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As a kid, and also before graduating from high school, I never knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. I envied those kids who knew exactly where their passions were leading them. But that wasn’t me. I was on the undecided list. It’s not that I didn’t have interests. The problem was, I liked too many things. I’d try something, get bored, then move onto something else. There was a period of about six months where I fancied myself a romance novel cover photographer. I blame my mom’s stash of Fabio-emblazoned paperbacks for that particular interest. During that time, I’d people watch. And when a scrumptious specimen of a man would cross my path, I’d picture him on the cover of a racy novel. Or one of those billionaire books. That’s kind of how I’m looking at Chef right now. Appreciatively. Like one would look at Michelangelo’s David—if David wore an Armani suit.
Chef grunts like he can’t even with me. I realize here I’m being completely unprofessional. It’s my first day. I need to step up.
“Who hired you?” he questions, all edgy and irritable.
“Um, I submitted my resume to a temp agency.”
“Temp agency?”
“Yes, and then I had a Zoom interview with Caleb.”
Caleb is another chef. He seems to be second in command to the crabby chef standing before me now. Caleb is considerably less domineering but still incredibly focused and down-to-business.
Chef Crabby Cakes shoves his hands in his pockets and grumbles something imperceptible. Does that anger him somehow? I imagine him as the kind of guy who walks around growling at everything. The kind of guy with a storm cloud following in his wake. One of those lightning storms maybe—but he totally controls it. Like a latino Thor.
I wouldn’t want to get on his bad side.
I plaster on a sunshiny smile and perk up my chest with confidence I’m not really feeling. Fake it till you make it. That’s how I got this far. That’s how I’m still in Los Angeles.
“Welp,” I say, all chipper, shuffling towards the door. “There’s a tray of pizza bombs with my name on it.”
He scowls at me with those dark gray eyes, sooty eyebrows lurched down so far, it’s a wonder he can see anything at all.
“Pizza? Bombs?”
“Just kidding. I’ll just go look for the tuna tartare cones or… caviar.”
I offer a tiny wave, backing up as I scoot away. It’s me belittling myself again. Tiny waves. Backing away from his imposing presence. I’m trying to work on that part of me. Old Olive gave tiny, mousy waves. New Olive makes grand, sweeping exits. Memorable. Jolly. I decide to go for it. Confidence is my middle name. It’s how you make it in this town, so I hear.
I suck in a breath, roll back my shoulders, and lift my chin. I’m carefree, Olive, spreading joy to all the realms. With a glowing grin, I salute, spin fabulously, and march purposefully with a brisk stride… straight into the door frame with a thwonk. I don’t feel any pain at first—the shock is too strong. Then the throbbing in my forehead. And immediately after that, the embarrassment sets in.
The same hand that had tapped me on the shoulder wraps around my arm. The other one branding my cheek as Chef examines my face.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” I laugh it off.
This can not be happening.
“If you’re feeling dizzy, take five,” he says with just a touch of annoyance. “I can’t have you serving like that.”
If I tell him I’m dizzy, he’ll make me go home. I can’t afford not to work.
“I hurt my pride more than anything,” I say, waving my hand.
His ashy eyes narrow, and he studies my features for several long moments. I feel so small and mousy in his overbearing presence and I’m fairly certain I resemble the heart-eyes emoji. I shouldn’t be fawning over any man that’s not fictional after that disaster of a break up I recently went through. It was not pretty. My ex-boyfriend made sure I was ‘let go’ from the marketing firm where we both worked, I found myself with no place to live, and now I’m broke. Which is why I need this job so badly.
“I’m seriously okay. See?” I raise one foot off the floor and balance like a flamingo, touching my fingertip on my nose.
“What are you doing?” he grumbles.
I switch the finger touching my nose from my right hand to my left. “Displaying my excellent balance,” I say.
Judging by the enormous frown on his face, he is not impressed.
“Your excellent balance is no replacement for an accident report,” he says stiffly. “I’ll have one emailed to you by the end of your shift.”
With that, he leaves the room, but before I return to my work, I decide I really will feel less dizzy if I take five.
And a donut.
