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His eyes widen, and I know my words have found their mark. For my entire life, it has just been the two of us. He has done his best to care for me, and I know, deep down, he thinks that is what he is doing now. He thinks he is saving me. But he’s wrong.
He looks down at the table and smooths his hand across the surface, his eyes following the movement. When he starts to speak, he doesn’t look up. “Everything I’ve done in my life has been for you, sweet girl. Everything. Since the moment your mom left us, I have devoted my life to keeping you safe.”
Tears tighten my throat, and I swallow against them. I don’t want to cry. I can’t. Not here. Not when I’ve finally stood up for myself. When my father looks up at me, his eyes are glassy, and a tear slips from the corner of my eyes against my permission.
“But if you can sit here and claim I do not love you…” he says, his voice breaking. He clears his throat and shakes his head. “If you can think I’m doing this out of selfishness, then apparently I haven’t done my job properly. I’ve failed you.”
He looks down at the table, and before I can stop myself, I reach out and grab his hand. My fingers wrap around his warm palm, and I pull his hand closer to me, curling both of my hands around it. “You haven’t failed, Dad. You’ve been a wonderful father. You’ve always loved me.”
My dad has always been strong. I was prepared for him to be stern, to make a stand, to demand I follow his orders. I was not prepared for him to fold beneath my criticism. I wasn’t prepared for him to cry.
“Don’t say something you don’t mean,” he says, head lowered.
“I do mean it,” I insist, shaking his hand so he’ll look up at me. “I love you, and I know you love me. I’m sorry I said you didn’t.”
He looks up at me, his eyes the same caramel brown shade as mine, and slowly, his eyes wrinkle into a smile. He grabs my hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing it gently. “Forgiven, sweet girl.”
I smile at him, happy that, for the moment, Luka’s marriage proposal is forgotten. Happy that we can have a normal father and daughter moment, if only for a few minutes.
* * *
My first conversation with Cal Higgs since the wine spilling incident with Ivan Volkov does not go as well as the conversation with my father. His doughy face is red, eyes bulging out of his head until I’m certain they’ll pop. Cal is livid.
“The only reason you are still working here is because I don’t want to deal with your father’s wrath on top of the Volkov family’s,” he spits. “But know that you are on serious probation. If you disrespect any of my customers again, I may not be able to fire you, but I can be damn sure you never make another dish in this kitchen again. How does cleaning duty sound?”
“I’ll be on my best behavior,” I say, fighting the urge to defend myself. It won’t matter, anyway. Cal Higgs has never been a man of reason. He wouldn’t care what Ivan said to me or how he berated me for no reason. Cal only cares about his bottom line and his reputation, and what I did was bad for both.
After our very public discussion, the rest of the restaurant staff steer clear of me like I’m infectious. They speak to me only when necessary and make a point to never do so when Cal is nearby. No one wants to incur his anger by simple proximity. Their avoidance makes an especially busy dinner service even more difficult.
“I can’t plate all of these on my own,” I call over my shoulder while I drizzle balsamic glaze artfully along the edge of the dinner plates. “Someone needs to help me.”
I wait several seconds, but no one rushes over. “Felix.”
I see him wince in the corner of my eye. “Yes?”
“Help me.” I’m not asking. Not being polite. If they want to avoid me, fine, but they can’t avoid their work.
I show him how to dress the plates, praying we won’t have another confusion in the vein of the raisins versus prunes debacle, but I’m desperate enough that even Felix’s help is better than nothing. Together, we dress the plates, and since Makayla is busy running drinks from the bar since we are short on waitresses, I send him out with the food.
“But I’m a cook,” he argues.
“I’m aware, Felix. Tonight, you are a cook and a waiter. Just deliver the food and get back to the kitchen. It’s simple.”
Apparently, not simple enough, however. Five minutes after Felix delivers the food, Makayla rushes in and whispers in my ear. “Complaint at table ten. They want to see the chef.”
I groan. “Thanks for not telling Cal.”
She squeezes my wrist in solidarity, and then hurries back out to the dining room. I follow behind her at a much slower pace.
As soon as I walk into the room, I glance towards the table where the Volkovs have been sat for the past two nights. They are not there. Instead, an elderly couple are in their place, sharing a slice of salted caramel cheesecake. They make for a very different scene than Luka’s chiseled jaw and broad shoulders. The smiling elderly couple are much less intimidating.
The men at table ten are not smiling. They glare and follow me with their eyes as I cross the room, hands folded behind my back. I pause at the edge of their table.
“I heard someone wanted to speak with the chef?”
“Yes,” a blonde-haired man says, his nose long and pointed like a fox. “Thechef. You are not the chef.”
“I am tonight.” I smile, keeping my promise to Cal not to disrespect any of the guests.
