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“No, I’m only working nights. I’ll still take her for the day tomorrow.”
She looked surprised. “Thank you.”
I didn’t add that the restaurant was actually closed for the Fourth—it seemed better to just take the credit. Especially when I knew I was about to press my luck.
“If you want, I can get her ready for camp in the mornings this week, so you can go and see Thomas before work. And I can drop her at the Maidstone on my way to the restaurant at night.”
She tilted her head and considered. “I guess that’ll work. For this week, at least.”
I nodded, pretending to look pleased. Had it really come to negotiating with Rain in order to stake a claim to her lousy couch?
Rain paused, tapping on the bedroom doorframe. “So why did you take the job?” she said. “What’s your play?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Bullshit.”
I looked away, irritated that she was calling me out, even if she was right.
“Not everyone is gaming everyone, you know,” I said.
She smiled. “No, not everyone. But you definitely are.”
“You know . . . you looked kind of sad that I might have been gone,” I said.
She stopped smiling. “I can promise you it wasn’t for the reason you think,” she said.
Then she disappeared into her bedroom.
26
You can easily get complacent.
When I was younger, I never did. I was vigilant. Consider it a side effect of growing up in my father’s home. His shifting rules made anything close to complacency an impossibility. We never knew what would be required of us, based on what he thought was required of him. There were some rules that we could count on lasting, like his pancakes, and others that shifted entirely on a dime, like forbidden hours. It taught me a good lesson, though. Complacency was dangerous.
So why was it that I kept forgetting such a basic tenet?
I woke up on the uncomfortable couch, rain pouring down outside, and I actually had the thought: Amber’s hack was in the past. I was onto the redemption plan. Step one: getting my career back on track. Chef Z knew me. Chef Z would soon love me. Step two: starting to deal with my personal life. I sat down to send Danny an email. A long email explaining a little better how I thought we’d gotten here. It would be useful, I decided, not to let him completely off the hook. I would strike the perfect tone between sensitive and strong. I wouldn’t overly apologize. He, after all, had things to apologize for now too. His haste in the aftermath, selling our apartment. I wouldn’t castigate him, but I’d allude to it.
I would also fit in that I was driving my niece to camp every day. If he thought I was trying to heal my family, he’d be impressed. And he would remember that was the woman he loved. One night in fourteen years hadn’t changed that.
Except, when I opened my computer, I saw the new hack.
An email from Aintnosunshine.
Checking in. Happy being yesterday’s news?
And there was a link to my YouTube channel, A Little Sunshine. I clicked on the link, and instead of a new video from me, there was Toast of the Town written in large letters and a link to Amber Rucci’s YouTube channel. I stared at the screen in disbelief. Was Amber actually that shameless? Sending people from my channel to hers?
Reluctantly, I clicked on the link and saw Amber sitting in her Upper West Side apartment, curled into her couch in a comfy sweater and jeans (and full makeup), announcing her cookbook release and saying she had exciting news to share.
“I’m hitting the small screen!” Amber said. Then she clicked on her TV, which was tuned to the Food Network. “Stay tuned! Literally.”
My Food Network hosting gig. It was now her Food Network hosting gig. She was the ideal replacement. A marketing executive was ordering new billboards. A producer was happily convincing the higher-ups that Amber was better for the job anyway.
I hit pause, trying to control my anger.
On Amber’s checklist to steal my career, she had checked another box. An important one.
