I was kidding about the burger joint. Still, nobody in their right mind will hire you once word gets out. And it will. O’Shea’s on damage control. My offer still stands.
A taxi whipped by, launching a tidal wave of putrid water over my head, drenching me. I was too angry, too flipped out, to care. My body filled with a palpable rage. I stood on the corner of Sullivan and Prince, raised my arms to the sky, and screamed so hard I thought my lungs would burst. Tears pricked at my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. Lightning crackled in the sky, illuminating the buildings and bringing me back to my senses. An icy clarity washed over me. Eric wanted me back in every sense, and would make sure I had no other options but him. Soaking wet, I forced my legs to move and walked the four miles home to the Upper East Side, oblivious to the downpour, to the cold, trying to figure out a way to set the record straight. Until he cooled off, talking to O’Shea was out of the question, if he’d even give me a chance to explain what I thought went down, what I knew in my bones went down.
I’d found my heart in the kitchen. The only real relationship I had in my life was with food, and without my dreams I had nothing. Eric knew that. Now my heart was shattered into a billion pieces.
3
the jig is up
Ignacio, my friendly doorman from the Bronx with a gap-toothed smile, frowned when he buzzed me into the lobby. By now, the cut on my hand had stopped bleeding, but my chef’s coat was bloodstained, my toque had flattened on my head like a deflated balloon, and my black Crocs dirtied the polished marble floors, leaving a water trail with each step I took.
“Good lord, Sophie, you look like you’ve been through a war,” said Ignacio, clucking his tongue, worry speckling his usually cheerful tone. “Is that kitchen life of yours that dangerous?”
“In more ways than you can imagine,” I said with a long sigh.
“You hurt?”
“Only a flesh wound,” I said, feeling as if somebody had torn my heart out of my chest and seared it to a crisp. “Just a little cut.”
I didn’t want to be rude to Ignacio—he was always so nice—but I wasn’t in the mood for small talk. I just wanted to get up to my apartment, change out of my bloody, wet clothes, and plot my revenge against Eric. I pressed the button to call the elevator. “I guess I should get upstairs and clean myself up,” I said, rocking self-consciously on my heels, water squishing in between my toes. “I’m making a mess in the foyer.”
“Don’t worry about it. Water dries,” said Ignacio with a sympathetic smile. “Have a nice evening. Tomorrow will be another day.”
“Thanks,” I said and stepped into the elevator, thinking about the old adage “The early bird gets the worm.” In my case, this conjured up a bottle of mescal, tequila’s smoky big brother. If the manufacturers of this potent libation hadn’t drowned the worm found at the bottom of some bottles, the worm would have metamorphosed into a butterfly. The knot in my stomach tightened, so painful I couldn’t breathe. I shook my head, the scene from Cendrillon flashing into my mind like some kind of hallucinatory nightmare, so dizzying I almost fell down. My prayers to the kitchen gods had gone unanswered, unless it was their intention to turn me into a sacrificial lamb, left gutted and slaughtered. Everything I’d worked so hard for had evaporated in less than five minutes. I slithered out of the elevator and onto the floor, trying to will my heart to stop from breaking.
Frank Sinatra crooned and the sound of laughter came from inside the apartment. Walter was home and I really needed to talk to him. Unfortunately, he was probably entertaining one of his highbrow clients, preferring home meetings or restaurants where he could get them liquored up outside the confines of his stuffy office. Thankfully, there was only one apartment on each floor, the elevator opening up with a key into a private foyer, so I wasn’t risking exposing myself to anybody unless Walter or his client opened the front door. The laughter inside got louder. I figured I was safe.
Shivering with cold, I kicked off my clogs, tore off my drenched socks, and changed into my street clothes—jeans, sneakers, and a pale blue cashmere sweater. Then, I pulled out a brush and rebraided my hair so tight my temples throbbed. It wasn’t my best attempt at cleaning up, but I no longer looked like I’d gotten into a knife fight in the back of a dark alley. I balled up my wet and bloody clothes, stuffed them into my bag, and unlocked the door. Two glasses of champagne stood on the coffee table. There was no sign of Walter or his guest.
“Walter?”
He popped up from the couch like a surprised prairie dog, his head darting around in every direction. He wore a pair of silk boxer shorts with whales on them, nothing more. “Sophie? What are you doing here?”
“I live here, remember?” I said, dropping my bag to the marble floor in the entry.
“Yes, but you’re never home this early,” he said.
“And you’re never this naked at seven p.m.,” I said, eyeing the clock in the kitchen, realizing I’d just walked more than an hour and forty-five minutes in pouring rain.
A man with nutmeg-colored freckles peered over the couch and waved. “My fault,” he said, his nose scrunching.
It was Robert, Walter’s longtime friend from Stanford Law. He was also Walter’s boyfriend. And he was also half-naked in his Calvin Kleins. After a long hiatus, they’d gotten back together a few months ago. They scrambled around the living room, throwing on their pants and buttoning the buttons on their matching—yes, matching—Façonnable blue-and-white-checked dress shirts with stiff white collars.
As they dressed, I walked over to the kitchen and ran the water to clean the cut with soap. Thankfully, the knick wasn’t too deep. I wrapped a piece of gauze—a staple in our cabinets—around my hand.
“Did you hurt yourself?” asked Walter.
“Just another one of my klutzy moments.”
“With a knife?” he asked, and I shrugged. “Let me have a look.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “You’re not a doctor, you’re a lawyer.”
“You’re going to be more than fine in a minute,” said Walter, grinning like a fool. “Robert and I have some exciting news to share.”
“Oh, I think it might take more than a minute for me to be fine.”
Robert clapped his hands together and grinned with childish glee. “The charade is up! You don’t have to be Walter’s beard anymore. He finally came out to Nicole tonight!”
“Your mother? Wow. How did she take it?” I asked, gobsmacked.
“As well as can be expected,” said Walter. “She’s pretty disappointed I’m not marrying a beautiful French-born chef, and won’t be able to entertain her ladies who lunch. You know how Nicole is, she’s all about appearances.” He threw up his hands. “Let’s face it. Deep down, she always knew I was queer, but she didn’t want to come to terms with it. Thankfully, having a gay son is de rigueur now. She’ll snap back. I’m pretty sure she’s already planning our wedding. It’ll be a huge event.”