I Hate Myself For Losing You

Caleb

I needed a good night’s sleep, which didn’t happen.

Instead, here I am attempting morning yoga. Never tried it before. So, could someone explain to me why I’m in boat pose, staring out the window onto my patio? Well, it’s simple. I’m channeling some inner peace before I go into work today because sleep did little to quell my anger over yesterday’s dinner service. Never mind. I’m still holding onto anger over Ivan’s behaviour. I’m still angry because that blank look on Hannah’s face scared me. For a minute, I thought she was going to throw down her apron and walk out.

Tortoise pose.

Instead of focusing on whatever Ashtanga is, I keep dreaming about pounding Ivan’s stupid Russian face in. In between those thoughts, flashes of my hand caressing Hannah’s soft skin pop in. Then I think about how lush her lips are and how silky her hair looks. Other primal urges overtake my need to defend her honour, and instead, have me thinking dishonourable things. So, really, I’m trying yoga to clear those images from my memory bank before I have to spend nine hours in a sweaty kitchen with her.

Failing miserably.

It would have been much more beneficial to join my cousin Oscar at his muay thai gym and let him pound the thoughts out of my head. Or at least pummel things myself until every ounce of anger drips from my pores. But I don’t have time to drive across the city before I have to be back at the restaurant.

My yoga flow is as smooth as a sea urchin, and I’m not sure I get any benefit from it. It doesn’t lower my blood pressure. Nor does my shower before I get dressed for another long day in the kitchen. Far too close to Hannah Parker.

I arrive at work at 11:30, a mere eleven hours after I left. Any dedicated chef will tell you their kitchen becomes their primary residence. When we’re not in the kitchen, we’re thinking about it. Restaurants are a dime a dozen and operate with a slim profit margin. Success isn’t an accident.

A knock at my office door startles me, and I look up to see the silky hair and lush lips I spent my morning yoga session dreaming about.

“Sorry if I’m bothering you, Chef. I just have to drop something off.”

Why is she in normal clothes? Why is she holding a single piece of paper that looks like a typed letter? A resignation letter. She can’t quit. I won’t let her throw away this opportunity.

I clear my throat before I can reply because I have to swallow the Brussels sprout-sized lump forming there. “What can I do for you?” I try to sound nonchalant, but my mind is reeling, coming up with different ways I can convince her to stay.

“Just dropping off this paper Mr. Antonov asked me to fill out.”

So much tension rolls off of me, I slump into my chair. That realization slaps some sense into me, and I remember my initial plan. No distractions. “Put it there.” I point to the drop tray on my desk. “I’ll deal with it when I have a chance.” Like the idiot that I am, I wave my hand to dismiss her before I can say anything I’ll regret. Something like, Can I taste your lips? What I hate the most about the gesture is how much I’ve just reminded myself of my father.

She spins to leave, which I only notice from the corner of my eye because I’m trying not to look at her, but she turns back around, drawing my full attention. “I’m sorry about yesterday. It won’t happen again.” Then she walks away.

And it feels terrible.

It’s obvious I need to keep my distance from Hannah because she elicits a primal reaction in me. The square footage of this restaurant kitchen does not provide enough real estate for that to be possible, though. Physical distance may not be an option, but if I revert to my initial plan, I can maintain a professional barrier. She’ll hate me enough that I’ll have no choice but to see her as my employee, and not as my teenage fantasies come to life. That’s all she is. A familiar reminder of a simpler time.

With a fortifying exhale, I step out of my office door thirty minutes later to find eleven members of my staff bustling around, fulfilling lunch orders. The one person I don’t see is Hannah.

She exits the cooler, walking toward the kitchen without sparing me a glance, stopping at a prep table covered in flour.

I march in behind her to see how my team is managing. Stepping back and allowing them to take control is a challenge for me, but the reality is, I can’t work 100 hours every week for the rest of my life. If something isn’t working in my absence, I need to know so I can fill the gap.

But something is bothering me.

“Hannah.”

Without looking up from the pasta dough she’s started for our ravioli de erbette, she replies, “Yes, Chef?”

“Why are you the only one I see restocking ingredients?”

She stops breaking the eggs into the well of her flour and sweeps some stray hair from her forehead. In the process, she leaves a streak of flour above her eyebrow. “Would you believe me if I said it’s because I’m the only one who knows where anything is?”

“No.” Not even a little. There’s no way that’s the reason, because when Hannah isn’t here, they manage.

She huffs a sigh, turning back to her pasta dough in progress. “Pecking order.”

Those two words get her point across, but I still need clarification. I can tell by her tense posture and lack of eye contact that she doesn’t want to talk about it. I’m not giving her a choice.

“How has anyone decided on a pecking order when I haven’t assigned official titles yet? Everyone is on a level playing field.”

When I hired each person, I informed them and the former staff they’d be on three months’ probation, after which time I’d assign official positions. I wasn’t about to call someone my sous chef or head chef without knowing how they work. My brigade is going to be carefully crafted to create the best functioning team. I’m not blind to how unreceptive some of the other people in the kitchen have been to new staff, but I didn’t realize Hannah viewed herself as the errand girl. She’s far too skilled and valuable to be relegated to fetching green beans. Ivan can do that.

Hannah begins kneading the dough, leaning forward and pressing the ball with the heels of her hands. “It’s fine, Chef. I only need to prove myself to you, so I’ll do the work.”

She has a point. This is my kitchen and every major decision is mine to make, but no one is going to treat an equal as inferior on my watch.

“I never thought I’d see the day when you became a doormat. Where’s your fire? Your passion?”

She freezes in the middle of folding her dough over itself, making it slowly flop back to its initial position.

Silence. No words. No movement. Just the soundtrack of the kitchen chaos happening behind me.

Finally, after thirty painful seconds, she mutters, “I’m nobody’s doormat.”

“Could have fooled me. You said it first. I’m the only one you need to prove yourself to.”

“I. Am. Nobody’s. Doormat,” she repeats. Her words sound convincing, but when I look closely, I see her eyes glassing over. She sniffles and juts out her jaw. “I’m doing my job.”

Words fail me. I’m ill-equipped to handle Hannah standing in front of me with tears pooling in her eyes. My arm twitches, wanting to reach out to her. It’s getting harder and harder to resist. “Hey. I’m sorry.”

The surprise on her face matches mine. I shouldn’t need to apologize for being honest. But that’s not why I said it. She looks hurt, and knowing I caused it makes me feel truly sorry. This entire plan of making her hate me is so much harder than I ever thought it would be.

“If I didn’t want to fetch ingredients, I wouldn’t. I’m trying here. Trying to prove to you that I can do this job without creating drama. There’s no reason for me to make an issue over a non-issue.”

She thinks she can’t stand up for herself because she’s creating drama? Is that why she spaced out after I interrupted her with Ivan? Or why she froze when I walked past her in the cooler? Because she wants to say something but she’s trying to stay silent?

This woman is becoming more complex with each interaction. The Hannah I once knew had a fierce intensity, and she didn’t back down from anything. She never would have stayed silent. As much as I respect her not wanting to cause drama, I want to pull that Hannah back out.

“Standing up for yourself isn’t an issue, Hannah. They’ll treat you how you allow them to.”

But those two sentences don’t seem to relax her pained expression at all, and I can’t figure out why.

I’ve never been great with puzzles. Never enjoyed them and never sought to solve them. So I can’t explain why I keep obsessing over this one.

Beyond that, the pieces I thought I wanted making up the picture of my life are no longer the ones I’m trying to fit together.