Everett might have said that the restaurant was a madhouse, if the kitchen wasn’t so orderly. Evan was a demon on the main grill, barking his needs without ever turning around to look at whoever had jumped to carry out his command. But the sauces were ready to go, the meat was well-marinated, and mountains of vegetables had been chopped. Everett stayed on his station and moved each item down to Morris as quickly as he could without sacrificing the perfection that Evan demanded from all of them.
The hardest part was staying synchronized with the other three men, but it got easier as he willed himself to relax and focus on the food. Not on Evan, and how mad he still was at Everett. Not on how Morris and Bernardo constantly slung teasing insults at each other as they worked. And not on how he’d be leaving tomorrow, because he still hadn’t earned the right to be here.
He focused on the staccato rhythm of Bernardo’s knife instead, the sizzle of halibut and shrimp on the grill, and the clanking of Morris’ metal ladle clanging against the pot as he covered another pan of enchiladas with sauce.
He’d been happy when he was in his mother’s kitchen, but here, Everett was positively euphoric.
The idea of going back to the loneliness of his own café, where he was the only one cooking, seemed unthinkable now that Everett knew he could have this.
It was time to close Java Joe’s. He’d find a spot in someone else’s kitchen, where he could enjoy being on a team while learning the rest of what he needed to know before opening his own successful restaurant. Bernardo would probably write him a letter of recommendation. And maybe Morris, too.
What if he hunted for a position in Nashville? Instead of fighting Clara for custody, he could follow her and Jimi to Tennessee, and use his off-time to focus on being the dad he’d never had himself.
He would call Clara tonight and let her know.
By the time the lunch rush was behind them, they already had three glowing reviews on CritEat.
And in the middle of the dinner rush, Sierra burst into the kitchen to announce: “I just seated Ray Joyner.”
One of the world’s most feared food critics was here? No wonder Evan had been freaking out when he suggested moving the opening date. What kind of PR campaign did you have to run to get Ray Fucking Joyner to show up on opening day?
“Comp him a glass of Artemis Tull and tell him we’re making him one of everything,” Evan said.
Then he went back to the grill and flipped a filet of halibut, as if Joyner was just another customer.
How could he be so unflappable?
Everett would be terrified to cook for one of the biggest critics in the world.
He was terrified right now, just thinking about how he could be the one to sink Tequila Mockingbird, by making a big mistake with the critic’s meal.
But then he realized Evan’s secret.
He wasn’t overwhelmed at the thought of cooking for Ray Joyner, because he prepared every meal as if he was cooking for a world-renowned critic.
His relentless drive for consistent perfection looked exhausting from the outside. To Klair, it looked like obsession. To the junior chefs, it looked like harassment. But to Evan, it was setting a standard and holding himself to it.
By contrast, Everett had cooked every meal as if his customers were unappreciative peons who couldn’t tell the difference between his egg sandwich and one from a drive-through.
And that was why Java Joe’s had ultimately failed.
He turned to reach for another bucket of roasted red pepper relish and nearly collided with Morris.
“Focus up,” Evan said, without looking away from the grill.
Everett muttered an apology to Morris, who clapped him on the back and whispered, “Buckle up, bitch, we’ve got no time for your bullshit. Ray. Fucking. Joyner.”
By the time Joyner’s last dish went out, Everett was back in the flow of things. He had no idea how much time had passed before Sierra returned with two thumbs up. “He said the stew was outstanding, and he wanted to know what’s in the enchilada sauce.”
Everyone whooped, including Evan, who didn’t stop flipping shrimp for even a beat to celebrate.
The rest of the day passed in a blur, including Evan’s brief interview with a journalist from Tribeza who’d been granted permission to take a few pictures and observe the kitchen in motion.
Everett did his best not to draw her attention as she questioned Evan, briefly turning away to grab a spare bowl of chopped cilantro when she asked where the inspiration for tonight’s menu had come from.
“If you’ve got enough pictures, I’d be happy to talk more tomorrow,” Evan curtly replied. “I’ve got to get back to it.”
“Tomorrow,” she agreed. “Ten a.m.”
Everett wondered how Evan would answer that question without Everett around. Maybe he wouldn’t; maybe he’d focus on the planned menu, which they’d be serving for the rest of the week, once the emergency order finally came through.
It didn’t matter. He’d be on his way back to his old life by ten a.m. tomorrow.
By closing time, Sierra had brought back several dozen “compliments to the chef,” and Everett thought his mother would be proud to know that so many people had enjoyed her recipes, tweaked to fit the available ingredients and Evan’s preferences.
Maybe someday, once he understood the restaurant business well enough to do it right, Everett could open a little place that served her favorites. Baja Bistro.
Evan disappeared once everything had been put away for the night, but Everett understood that too. At least he got to say goodbye to his fellow station chefs.
Bernardo put one large hand on his shoulder. “All relationships have hard times, Rhett, but the best relationships are even better for the struggle. You and your brother will be fine … in time.”
“I’mma miss you, bitch!” Morris wrapped his arms around Everett and lifted him an inch. Then he dropped him back to the floor and looked around the kitchen to see that Chef was already gone. “Sorry … that’s some nonsense right there.”
Everett agreed, but he wasn’t about to complain. “It’s cool. Really.”
“Promise you’ll hit me next time you’re in Austin, even if you’re not hanging with Chef?”
“If you promise to hit me if you’re anywhere near Los Orillas.”
Everett took one last look around the kitchen, then Everett headed for the back door.
Evan was waiting for him in the alley.
He said, “Can we talk?”
Don’t say anything.
It was tempting to open his mouth and start talking. But every time he’d done it before, he put his foot in his mouth. The only thing he hadn’t tried was listening.
Evan lurched forward and thrust a hand into his back pocket. Everett looked and saw a baby blue box of cigarettes. Natural American Spirit it read on the box, just above the silhouette of a Native American puffing on the end of a peace pipe. He wondered if that packaging was still acceptable these days.
“Want one?” Evan asked.
“No thanks.”
Evan nodded, put one of the American Spirits between his lips, then lit the tip and took a mighty drag.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” Everett said.
“I quit when I met Klair.” He took another drag, exhaled in a plume. “Now I only light up when there’s a day or a moment I want to I remember. My last one was when Jazz was born. The time before that was the day Señor Sushi opened.”
Everett nodded.
After a long pause, Evan said, “You saved me.”
“It’s the least I could do.”
Another long pause, then, “Klair and I talked.”
“I’m sorry about—”
“Can you please just shut up.” Evan smiled, took a puff, then inhaled both the smoke and the silence. “Klair is right. I do need to spend more time at home.”
Evan paused, and Everett wondered if he was supposed to agree, or keep his mouth shut. He opted to stay quiet.
“I wasn’t happy when you first showed up on my doorstep. I thought you wanted money or something. Or that maybe you were even a con artist with a close resemblance. Maybe you looked me up online and saw the restaurant, thought you could squeeze me. Klair never agreed. She had your back from the start, always insisting that she ‘just didn’t get that vibe from you.’ We had a fight about it. Then another fight and another after that.”
And then you caught her kissing me.
“I never wanted to cause either one of you guys any trouble at all. I hate to hear that you were fighting because of me.”
Evan sighed. “That wasn’t your fault. We were having trouble before you showed up. But hearing her constantly defend you really made me jealous. I kept telling myself that I had nothing to worry about, but a deeper part of me was starting to believe that Klair was into you because, why not? You’re like a me who wasn’t being an asshole to her. At least that’s how I started to see it. By the time I actually saw Klair throwing herself at you, I realized how big our problems were. And how much was my fault.”
One final drag, then Evan flicked the remaining third of his cigarette on the ground and mashed the still-burning butt with his heel.
“We’re going to therapy. Klair’s looking for someone now. We’ll start next month. Jazz too. I didn’t realize the bullying had gotten so bad.”
“That’s great. I’ve been thinking about going to therapy, too …”
“You have?” Evan asked.
“For sure.” Mostly in the negative, but he’d recently changed his mind. “I’ve been taking Jimi and Clara for granted. For a while now. I just didn’t realize it until—”
“You saw me pulling the same exact bullshit.”
Everett couldn’t help laughing. “Yes. That’s exactly it.”
“Same,” Evan admitted with a nod. “It’s weird how meeting you made me see myself from the outside for the first time in my life. I’ve spent most of my life as the center of attention, and I never really learned to share it. I’m so used to enjoying the spotlight, I didn’t even know how to step outside of it when my identical twin came to surprise me on my birthday.” Another shake of his head, and again the gesture felt intended for both of them. “That was a shit thing to do. You deserved a better reception.”
Everett was trembling inside. “Wanna hear something really fucked up?”
“I do,” Evan nodded.
“Sometimes when I was little, I actually looked forward to my brothers’ bullying.”
“Because at least then they were paying attention to you?” Evan guessed.
“Exactly. It was the only time they ever acknowledged my existence.”
“That really is fucked up.”
“Thanks.” They laughed, the same sound, at the same time.
“So, the stuff you have to fix at home. How bad is it? Do you need to leave right away?” Evan asked.
“I decided to close Java Joe’s. My lease is almost up, and the landlord is right to want me out of there.”
“You know, if I’m working less, I’m going to need a lot more help.”
Was he saying what Everett thought he was saying? “Whatever I can do.”
“You would be a station chef, with a starting salary.”
“That sounds … amazing.” His throat was closing and his eyes were starting to sting.
“It wouldn’t be fair to the others if I gave you special treatment because you’re my brother.”
“Of course not,” Everett agreed.
He didn’t want any special treatment, and he wasn’t looking for an easy button. Not anymore.
Everett just wanted to find out how far he could get with his new second chance.