“How will people know you have your shit together if they don’t see you? A head chef has to schmooze sometimes.”
He nudges open the kitchen door, sending me through like a late order. “Fine. Knock ’em dead, Princess.”
In the dining room, I gather my hair into a knot as I blow out a breath. Frenetic energy zings up my spine. My fingers itch to braidmy hair, but I resist. I want it down tonight, brushing my shoulders in waves.
The cake fiasco aside, things have been going so well, I’m almost suspicious. I’m not going to fail.We’renot going to fail. This soft opening is going to introduce Fable to the culinary world with a bang. The dining room looks incredible: high-end and understated yet infused with just the right amount of Florida charm. Not too bad for sweat equity and a budget of practically nothing. Centerpieces of red and pink hibiscus grace every table, accented with silver buttonwood and white zinnias. In the soft lighting, the blue walls remind me of the ocean. I inspect the nearest table, straightening out a crooked fork.
Chester’s behind the bar, working on the signature cocktail; we decided to do a play on a Paloma, but with mezcal as the base. And near the front door, going over the guest list one more time, is Kiara, looking fabulous in a red jumpsuit and block heels. Her makeup, too, is killer.
“That red lipstick is incredible,” I say as I rush to her as fast as I can go in the heels I’m wearing, pulling her into a hug. “You look amazing. Are you nervous? I feel like I’m about to vibrate out of my skin.”
“You look amazing too.” Kiara gestures to the tablet holding our guest list. “The number of recognizable names on here is wild, by the way.”
I shrug. “I’m sure most of them said yes just to see what all the hype is about.”
“And you created that hype.”
“It’s not like being a vet, helping sick animals.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s not important. Plus,” she adds, eyes full of mischief, “you managed Jack. On camera.”
“Ugh. The most uncooperative costar ever. He’s lucky he’s handsome. People wouldn’t have stopped scrolling nearly as much otherwise.”
She rolls her eyes fondly. “Secretly, there’s a part of him that’s into it.”
She heads off to talk with the guitar player, a local artist who is setting up against the wall opposite the booths. I triple-check the guest list myself, heart hammering.
I take a deep breath, even though breathing exercises have always been a joke to me—I’m convinced meditation is torture—and throw back my shoulders.
I can do this.
Guests arrive in a parade of hired rides or flashy sports cars. Kiara and I greet everyone who comes through the door, obligingly posing for selfies and giving out excited hugs. Slowly, the tables start to fill up. Servers float through the crowd with trays of drinks and tiny, perfect hors d’oeuvres: toast points with smoked salmon and caviar; bacon-wrapped, bleu-cheese filled dates; seared scallops in a pool of vibrant green pea purée; and pickled jackfruit–stuffed puff pastry.
A group of influencers—women I went to events with all the time in New York—settle at a booth, their phones already out and recording.
“Poppy!” calls one of them, Ashley. Her father is a prominent investor, and she rose to popularity by recording her life on the Upper East Side for the masses.
I put on my best smile. “Hi, girls,” I trill once I walk over. “Thanks so much for coming.”
“This is incredible,” gushes another, Georgia. “Usually anything north of Palm Beach is a no-go, but I’m glad we made an exception.”
“Wait until you taste the food.” I clasp my hands together. My designer dress, just as fine as any of theirs, feels like armor. “Jack and I have put together a really fantastic menu.”
“Will we see an appearance from the internet’s favorite chef?” Ashley asks.
I shrug coyly. “You’ll have to see.”
Once I’m back to moving through the crowd, it hits me that I don’t feel connected to those women—or anyone else here—like I used to. Instead of being desperate for approval and attention, I’m self-assured in the effort I put into Fable. I’m channeling my best @itspoppywinfield tonight, complete with a flashy gold dress, but it’s not all I am anymore.
I never imagined how freeing it would feel.
I retreat to the host stand, taking in the room at large. Pride floods my chest. I remember how the restaurant looked when I firstarrived. Grimy, and sad, but with so much promise. So many good memories lingering in the air. An abandoned ship, ready for another voyage.
I don’t know how long this place is going to last, and I don’t want to think about it. Not tonight. Not when it feels as though I’ve stepped into a fairytale.
A fable.
It hits me, fully, that I did this.Wedid this. I brush away a stray tear and clear my throat.
