Page 6 of Sweet Rivals
I cared about my job, but not enough to throw myself into the planning for Food Fest. I would be on hand the day of—my parents liked to put me in the booth, because they thought my large brown eyes and even larger breasts would draw in customers, although they never said it in so many words. I tried to tell them that was a sexist outdated idea, but they didn’t much care.
The meeting didn’t last long. After a month of the same basic information, it didn’t take long to reiterate what everyone was expected to do before, during, and after the event.
“One last thing,” Mom said after remaining mostly quietly. Bodies shifted, anxious to get back to work. “I heard that the Wallaces will be here.”
With that, the shifting stopped, replaced by a few gasps and some excited whispers. In the cooking world, the Wallace family was equivalent to royalty or the Kardashians or something with their high-end restaurant chain that catered to the rich and famous. Even outside of people in the business, they had become pretty famous and well-known after their TV show became a big hit and the son briefly dated some famous actress. Now the tabloids reported all their exploits.
“Shit,” I whispered. The last thing I needed was the pressure of some famous assholes showing up and judging our booth. I’m sure my mom saw it as our opportunity to make a name for ourselves outside of our tiny town, but the likes of the Wallaces didn’t give two shits about our little hole in the wall.
“No mistakes,” Mom said.
With that, prep resumed, and lunch services started.
Chapter Six
At three, I pulled off my white jacket, ready to go home, when Mom stopped me.
“Jenna, we could really use you on tonight too,” she said without stopping to see if I would say yes. She knew I would, which made it even worse that it was true. Every moment spent in my parents' kitchen felt like time not spent on my own dream. That wasn’t true, of course. I was earning money and saving, but it still felt like working for someone else’s vision. Maybe that’s what all work felt like, and I was naive to think there was a way out. If I gave up on the bakery, I would have nothing. But that didn’t mean I could bail and not help when my parents needed me. So, I spent the next several hours breaking down claws for the lobster rolls.
By the time I was done, my brain had turned to mush, and I couldn’t feel my fingers. Thankfully, all I had to do was clean up my own spot, rather than break down the whole kitchen like the rest of the cooks.
When I stepped out of the kitchen at the end of the night, I deeply breathed in the fresh, salty air as the breeze swept off the ocean several blocks away. The glowing streetlights pooled on the cobblestone. My feet burned in my no-slip, sensible shoes as they echoed off the street and walls of the darkened shops. Sometimes I liked the quiet, solo walk home at the end of a long night. The historic streets of Cape Shore with their old Victorian buildings complete with steepled roofs and wraparound porches felt romantic and full of hidden stories.
Other times, I just felt weary all the way down to my bones.
I may have been surrounded by people all day and night, but I was still lonely. I woke up when others were already at work and went home when everyone was asleep.
A light flashed in my eyes, blinding me momentarily. I crouched down, fists up, ready to fight, as if I stood a chance at all from any assailant. Luckily, the familiar laughter coming from the darkness meant I wouldn’t have to.
“You were really ready to throw hands, huh?” Cat said, stepping into a puddle of light reflecting against the cobblestone, her camera hanging around her neck. “That’s gonna be a good one.”
“I hope I get a cut of the profits,” I said, dryly. “What are you doing out here so late?”
“I wanted to get some shots of the empty streets in the full moon,” Cat said.
I looked into the sky and saw the moon hanging low. “Huh, I guess that’s why everyone was so on edge in the kitchen tonight.”
“Must be,” she shrugged. “Couldn’t have anything to do with the Food Fest tomorrow.”
“I doubt it,” I said with a smirk.
Cat had been my best friend for as long as I could remember. We had spent four years apart when she went to school and refused to come back—for mostly good reason because her family could be intolerable—but I was glad she came back and settled in Cape Shore. She opened her art store where she sold photo prints and lived out her happily ever after with the love of her life. Defying all the odds my cynical brain had cooked up for her.
“Are you talking to Darren yet?” I asked.
Darren, Cat’s brother, had dated her high school bully and took the bully’s side even after it came out that she had sabotaged an art competition, so Cat stopped speaking to him. Predictably, the bully dumped Darren, and he had been trying to apologize to Cat ever since.
“A little.” She shrugged.
“Is that a good thing or bad thing?”
“That remains to be seen,” she said, holding up her camera and watching through the viewfinder, looking for her next shot. Cat was absolutely crazy, but sometimes—okay, often—I envied that about her. I wish I had just a little more crazy and a little less overthinking, obsessive worry about what other people thought of me. That worry was interesting though, because it wasn’t like I worried they were judging how I wore my hair or what clothes I put on. Instead, I worried that I wasn’t doing enough. I was the lamest, most unsuccessful overachiever in history stuck in my hometown working fourteen-hour days at my parents' restaurant without a path to anything more.
“I’m gonna head home,” I said. I debated telling Cat about the Wallaces showing up but didn’t want to have to explain just how annoying that news was.
“I’ll stop by the booth tomorrow,” she said.
“Do you think I can just not show up?” I asked as I started walking away.