Well then who the hell did?
Wednesday nights are strange. Since it’s high season at the beach, every night feels like a Saturday. People are on vacation; they don’t mind eating late. But for some reason, Wednesdays tend to be a little slower. You’d think people would want to go out in the middle of the week, but I guess there’s no need to break up the monotony of a vacation.
By 8:45 p.m. all the reservations are seated, but I still have no clue who the hell sent me the flowers. I leave the hostess stand for a minute to go into the kitchen. I’m craving pasta tonight; I think the carbs will help me solve the mystery. The carbs and a quick call to my mother.
“Can you make me pasta with marinara?” I ask in the kitchen.
Lorenzo nods and drops some spaghetti in his boiling water. “Just wait for it,” he says. The great thing about restaurants is all the prep work the kitchen does ahead of time. Each afternoon, right before we open for the night, Lorenzo cooks off some pasta. He leaves it slightly under cooked, so that it can finish off when he adds it back to the boiling pot he keeps on the stove. This reduces the cooking time from ten minutes to about two.
As I wait for the pasta, I call my mom.
“How was business tonight?” she asks before even saying hello. She and my father are on the Island so she probably can’t figure out why I’m calling since I’ll see her back at the house.
“Good. Steady.” I shift the phone to my other ear. “Hey Mom, who sent me those flowers?”
“Roberto. Wasn’t that nice of him?”
“He said he didn’t send them.” I wait a few seconds for her to respond.
“He’s probably just lying,” she says with a little laugh, which is a telltale sign that she’s lying.
“Who sent them, Mom?”
Lorenzo pours the steaming pasta into a bowl and tops it with a ladle of marinara sauce and hands it to me under the heat lamp.
I douse it with hot pepper flakes, just like my father, and cover the top with a layer of cheese. My mom doesn’t answer.
“Mom?”
“Alright, fine, I’ll tell you. Anna sent them. We both thought of it.”
“What?”
“We saw you and Roberto talking at the barbeque so we thought we’d just set things in motion a bit.” She sounds so casual and flippant that instantly, I want to scream.
“How could you do that?”
“Stella, it’s no big deal.”
“No big deal? It’s humiliating, Mom. Now not only does Roberto think I’m crazy, but my own mother thinks I’m pathetic.”
She starts to speak but I hang up the phone. There’s nothing she can say to right this situation.
I carry the bowl out to the front of the restaurant, where I can sit at a corner table and brood. On the way, Brittany rushes by me with a stack of plates and bumps my hand. Some of the pasta slashes out onto my shirt.
“Oh no. I’m so sorry.” She reaches into her apron and grabs a cloth napkin.
“It’s fine,” I snap taking the napkin. After all, I’m the biggest loser on the Island, I may as well have a big stain on my shirt. I place the pasta down and rub the sauce off my chest with a napkin. As I’m trying to remove the stain, my cell phone rings.
“Leave me alone, Mom,” I bark into the phone.
“Stella?” I hear Julie on the other end.
“Hey Jules,” I perk up and take a seat, placing the pasta bowl in front of me. “You won’t believe what my mom did. She—”
“Stell, I need to tell you something,” Julie interrupts. She doesn’t sound good. Since I’ve known Julie, there’s been a major crisis at least once a year, but somehow I’m always able to help her through it. Today, she seems to need me more than ever. I shift positions in my chair.
“Tell me everything.”
I can hear her lighting a cigarette and inhaling deeply. “Ok, I was at this party last night,” she begins and then stops. “I really don’t know how to tell you this.”
My heart races. This seems really bad. “Just say it. It’ll be okay.”
She takes a deep breath. “Drew was there.”
“What party?”
“It was this thing for this new Vodka company. It was at the rooftop bar at the Hudson. They invited the press.”
“How did Drew get in?”
“I guess Connective reps the company or something.” She inhales again. “Anyway, he was sort of with someone.”
My heart stops and my mind flashes back to July third. The bimbo that I heard on the phone is Drew’s new girlfriend? This can’t be happening.
“What did she look like?”
Julie doesn’t respond, which only makes me think Drew’s new girlfriend is a freaking supermodel or something.
“Jules, what did she look like?”
“It’s someone you know actually.”
My heart races. This is the exact moment where everything is going to fall apart. I brace myself.
“It’s Trisha Motley.”
For a minute, I’m stunned. Drew is dating Trisha Motley. Trisha Motley who has a beautiful house on 100th Street and comes into the restaurant all the time. I mean, I don’t think Drew would actually come into the restaurant with her, but still, I’m sure they’ll be on the Island together. Which means that I might actually bump into them. Together.
I try to catch my breath, but I feel like the wind has been knocked out of me.
“Stell, there’s more,” Julie says exhaling another puff of smoke. She takes a deep breath. “They’re getting married.”
Instantly I feel like I’m going to pass out. “How do you know?” I mumble.
“I saw the ring.”
Images start flashing in my mind. Trisha asked me if Drew and I were getting engaged. He had a Tiffany’s catalogue in his apartment. That’s my ring. The bitch stole my ring.
Ok, Calm down and think about this rationally. There must be some explanation for Drew and Trisha getting engaged.
Engaged.
How the hell did this happen?
I know Trisha and Drew have known each other for years but I didn’t think they still talked. Or that they’d start dating for God’s sake. I bet she tricked him into the engagement. I mean, how else could this be possible?
Or maybe she’s pregnant. It’s probably not even his child, but she knew that Drew was kind hearted enough to marry her, so she lied and said it was his. Nine months from now he’ll be in for a big surprise.
Serves him right. The bastard.
But maybe I can save him before it’s too late. If I can only expose Trisha for the fraudulent slut that she is, then maybe Drew will see how much better I am. Of course, he’ll have to buy me a new ring. I don’t want sloppy seconds on an engagement ring, even if it does come from Tiffany’s.
I hang up with Julie and I run into the kitchen to ask Mario to cover for me. Thankfully, he doesn’t ask questions, and doesn’t try to follow me when I run out of the back door. As soon as I get to the street I start to cry.
It’s only 10:30 so the streets are still full and as I walk towards the beach I’m praying that I don’t see anyone I know.
“Stella?” I hear a familiar voice. Obviously God wasn’t listening to my prayers. I put my head down and ignore it. I try to pick up my pace.
“Stella?”
The voice seems closer to me now, so I stop and turn around. “What? What do you want?” I blurt out.
Roberto looks at me with what can only be described as pity. “Are you okay?”
“Do I fucking look okay?” I scream. I just stand there in the middle of the street, tears running down my face. “No, I look pathetic don’t I?”
“What happened?” He moves closer to me and I step back.
“My ex-boyfriend is engaged to some else. Engaged. And we broke up a month ago.”
He looks down but doesn’t say anything.
“What’s wrong with me?” I yell the question I’ve been avoiding since Drew broke up with me. “Why am I so
un-loveable?”
“Are you kidding?” He moves closer and tries to hug me. “You’re so beautiful.”
I back away. “Please. That’s why your mom is sending me flowers and pushing you to date me?” I turn around and start walking.
“What are you talking about?”
“Just leave me alone Roberto. I don’t need your pity or anyone else’s.”
I pick up my pace and, thankfully, he doesn’t follow me.
***
I’ve been sitting on the beach at 101st Street for a while now, just thinking about the mess of my life. But I don’t really feel like sitting here anymore, so I get up and start walking. I look at my watch. It’s 4:30 a.m. I know I should just go home but I really don’t feel like talking to anyone.
I need to make soufflés for tomorrow night, and there’s no time like the present. Besides, baking will do me good, at least it will take my mind off this mess.
As soon as I start walking towards the restaurant, I feel a huge blister on the back of my heel. Sand has gotten into it and it really burns. For some reason, this makes me cry even harder. I take my shoes off and start walking barefoot down Third Avenue, mascara running down my face.
A police car pulls to my left. I turn to see two officers looking at me strangely. That’s the thing about living on the Island, there’s never any privacy when you need it most.
They roll down the window. “Rough night?” the officer in the passenger seat asks. I peer into the car and realize the driver is Officer Manning, a regular at the restaurant. He doesn’t recognize me.
“Hi Officer Manning,” I say and get his attention.
“Stella, what are you doing walking the streets at this hour?”
Walking the streets? He makes me sound like a hooker. Excuse me, my name is not Trisha Motley.
I look down at myself and realize that I do look a little bit like a hooker, especially with make-up smeared all over my face.
“I locked myself out of my house,” I lie. “So I’m going to the restaurant. I’ve got that key.”
“Do you want us to call your house or anything?” the other officer asks.
“No, I don’t want to wake anyone up.”
He doesn’t say anything, but gives me a half smile and waves good-bye. Does he think I’m lying?
They remain parked on Third Avenue and watch as I unlock the door and enter the restaurant. I lock it behind me and walk to the kitchen in the darkness.
There, the kitchen mats feel strange against my bare feet. I turn on the lights and walk to the office, where I know I’ve stashed a pair of flip-flops. Once I locate them, I get down to business, opening the first aid kit and tending to this blister. The last thing I need is an infection or gangrene on my foot or something. That’s totally unsexy. As I’m working, I spot the bottle of Sambuca I keep in my office for good customers.
Perfect. I’ll just take a little sip.
I unscrew the black top and take a swig right from the bottle. I’ve never been a fan of the dark licorice flavor of Sambuca, but right now, it tastes so good to me that I take another swig and nestle the bottle under my arm. I grab a fresh apron and place it over my head, then move to fetch the chocolate out of the dry storage.
Instead of using precut chocolate, I prefer to order big blocks and cut it myself, so I take the entire block of semi-sweet chocolate, and the entire block of bitter chocolate off the shelves and plop them onto the workspace.
I search through the various gadgets until I find our kitchen scale, and I line up large stainless steel bowls to hold the chocolate once it’s been cut.
Then suddenly, as if by magic, I’m able to forget everything.
I focus only on the task at hand, making the batter for chocolate soufflés, and as I prep the chocolate by cutting it into tiny slivers, I realize that, for once, I’m at peace.
The time passes quickly, and I’ve almost forgotten that it’s past 5:00 a.m.
I feel better already, so I focus all my attention on the soufflés, buttering and sugaring the ramekins and melting the chocolate into the roux.
Then, of course, there are the eggs. I skillfully separate the yolks from the whites, and drop the whites into the bowl of the Kitchen-Aid mixer. I’m particularly slow, because I know that when I finish baking, I’ll have to return to the real world and think about what happened tonight. Drew’s engaged.
I take another shot of Sambuca, hoping to wipe the thoughts out of my head.
By the time I finish making the batter and filling the ramekins, I decide that he’s totally not worth it anyway. The jerk.
Really, after three years of being together he gives my ring to another woman.
All this work and stress have made me pretty hungry and instead of actually making something, I figure I’ll just eat some of the soufflé batter.
I mean, what could be more comforting than a warm chocolate soufflé?
Not that I’m going to cook it or anything. But still, the flavor is the same cooked or raw.
I pop all of the ramekins except one into the dessert fridge and am about to shut the door when I spot the cake.
Of course!
The perfect cake for a heartbreak.
I reach my fork directly into the dessert case.
The bitterness of the chocolate hits me hard, and I realize that this will taste so much better with some more Sambuca. I grab the entire cake and take it with me.
On my way to the kitchen, I stumble a tiny tiny bit.
But it’s okay, no one is here to see me.
I settle on the floor of the waiters’ station, I take a sip of liquor and chase it with a forkful of cake. I was right. It is better with Sambuca. I proceed that way, alternating between sips and bites, until I’m scrapping up the last remnants from the bottom of the serving dish.
The problem is, I don’t really feel better.
In fact, I actually feel a little worse.
Maybe I was wrong about the cake.
I look over at the Sambuca bottle and see that it’s almost half empty. It wasn’t full when I opened it was it? No, it couldn’t have been.
My stomach starts to really hurt, so I figure I should lie on it for a while. I lay my face on the cold tiles and feel more refreshed than ever before.
Now this is comfortable.
I’m surprised more people don’t sleep on floors.
Don’t they do this in Asia?
Maybe I should move to Japan. Or China. I do like Asian food. I start to envision myself as a world traveler, speaking fluent Japanese….
Somewhere between thinking of how I’d look in a kimono and wondering how much plane tickets cost, I must have fallen asleep, because when I wake up, it’s already light outside. I move to stand and it feels like my head was hit by a baseball bat. Then my stomach flips and I realize I’m going to vomit. I crawl into the bathroom and just make it to the toilet.
I feel so much better when I finish that I decide to just lay on the ground again and sleep it off.
The next time I wake up, I hear Mario screaming at me.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Huh?” I say. I look around and realize I’m on the bathroom floor. I should ask him what he’s doing spying on me in the women’s room. I actually move to say this, but before I can talk, I scoot myself up near the toilet and throw up.
“That’s lovely,” Mario says. “My sister’s got real class.”
I don’t feel like talking to him, but he makes me so mad. “What, you’ve never been hung over before, Mr. Perfect?” I realize how bad this looks, but still.
“Not in the restaurant.”
“Well who cares where I am?”
“Mom and Dad care, actually. They’ve been up all night trying to call you. She wanted to call the police. But I said I’d find you.” He pauses and gives me a dirty look. “I just didn’t know you’d be like this.”
“Can you get me some San Pellegrino?”
He sighs and walks towards the waiters
’ station. I hear him open the fridge, then grab a glass off the shelf. When he returns, he hands me a glass of water.
I try to sit up straight and can feel that I have vomit in my hair. I don’t even want to look at myself in the mirror.
“You better clean up before Mom and Dad see you,” he says, shaking his head.
“What time is it anyway?”
“It’s just after nine.”
“Can you call Mom and tell her where I am.”
“Fine,” he says and reaches into his pocket for his phone.
When he steps out of the bathroom, I try to stand again, but instead, I throw up. I don’t even want to think of Sambuca again in my life.
I finally stand and walk over to the sink. I run the water and splash it on my face, trying to scrub away the remnants of the night.
Dark circles hang under my eyes and it’s obvious I’ve been crying. I take a deep breath. The last thing in the world that I want to do is face Mario right now, but I know I need to start explaining myself, so I think of what I’m going to say.
When I walk into the dining room, I see him sweeping up the broken glass. I vaguely remember knocking over some glasses last night. It’s still hard to place myself time wise, but as I glance out the window and see all the morning shoppers going into Beautiful People next door it all clicks.
“What happened?” he asks when he sees me.
I don’t believe Mario actually cares, but at this point, I just let it all out. “Drew’s engaged. We dated for three years and he didn’t want to marry me, but after only one month with a new girl he’s engaged.” I slump down in a chair and realize that, no matter what plans I can come up with, it’s really over. Drew didn’t want to marry me. He wants Trisha Motley.
Mario puts down the broom and looks at me. “Other guys will want to marry you.”
“Yeah right,” I say. Suddenly it’s clear. I’ll never get married and I’ll end up in a small apartment with seventeen cats. “I’ll die alone.”
“You just need to calm down.”
Ha. That’s easy for him to say. He’s never been dumped on his ass.
By the time I get home it’s almost 10:00. Mario was nice enough to go get his car so I wouldn’t have to do a walk of shame across Third Avenue.
The Queen of Minor Disasters Page 13