North Of Happy

500 grams angel hair pasta

¼ cup sun-dried tomatoes, julienned

1 4-ounce jar capers

METHOD:

The next morning, I leave the motel at sunrise. When I said good-bye to Emma yesterday, she told me to come by the restaurant early. I’m not sure why, but I didn’t really bother asking.

Fog encroaches again, but it’s tinted pink by the dawn. The whole island looks like cotton candy. I linger in the parking lot awhile, see that couple who walked past me the other day packing up their car. Maybe I should be booking my flight home, but for some reason I don’t want to think about it. Not after last night. Felix didn’t show up again the rest of the night, and though I didn’t sleep long, I slept deeply.

Before I can knock on the front door of the restaurant, Emma pokes her head from around the corner. “Come this way,” she calls.

I follow behind. She’s standing by the back door, keeping it propped open. “I have a surprise for you,” she says with a smile.

“Me too.” I hold out the coffee I bought for her on the way here.

I want a little moment reliving yesterday, some eye contact or a forearm squeeze or something. Emma takes the coffee unceremoniously and urges me inside. The short hallway we walk down is much colder than the temperature outside. It’s quiet, though I can tell there’s someone else here.

“Are you giving me a tour?” I ask, a little giddy at the thought. I’ve never been inside a professional kitchen before, and though I’ve had some exposure on TV, in books I’ve read, it’s a little different than what I’d imagined.

“There’ll be time for that.”

I don’t really know what Emma’s talking about, but I’m distracted by the sights of the kitchen. We pass two huge steel doors that I imagine are home to all the ingredients from my meal yesterday. I strain to see the line, the row of cooks prepping for the day. Felix would have loved to see this. We turn a corner and come upon a door, which Emma immediately knocks on.

“Come in!”

Emma pushes the door open. Inside, at a desk facing the door, is a woman who looks surprisingly like Emma herself. She’s wearing a white chef’s coat, her brown hair up in a bun, bags under her eyes. Golden script on the pocket over her heart reads: Chef Elise. She looks up from a clipboard in front of her, barely taking in my presence before she starts scribbling something. “What are you doing here so early?” she asks, which feels to me like a weird way to talk to your employees.

“Meet our new dishwasher,” Emma says.

Chef stops her scribbling and gives Emma a hard look. I turn to her for an explanation too, but she’s busy staring Chef Elise down. I’m guessing this is some sort of joke. I’m just trying to figure out if it’s at my expense or not.

Chef tosses her clipboard down onto the desk and sighs, looks at me. “Any restaurant experience?”

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure what’s going on here.” I turn to Emma. “You want me to work here?”

“Goddamnit, Emma, what are you bringing this kid in here for?”

Emma rolls her eyes. “You need a dishwasher, don’t you?”

“That’s not the point.”

“Of course it is,” Emma says, throwing her hands up. “You need a dishwasher, Mom. It’s not the world’s—” There’s a loud crash, and when I turn to it Chef Elise’s clipboard is on the floor and I swear I can see her nostrils flaring.

“In here, I’m your boss. You call me Chef like everyone else.”

Jesus. The air in the room feels exactly the way it did when I left home. At least now I know why Emma seemed a little familiar. I’d seen Chef before, on that show. “Whatever,” Emma says. “Dishwashing isn’t the hardest job to learn. You need a dishwasher. He wants a job in restaurants. I’m just helping you out.”

Wait, what? Where the hell did Emma get that notion? I’m so confused, which must show on my expression because when Emma sees it she gives me a little smirk. “The way you talk about cooking. You don’t want to go back home, do you?”

Emma raises her eyebrows, questioning. Chef Elise has a similar look in her eyes, just a little more on the exasperated side. As I’m caught in their stares, wondering what I’m supposed to say to that, I sense another presence in the room. Of course. Felix. I try to subtly look around for him, find him in the dust swirling around in a beam of light.

“I think the girl has a point,” Felix says. Only my brother could find a way to smirk when he’s dust. “Why go back to the same thing? What’s waiting at home for you?” At least he’s in wisdom-nugget mode and not stupid-joke mode.

I think about what I said to Mom before I left. One week. It feels like a joke now. How could I have thought a week would be enough? It’s enough for a meal, maybe.

My thoughts are interrupted by the squeak of Chef’s chair as she rolls over to pick up her clipboard. “Fuck, Emma, look at him. He doesn’t even know where he is.” Great, I’ve been staring at a beam of light and probably moving my lips while I think up a response. Chef’s about to tell me to go away and I don’t know what I’d do with the rest of my day. Go back to my room, try to hold myself together by cooking things Felix and I used to. Go home. Face Dad again.

“Elias!” Chef yells out.

A Latino dude shows up at the door. “Yes, Chef.” He’s in a chef coat too, a towel slung over his shoulder, sweat already on his forehead. He’s right around Felix’s age, maybe in his midtwenties.

“Have we heard from Richie yet?”

“No, Chef. That’s three days.”

Chef looks back at me and then at Emma. The other cook, Elias, goes back to whatever he was doing in the kitchen. Chef leans back in her chair and then goes over to the computer on her desk and clicks a few times. Emma gives me a reassuring smile, or at least that’s what I assume it’s supposed to be. It’s six in the morning and I think I’m in the middle of asking for a job, which was not at all in my morning plans.