshole, but I’ve got no interest in your wife. In anyone’s wife. I’m not that guy.”

It’s a harsh way of putting it, but sometimes, the deepest cut is needed to get all the truth out.

Sergio laughs, though it’s hollow sounding. “I actually believe that. When I mentioned you were coming back for dinner service today, she was excited . . .” His voice drifts off, and I catch his meaning about what prompted their office activities earlier. He’s quiet for a long moment, so I fill the dead space.

“I’ll get my knives and go,” I offer, knowing where this is headed. Sergio might believe me, might believe that his wife is the aggressor in all of this, but he can’t have me in his kitchen.

That’s okay. My mind’s already made up.

At least about working here. I’m not sure about Aruba, but there are a world’s worth of kitchens to explore, and I don’t have to stay somewhere where the shine has worn off.

“I cannot allow you to quit, Chef. I need to fire you, with severance, of course,” Sergio negotiates. He pulls a checkbook from his desk and writes me a check.

I can understand his need to fire me as a show of dominance. He’ll need to continue as the alpha in his restaurant, and he’s well aware that everyone in the kitchen and probably the front of the house too heard our hallway encounter and are gossiping like old women out there as we speak.